Everlasting Love - Until Death Do Us Part

(As originally written before it was trimmed for publication in The Gazette)

CEDAR RAPIDS - As Marian Johnson's life on Earth comes to a close, she will watch eagles soar along the Cedar River and hold hands with her husband, Howard.

“They're a feast for the eyes,” he will say, pointing at a majestic bald eagle here, another there.

After 57 years of marriage, after mental illness took not only Howard's spirit but the life of a son, too, after her diagnoses of an aneurysm and cancer, all they ask now is to spend time together.

Each morning, after the sun rises, Marian will ride with their son, Mark, from her southwest Cedar Rapids condo to Manor Care in the northeast quadrant to pick up Howard. Watching eagles, smelling roses, even moments of silence comfort them until Howard must return to the care center before the sun sets.

“He's going to stay here until I die,” Marian says about Mark, who lives in Colorado. “I have an aneurysm on my aorta and it could blow at any time.”

Four months ago, after the discovery of pancreatic cancer, Marian was given six months to live.

“I'm 80 years old,” she says. “I have tremendous faith. I know I'm going to die some time. If that's my time, it's my time.”

In 1950, the time was right when Marian Rosenbaum went on a blind date with Howard Johnson. She was earning her teaching degree at Bradley University in Peoria, Ill. He was an engineer. They went to dinner and a dance.

“He had a motorcycle and I wouldn't ride on a motorcycle, so he had to rent a car,” Marian laughs.

“It was a Harley-Davidson,” Howard recalls. He puffs up his cheeks, raises his arms, thinks for a moment. “A 1945.”

She was an average dancer, Howard says. He lived off campus, Marian says. Love bloomed.

“He was kind and gentle and caring,” Marian says.

At the Orchid Club, he asked for her hand, then called her father for permission.

“She was a nice lookin' girl,” Howard says, pausing to raise his arms. “It was a short proposal.”

Married June 27, 1953, in Peoria, the next decade would bring immense happiness. They would have four sons - Howard, David, Mark and Mike. His work as a mechanical engineer would take them to Kansas City, Mo., and Lima, Ohio.

One August evening in 1963, a scant four months after Mike's birth, their world changed.

“One night,” Marian says, smiling at her husband, “he was out in the backyard directing space traffic. I called my doctor. He put him in the hospital. That was the start of a long time with mental illness.”

A year later, a fresh start beckoned in Cedar Rapids. Howard became an engineer at Cherry-Burrell. Then he had another breakdown. He had trouble staying on his medicine. In 1965 he lost his job.

With the young boys at home, Marian returned to work. She taught physical education at McKinley Junior High. After earning a master's degree in 1969, she became a counselor at Franklin Junior High for the next 20 years.

Howard, with bipolar disorder, began drug therapy. He slept a lot.

“I told him to get out of the house,” Marian says. “Get a job.”

Howard picked up his feet. A job couldn't be found. On his own, he talked to job placement officials. In 1966 he began a 17-year career at Quaker Oats. First, he moved large drums of grain. Later his primary duty became sweeping the floors.

When Howard turned 55, the company asked him to retire. It gave him full benefits.

“Quaker was so great to us,” Marian says. “Never once did they hassle us about the time off he needed.

“I thank God for this all the time,” she says. “You never know when you're being blessed. You find it out later.”

As the boys grew up, they earned engineering degrees like their father. All except David.

At age 16, at Jefferson High School in 1973, hereditary mental illness struck David.

“He was running up and down the hall, feeling for electricity in the walls,” Marian says. “It was horrible. He had so much potential.”

Hospitalized on and off, David was at St. Luke's Hospital on Oct. 23, 1991. Told it wasn't a good idea to visit him that night, his parents waited. He died at 4 a.m. the next morning of kidney failure before they saw him. He was 34.

Lithium treatments, begun by both David and Howard in 1973, were the probable cause, Marian says. Howard's kidneys, today, barely function.

Into retirement, Marian stayed busy and cared for Howard. She was active at the First Christian Church, one year playing the Virgin Mary in the live Nativity scene. She would write up to 25 letters a day to soldiers in the gulf war; continues to write to shut-ins and soldiers overseas.

“Oh, heavenly days,” she says, “that's my ministry. I've written letters since my brothers were in World War II and I never stopped.”

Even today, son Mark will make two trips every day to the post office to mail her letters.

“I like to decorate the envelopes with a lot of stickers,” she says. “That's as much joy to me as writing the letters. To make it look like it's ready to come to you.”

She even wrote love letters to Howard, sending him cards for special occasions including Valentine's Day. She still does, while he rarely gives her a card, preferring, instead, to show his love with flowers.

“He liked long stemmed roses,” Marian laughs. “I never cared for long stemmed roses. I didn't want to cut them.”

Asked if he loves Marian as much today as when they married, Howard raises his arms, punctuates the air with his fists, says “Almost.”

Marian and Mark laugh aloud. So does Howard.

In the 1980s, as Marian neared retirement, this former PE teacher's legs became weak. She began to use a cane to prevent more frequent falls. A pain in her upper thighs prompted a visit to a doctor who asked, “When did you have polio?”

The evident paralisis - Marian thinks it could have been caused by medication received during her first childbirth - soon forced use of a walker and then a wheelchair. In 1998 she had triple heart bypass surgery. A year later, to ease mobility, they left the stairs of their house for the single floor condo.

“I've always been able to look around and see people who are worse off than we are,” Marian says. “You don't have time to feel sorry for yourself.”

As wedding anniversaries passed 50, Howard showed signs of dementia. In 2006 he moved to Manor Care.

Marian would visit him every day, often picking him up for her swimming session with “The Snails” at Bender Pool. Sometimes he'd get in the water, they'd stop for lunch, drive around. Occasionally he'd spend the night.

Last fall, that changed after Marian felt ill. Doctor's wanted to operate on her aneurysm but couldn't. And they found pancreatic cancer that had spread to her liver. She couldn't drive any more.

“Together,” Marian says, “we used to be one whole person. Now we've become less than one person. It's just an aging of the bodies.”

Mark cares for them now, driving her to Manor Care for Howard, taking them to lunch, bringing Howard to the condo.

When bad weather prevents a visit, Howard calls several times during the day. “Hello, hello, hello,” he'll say. He just wants to talk to his bride.

“I love her very, very much,” he says slowly, choking back emotions, raising his arms. “Because she's there for me.”

For Marian it is one day at a time. Watching the eagles soar, she says, “That's the best show in Cedar Rapids.” Each night she prays for more than 100 people by name. She hopes to make it to March 13, the first wedding of her 16 grandchildren.

“Zach,” she says, her eyes brightening, “is willing to take the first dance in my wheelchair.”

Howard and Marian will witness love come full circle. They know the promises by heart. Love. Cherish. Sickness and health. Until death do us part.