Despite trials, tragedies, man's wife of 40 years will always be his princess
Michael Gale can't let go of the image, stamped on his heart a decade ago.
The funeral procession was televised throughout the night, while commentators discussed the triumphs and tribulations of Princess Diana.
Gale penned in his journal at the time, ``I fought back the tears as they talked about her childhood and her search to try and find herself as a human being.''
Yet the Walla Walla man understood his spirit was burdened that day by a grief at least equal to those casting flowers in the road as the body of the former wife of England's Prince Charles was carried to Westminster Abbey.
Gale was on a sort of journey, as well, one he prayed would not end in another death. A few rooms away, his own princess was fighting for life.
In the early morning hours of July 22, 1997, Diane Gale had shown up at the emergency room at St. Mary Medical Center with ``the worst headache of her life. And she's not a headache person,'' remembered neurosurgeon Dr. Perry Camp.
A scan showed a blood clot in the left frontal lobe of Diane's brain, a diagnosis that should have sent her straight to Harborview Medical Center in Seattle. By the minute, however, the 48-year-old woman was deteriorating, Camp recalled. ``It became obvious she was going to die in 20 minutes.''
An emergency craniotomy uncovered the arterial aneurysm behind the middle of Diane's forehead. And the bad news didn't end with surgery. ``She woke up and she moved everything,'' the physician said. ``But she wasn't normal. Not even close.''
It seemed unfair, Michael said. His wife had already gone through more hardship than a dozen women might.
Diane's childhood included a brute of a father who forced his children to labor in terrible conditions. Diane picked crops, including the backbreaking effort of gathering cotton, from the time she was 5.
At 7, her face was scarred from a spider bite that didn't receive appropriate medical attention. Two years later, Diane developed rheumatoid arthritis.
``When I first saw her, she couldn't walk. Her brothers would have to carry her around wherever she went,'' Michael journaled as he sat in a hospital waiting room.
When the young Diane could finally walk again, kids were quick to point fingers and jeer. Whatever emotional damage they didn't inflict, her alcoholic father was quick to fill the gap, he wrote.
As he grew up, his own crop-following family was often in the same town as Diane's. When Michael left the U.S. Army in 1966, he could tell he had fallen for the young woman with the tender heart and sweet ways.
On March 4, 1967, the couple wed in Arizona. ``No royal wedding, we were married by a drunken Justice of the Peace,'' he recalled in midnight prose a decade ago.
Two days later, both were pitching watermelons in 115-degree heat in California. The newlyweds would return that night to Diane's parents' house, part of the deal they had struck; the chance to marry meant agreeing to pay off the family's bills. He admired her loyalty, Michael wrote.
Diane was sweetly compliant, happy to let her husband head their home, he said this past July. ``Whatever I said, went.''
She continued to have medical hurdles to jump, as did Michael. A lifetime of arduous labor, with little resources to devote to self-care, was beginning to demand attention.
The Gales, who moved to this area in 1990, hobbled together enough income to keep their family of six afloat. Diane packed apples, worked in retail and did the heavy lifting in child-rearing duties. All while enduring a heart murmer, high blood pressure, gall-bladder problems and skin cancer.
In 1993, a severe latex allergy added several more cruel twists, Michael explained. ``She never complained about her lot in life. For 30 years (Diane) never once failed to give 110 percent effort at being a mother to her children, a wife to me and a worker to those who employed her.''
He knew he loved her, but he had no idea how much he took that Diane for granted, Michael said last month.
He had the chance to find out when his wife slowly began pulling out of her brain trauma several weeks after onset. When she really woke up at last, he was faced with someone he barely recognized. ``She had a monitor on the end of her finger, you know, like they do. She opened her eyes and said `Get this thing off me,''' Michael said.
He gently explained he couldn't do that - the device needed to stay in place. ``Then she said, loud, `I said, get this damn thing off me!' I never heard her talk like that before in my life.''
It's not at all unusual for patients with brain trauma to have a significant shift in personality, Camp said. ``With a large frontal lobe injury, you are unequivocally changed.''
Diane, once overtly compassionate, now keeps her feelings under wraps. Where once she cared not a fig for politics, now she can't get her fill. Mild mannerisms have been replaced with a gum-snapping-and-arms-crossed bluntness. ``She's still sweet, though,'' her husband said, his voice warm and soft.
Camp perhaps explains it best. ``You can be normal, it's just not the same normal.''
Michael had to learn to love his wife of 30 years all over again...the woman he knew was gone, and much of her memory of that time erased, he explained.
Now, 40 years after their wedding day, the man he was in 1967 is equally changed, Michael believes.
As Diane continues to struggle with life-threatening issues, such as breast cancer in 2000 and kidney failure - she's on dialysis and waiting for a transplant - Michael Gale will never again take his bride for granted, he said. ``She took wonderful care of me for 30 years. I've tried to turn the tables and do the same for her. People ought to treat each other real good...you never know when it's going to be the last time.''
Comments:
This is your opportunity to speak out about the story you just read. We encourage all readers to participate in this forum.
Please follow our guidelines and do not post:
Potentially libelous statements or damaging innuendo, such as accusing somebody of a crime, defaming someone's character, or making statements that can harm somebody's reputation.
Obscene, explicit, or racist language.
Personal attacks, insults, threats, harassment, or posting comments that incite violence.
Comments using another person's real name to disguise your identity.
Commercial product promotions.
Comments unrelated to the story.
Links to other Web sites.
While we do not edit comments, we do reserve the right to remove comments that violate our code of conduct.
If you feel someone has violated our posting guidelines please contact us immediately so we can remove the post. We appreciate your help in regulating our online community.
Your comment will be posted after it has been verified.
troy wrote on Jan 25, 2008 7:05 PM:
" life sure is no fairy tale or hollywood movie where all is wonderful, my brother right now is taking care of his wife who is disabled from a stroke and has severe mental and physical issues, but he feels its his job, its his duty to care for her, though he has issues himself, but this is as it should be, we cannot walk away from those we love when the going gets tough or its all been one big lie. "
Margaret Puckette wrote on Aug 20, 2007 2:37 PM:
" A person who simply lives up to the loyality and service to their loved one, quietly, day after day, is rarely honored for the human achievement they've accomplished. Thanks for sharing this story for others to reflect on. "
tom fausse wrote on Aug 15, 2007 9:57 AM:
" Makes one grateful for things he has, if he's is blessed with health. "
Casey Moffett-Chaney wrote on Aug 14, 2007 11:56 PM:
" Regarding not taking people for granted, and making every minute count in a positive way because we may not get another chance: My brother is 66, looks 45, and holds several National Senior Olympics Gold Medals. When people see us together, they often ask which of us is older. He is, by 15 years. I'm overweight and get little exercise. He has always been slim and trim, always watched what he ate, never smoked, and had no interest in alcohol. He took a daily array of healthy vitamins, and exercised regularly, but not obsessively. Then, 8 months ago, he was diagnosed with bladder cancer. After several surgeries, his doctors proclaimed him cured. And then it came back, metastasized. He now looks older than his age, has lost his hair from chemo, and is about to be a guinea pig for a new form of cancer fighting drug. If it doesn't work, we must all be prepared to lose him soon. We are all trying to make each moment the best with him, and stories like this support our efforts and help us to remember. Thank you, Sheila. "
troy wrote on Jan 25, 2008 7:05 PM: