For 13 years of their long, full, sometimes painful, generous lives, Kevin and Marie Mayer weren’t together.
The other 83 years were spent mostly in each other’s company, one way or the other — up to and including their final moments on earth.
It’s a love story that seems almost unfathomable — rare in its longevity, uncanny in its ending. But the endearing — and enduring — parts speak to something universal. Paths crossed. Chances taken. Choices made. The human touch. The marriages — not always our own — that shape us.
“Mom always said to me, ‘I’m going first, and I tell your dad that,’” said Christina Mayer, the youngest of Kevin and Marie’s five children.
Death didn’t scare them. Maybe because they’d done so much living.
“Dad looked up at my sister from his hospital bed,” Christina Mayer continued, “and he said, ‘Tell Mom I’m going first.’”
In the end, Kevin and Marie died one day apart. Both 96 years old, both at the same hospital, a few months shy of their 73rd wedding anniversary.
“She went first,” Christina Mayer said. “Because she always wins.”
That was in January. Now Christina and her siblings are in the sorrowful, spiritual process of adjusting to life without parents, finding new ways to fill their time and anchor their days, reflecting on two lives intricately entwined and purposefully lived.
They found a drawer full of love letters — mostly from their dad to their mom.
“My Dearest Marie,
Our lives have seen many wonderful, exciting days. For me, none could be greater than when you walked into Coutler’s home that memorable winter evening in late 1951!! When I saw you, my heart all-but-burst through my chest, and as we sat across from each other, awkwardly making small talk, I was determined NOT to let this blessed opportunity escape. What a ride!! I love you.”
The Coulters were mutual friends of Kevin’s dad, who worked in the lumber business, and Marie’s dad, who worked construction. Kevin was home on leave from the Air Force the night of that wintry party, and he called Marie’s older sister, Mildred, to see if Marie would be attending. She assured him she would.
Determined to take his shot with this girl he’d known since they were a couple of 13-year-olds running around Cleveland, Kevin proposed marriage that night. Little did he know, Marie had another suitor with a ring already purchased for Christmas. A letter to Kevin and Mae (Marie’s nickname) from Kevin’s sister Mary Lou, on the occasion of the couple’s 50th wedding anniversary, explains:
“Mom said she felt sorry for you because she heard that Mae was engaged and getting a ring for Christmas. When she mentioned it to you, you said, ‘Yes, she is engaged, to ME.’ Of course, they were very surprised and extremely happy.”
(No mention of the other suitor’s fate.)
The couple was married in 1952 in Cleveland. Ten years later, they moved to the Chicago area, where they stayed for the rest of their lives. They joined Mary, Seat of Wisdom Parish in Park Ridge in 1962, and 63 years later their joint funeral mass was held there — the site of so much of the volunteer work that punctuated every chapter of their lives.
Both lived through cancer: his prostate, hers bladder. Her treatment involved radioactive liquid being inserted into her bladder, which doctors instructed her to slosh around inside her as much as possible. So they would dance.
“Dad was not a good dancer,” Christina Mayer said. “He was like Elaine on ‘Seinfeld.’ That didn’t stop him.”
Not much did, from what I can tell.
Their marriage wasn’t without its conflicts. Marie was excited to earn an associates degree after launching her four oldest children. Kevin resented the community college classes that kept her away from the house.
“I would ask her, ‘Mom, how was (whispers college)?’” Christina, who still lived at home then, recalled. “And she would say, ‘It was a beautiful day today, Chris.’”
He got over it. She went on to work at a local bank, and loved the camaraderie. They continued to dance.
Earlier this winter, their health issues became insurmountable around the same time, and they spent their final days together in the same hospital. Marie entered hospice on Jan. 17, and Christina’s siblings would wheel their dad across the street in one-degree weather to visit her. He entered hospice on Jan. 22.
On Jan. 24, Marie died. Kevin was by her side, holding her hand.
“It’s hard to imagine one without the other, and perhaps they couldn’t either,” granddaughter Allison Waller said in her eulogy. “Together, they built a legacy that will stand as tall and enduring as the redwood trees.
“A note about redwoods,” she continued, “these trees are magnificent not just for their height but for their resilience. What many people don’t realize is that their strength comes from their roots, which are surprisingly shallow for such towering giants. Instead of digging deep into the soil, their roots spread wide, intertwining with those of neighboring trees. They stand strong because they stand together, supporting each other through storms and time. In much the same way, my grandparents created a family whose roots are deeply intertwined. They taught us that strength isn’t about standing alone but standing together, leaning on one another through life’s challenges and celebrating each other’s joys.”
Careful readers of this column know I love a good tree analogy. But I also love a story that celebrates what we live for — joy and dancing and finding the people who support you, as the eulogy said, through storms and time.
And then, I might add, writing them a letter to let them know.
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