“Our Hero”
by Deb Stover
I often tell people it’s no wonder I grew up to write romance novels because I believe in heroes. I was raised by one, and I married one.
Like most nineteen-year-olds, I thought I knew everything. In 1976, while still living at home with my parents, working full-time and trying to go to school part-time, a good friend insisted on introducing me to someone her fiancé worked with at McConnell Air Force Base. It would be a double date–a blind date. Oh, goodie. I was young, but not stupid. By nineteen, I’d suffered through a few blind dates.
To make matters worse, it was my date’s twenty-first birthday. A young Airmen newly assigned to McConnell, he hadn’t met many people, so he would celebrate his birthday with us. And how did we celebrate in 1976? By seeing Young Frankenstein, of course.
Dave Stover was tall, muscular, blond, blue-eyed, and extremely good-looking. In fact, he bore a remarkable resemblance to the young actor who played the role of Rolfe in The Sound of Music. After a few weeks when I introduced him to my mother, I asked her what she thought. She sighed and said, “I think he’s a walking, living, breathing doll.”
And so he was….
We had a whirlwind courtship. There’s no other way to describe it. We met in April, became engaged in May, and married in August. Many said it wouldn’t last. After all, we were so young. We barely knew each other.
But we knew….
On August 6th, 1976, I married my Prince Charming. Our first year of marriage wasn’t easy, as I became ill with serious blood clots in my leg that traveled to my lung just before our first anniversary. It was frightening, but we grew closer as we dealt with our trials.
When we started trying to have a family, we discovered my clotting problem was genetic, and that pregnancy complicated it. In fact, it was life threatening. I had to give myself injections every six hours throughout my pregnancies. Our twin daughters were born prematurely in 1980 and died shortly after their birth.
One month later, my mother-in-law died from cancer. It was a very bad time, but every day brought us closer; every trial made us stronger.
In December 1981, we were blessed with our beautiful, full-term baby girl, Barbi. It would be my last pregnancy, as my obstetrician told us another attempt was “paramount to a death wish.”
We dedicated our lives to each other, and to spoiling our daughter. After four years, we looked into adoption, and took a workshop on 
special needs adoption. Three months later, we brought home Bonnie–a newborn with Down Syndrome and congenital heart disease. She’s now twenty-four and pure sunshine mixed with Missouri Mule.
Three years later, when I suggested we consider a multi-racial child, Dave didn’t even hesitate. So we brought home our son, Benjamin, who is too good looking for my good. The girls follow him everywhere.
As I worked to publish my first novel, and raised our children, Dave worked at his career, completed his MBA, and we were forced to move around the country more than once. But he always supported my efforts, never suggested I stop trying to sell that first book, or ceased to be our children’s greatest inspiration in all their endeavors.
In December 1999, the day before our oldest child’s eighteenth birthday, Dave was diagnosed with Stage III colon cancer. The next year was an endless stream of radiation, chemotherapy, surgeries, and stress. Finally, he was pronounced “in remission.”
In the spring of 2001, still in remission, he accepted a promising position in Oregon. Filled with anticipation, we moved halfway across the 
country for a new beginning. Cancer free, a new career, a new home, a new life. I was contracted for my 12th novel, our oldest child was on the high dean’s list in college, and our younger two were doing well in school.
When Dave’s cancer came out of remission in 2004, he had just returned from a trip with the United States Air Force Reserve. He fought his cancer with the courage and love he did everything else in his life, and he did it for us.
When, after months of treatments, it became clear his cancer was terminal, we planned the family’s return to Colorado together. He asked me to take his ashes home to Colorado with his family.
The hardest thing I’ve ever done was to hold my hero’s hand and let him go. I promised him I would take care of his family, and of myself. Because, being the hero he was, he would not let go, not matter how much pain he was in, until he was sure I would be okay.
David Allen Stover: Hero, Husband, Father, Friend…
April 21, 1955 — May 14, 2005
We love you always.
Deb’s Bio: Once upon a time Deb Stover wanted to be Lois Lane until she discovered Clark Kent is a fraud and there is no Superman. Since publication of Shades of Rose in 1995, Stover has received dozens of awards for her cross-genre fiction. For more information, please visit www.debstover.com.
If My Life were a Romance Novel
lacks in communication (so not a talker), Bob makes up in his choice of venue for the evening. We go to a cooking class. I love to cook. LOVE to cook. This is a perfect place for a date: we can talk, but silences won’t be awkward because we will be cooking. There will be wine. Yay, finally a man with taste! I start to question whether Danielle put him up to this or if he is just that awesome. We are partnered with another couple. The man is out of the room when we begin. We make small talk with the girl. She is a little older than I am, but she is one of those natural beauties that doesn’t need make up. She also has the flirty, shy quality that I will never have. I am loud and opinionated, and shy isn’t exactly an adjective that could describe me. EVER. I try not to hate her as I crush the garlic for the risotto. That is when I notice that my doctor date is staring at her. Not just a slight glance to check her out. He is full-on, jaw-dropped staring. Now, I do hate her. I can’t wait for her date to get back so mine will stop. While this is not number one on my list of worst dates, it certainly is not my best. Her date finally comes back after everyone has already started sautéing the garlic. She gives him a glare that could melt the ice in the Arctic. Even I feel bad for him. Then I see his face. I can’t breathe. It is him. It’s the guy from the grocery store.
Ketchup guy walks over to me while I am drinking my fourth glass of wine. I am getting a cab anyway, I might as well enjoy myself.
