On Valentine’s Day, let’s tell the story of Hamid and Vimla Band (M.D., Ph.D., and Ph.D., respectively). They were so in love, when they got married they had three weddings: One Hindu, one Muslim and one at the courthouse, just to be sure. It sounds romantic, and it was. But it wasn’t easy along the way.

They met in the laboratory. Vimla was working on her master’s and Hamid was an M.D. student. He was from Kashmir, Muslim. She from Delhi, Hindu. Both from very close families who would flip out at the news. And Hamid and Vimla knew it. Vimla knew what the reaction would be. Still, she would do nothing behind her parents’ back. She had to tell them.

She was chopping vegetables with her sisters and mom. Vimla took a deep breath. There was this young man in the lab, she said … who she liked … who is a Muslim.

Her mother did two things. First, she almost cut her hand. Second, she channeled the Godfather:

“Don’t say this thing ever again in the family.”

They had planned to each tell their families at the same time, so they would be weathering the reaction together. Hamid had sent a letter several days earlier, thinking it would arrive at the same time as Vimla’s talk. They never heard back. Had his family received the letter?

They found out years later they had. They were refusing to acknowledge it; if they ignored this, it would eventually go away.

You don’t understand what India was like at that time. Hamid had come from a very segregated area. You might know a Hindu person, be friends – but to even eat dinner at one another’s house was unthinkable.

Within Vimla’s family, even marrying outside the Brahmin caste was off the table, forget outside the religion.

After the vegetable-chopping talk, Vimla knew they had to stop things right there. Or at least slow down, as much as they could. Or at least not bring up the subject while her mother had a knife.

Vimla went home every weekend. Her parents went to the doctor at the medical center where she and Hamid studied. They would stop and visit her at the lab. They would of course see Hamid – they knew who he was. They always said hello. (Of course they did, they are nice, polite people!) But they never acknowledged the possibility. In their minds, all that was done.

Hamid’s brother-in-law came to town for business. Hamid introduced him to Vimla. Hamid never said anything in particular. But the guy wasn’t stupid. He went home with some news. Still, Hamid’s family ignored the obvious with every bit the determination Vimla’s family did.

Years went by. Vimla’s elder sister got married. All of Vimla’s labmates came to the wedding – Hamid, too.

Vimla could not have gotten married before her elder sister. But now …?

And she and Hamid were about to leave for America for their postdoctoral fellowships. It was time for another conversation.

Vimla decided it might be less confrontational to have an intermediary broach the subject. She sent her sister and brother-in-law with a message: If her parents did not agree, Vimla and Hamid are talking about going to America and marrying there.

This time, Vimla’s parents did not flip out. “Maybe there is room to wiggle,” Vimla’s sister reported.

Their mother’s biggest worry was: “What would Guru ji (a family priest) say?” Her sister’s husband was quick: “Well, let’s ask him.”

The Hindu priest met with Vimla and Hamid, separately, for 5 minutes each. “Let them marry,” he said.

They first told their parents in 1979. On Dec. 2, 1983, they went to the courthouse, and were married in front of friends. The next day they had a Hindu wedding. It was very small, immediate family only. Vimla’s parents hadn’t invited anyone else.

“They would not have come,” Vimla said.

Some of Hamid’s relatives were nervous – afraid the interfaith wedding might set off riots (there were none).

Then they were off to Kashmir, so Hamid could introduce his family to his new bride.

She could not come into his family’s house if they were not married. But they were married, Hamid said. No: “That’s not a marriage we accept.”

You are either Hindu or you are not. There is no converting. But Islam welcomes everyone. And so, it was very simple. All Vimla had to do was …

Hamid put a stop to that. “I have accepted her as she is!” he said. She would not convert.

This was kind of a big deal. There was drama. People were shocked. Hamid’s uncle was upset.

But Hamid’s father was very close to the imam (a muslim priest). He asked: How can they get married? How can we solve this problem? How can they be together?

“This story is not just the story of our love for each other,” Vimla said. “It is the story of the love of our families for us. My family’s love for me and Hamid’s family’s love for him.”

The imam met with Vimla. He asked one question. He said, “Do you believe in God?” He didn’t ask how, he didn’t ask in which way, he didn’t ask by which religion.

“Of course,” she said, “I believe in God.”

The imam said: “She can marry him now.”

And she did.

It was Dec. 17. Three weddings in 16 days.

