The life I had with Lynn felt like the culmination of a lifelong dream. I had a career that was beginning to take shape, but more than that—I had a partner. A family. Even though we couldn’t have children, we were a family. That truth carried weight and meaning.
From the outside, some might have seen our relationship through a distorted lens. But it was the ability to argue, to disagree—and to talk about anything—that made our connection so strong. I don’t remember my parents ever disagreeing about anything, which now seems bizarre to me. It was like they were afraid to have different opinions. That kind of silence doesn’t feel like peace; it feels like avoidance.
My friend Jean, years later, once remarked on how much Lynn and I argued. But he only ever saw the tension—not the tenderness that followed. He never saw the repair, the softness that always came after.
In fact, in one moment that I mentioned earlier, he missed the part where, after a disagreement, I’d handed Lynn a signed copy of his book and said, “Just because we’re fighting doesn’t mean I don’t love you.” Her face softened, and that amused, radiant smile returned—because she couldn’t stay mad.
That was us. That’s what he missed.
We never let distance fester. If Lynn was upset or hurt, I couldn’t stand it—I had to make things right. Once, in a moment of frustration, she asked, “Then why are you with me?” and I blurted out, “I don’t know.” But I caught myself instantly. “I’m so sorry,” I said, my voice clear and without any uncertainty. There were some things I knew for certain and my love for Lynn was one such absolute truth. “I’m with you because I’m in love with you.” Spoken with the solemnity that was both profoundly passionate and yet simultaneously matter of fact - a truth so undeniable as it was almost a contradiction that passion could co-exist with simplistic truth.
Some of our arguments came from the tangled roots of my religious upbringing—beliefs I’d inherited but never questioned. Absolutes I mistook for truth. But Lynn was patient. We didn’t avoid hard conversations. We challenged each other, disagreed out loud, and always found our way back. Our arguments weren’t threats to our love; they were part of how we strengthened it.
Our Home
Our home was a space that reflected who we were. We adopted two cats—Tip and Boo—and Diane even installed a swinging door so they could reach the garage where their litter box was kept. We each had a car, though we parked them outside because we used the garage as a workspace. It had a treadmill, free weights, and even a punching bag that became my occasional outlet, inspired by Gestalt therapy.
We worked together to make the house our own. Diane helped us build bookshelves using stained ladders and a stud finder to anchor them into the wall. We set up a computer station and eventually had cable internet—cutting edge at the time. One room was turned into a cozy guest space for Lynn’s cousins, with a larger television. In the bedroom, we kept a smaller TV near Lynn’s nebulizer and medication equipment, often falling asleep to Star Trek.
We took turns cooking, cleaning, and organizing. Lynn, ever practical, often directed how things should be cleaned, and I was happy to follow. We both handled litter box duties when possible, though I now regret letting Lynn do it at all—it wasn’t healthy for her to be near the dust. At times, I denied the seriousness of her condition. That was something I had to grow through.
I obviously had to mow the lawn and while I didn’t see the same urgency to do this as Lynn did, I respected her desire that it be done - by me.
Serenity and Intimacy
Growing up starved for nurturance, I often craved closeness in ways I couldn’t explain. With Lynn, I found peace in the smallest gestures—resting my head in her lap, letting her caress my forehead, feeling my body finally exhale into someone else’s care.
We hadn’t had sex before we moved in together, but that changed as our life together deepened. I remember asking Lynn, somewhat shyly, to pick out something sexy for Valentine’s Day. She did, and it meant everything. Not just because it aroused me—though it did—but because it showed how deeply she saw me. It wasn’t performative. It was for us.
That’s the thing about our intimacy—it was always new, always unfolding. There was a mystery to it. We weren’t just reenacting some cultural script. We were exploring. Learning. Responding. Lynn didn’t wait for me to initiate every time. And when we didn’t know what the other wanted, we asked, or listened to each other’s bodies.
Our connection was unusually in sync. We rarely faced the awkward imbalance of one person being “in the mood” while the other wasn’t. We just responded—open, mutual, unguarded. Even a glance, a smile, could spark something between us. And it always felt right.
I’d grown up with the idea that men had to lead, that sex was a duty or an obligation. But Lynn and I had none of that. We moved together in rhythm, equal, attuned. We honored each other’s cues, joys, hesitations. And that felt like a kind of healing, too.
She sometimes slept nude, a quiet gesture of closeness and trust. Sometimes I’d hold her breast gently as we fell asleep, feeling peace and desire mix in a quiet kind of bliss. Even then, I’d check to see if she was in the mood and respect her response that might be something like “I need to sleep now, sweetie.”
She wasn’t fragile. But I needed to know I was giving her pleasure, not pain. That mattered more than anything else.
This, I think, is what love should look like. Passion and tenderness. Respect and desire. A home built not just with furniture, but with trust. And each night, a little miracle in the ordinary: we turned toward each other, and found the same warmth waiting there.