And then it was done. Her family accepted him completely, and his did the same with her. After all of that ignoring, they were each in the family fully. They were married, husband and wife. There was never a problem again.

“Of course, we did come to America a year after that,” Vimla said.

The only time in-law drama threatened was when they had children. And one side of the family sent a list of carefully-chosen Hindu names and the other had a stack of Muslim suggestions.

So they ended up with Sheehan and Neil. Good Irish boys.

To this day, their old friends congratulate them on Dec. 2, Vimla’s family observes the Dec. 3 wedding anniversary and Hamid’s side recognizes Dec. 17.

Three anniversaries? And which date does a husband have to remember?

Are you kidding? How could he forget?

The lime-green one is for Bailey, a 16-year-old girl. The light-purple one is for Diane, a go-getter from Seattle. And the orange one is for her, Lenice Hogan, a 47-year-old from Omaha. It simply reads “Hope After Stroke.”

The bracelets that take up most of Hogan’s left forearm each carry a special meaning, and represent someone, or something, from the stroke community.

Hogan has suffered three strokes. Coincidentally, that’s also the number of marathons she’s run SINCE her third and biggest stroke robbed her of full function in her left foot.

The mother of three boys and inspirational speaker was on campus recently as part of www.triexercise.org, a free monthly program sponsored by the Olson Center for Women’s Health to help individuals accomplish their exercise goals.

As a runner, I went for the inspiration. And to hear Hogan’s story. For a stroke survivor to run one marathon, let alone three, boggled my mind. I tried to train for a marathon once. This was before kids. When I was 100 percent healthy. And 23 years old.

Hogan was 26 when she had her first stroke and seven months pregnant when she had her second at 38. She compares the feeling to a light bulb that isn’t quite screwed into the socket.

After numerous doctor visits (at another hospital system) it was finally determined she had a hole in her heart. Surgery closed it up, and she thought her health issues were behind her. Two months later, her third stroke caused her to collapse and lose the use of her left leg.

It was Dr. Pierre Fayad, who Hogan calls her “angel in life,” at The Nebraska Medical Center’s Stroke Center who finally diagnosed her with a venous angioma that bled. There is no known cause and no known cure.

While Hogan walked out of the hospital of her own accord shortly after her third stroke, she spent the next two years in denial. Thirty-nine-year-olds shouldn’t have strokes. It wasn’t until she met a fellow stroke survivor that her life took a turn for the open road.

He, too, seemed too young to have suffered a stroke. He, too, was just trying to enjoy the sun on a Florida vacation. But the similarities ended there. Just as Lenice was relearning to run, he was struggling to walk. Her left foot was finally feeling good. His left side wouldn’t move and hadn’t in seven years.

She struck up a conversation with him. Hogan remembers eight words of it verbatim.

“You have no idea how lucky you are,” he said.

And that was it. After a few slow jogs on the beach in Florida, Hogan coincidentally received an e-mail from the National Stroke Association seeking runners for its first-ever New York City Marathon team. It seemed serendipitous. But everywhere Hogan turned, she hoped to find a roadblock. Sure, she’d run a mile on the beach, but 26.2 of them was unfathomable. After a green light from her physician and just as importantly, her mother, she called NSA, half-hoping the team was already full. No luck. She signed up.

She only had a few months to train, and was worried it wasn’t enough. But when Hogan stepped off the plane in New York, an overwhelming sense of peace came over her. She knew she could do it. And she did. She ran the whole thing and finished in just over five hours.

“Crossing the finish line was an amazing sense of accomplishment,” she said. “I wanted to sign up for the next one right then.”

She ran her second NYC marathon on behalf of NSA the next year and her third the year after that, bettering her time each year. She planned to run her fourth last fall, but Hurricane Sandy had other plans. So Hogan is signed up to run her fourth marathon in five years this Nov. 4.

***

I went to the TriExercise event thinking it would be a motivational speech. It was motivating, but not because Hogan told everyone, “you can do it.” She showed them. She doesn’t preach that marathons are for everyone. She’s the first to tell you how painful running can be, how long training takes and how scary it is for her to pound the pavement knowing she could have another stroke at any time.

But it doesn’t stop her. And if it doesn’t stop her, then you can draw your own conclusions about yourself.

“The least we can do is try to keep ourselves healthy,” Hogan said. “And it’s often our minds, not our bodies, that limit us the most. It’s about facing that fear and going for it.”

Watch a video about Lenice Hogan.

Lenice Hogan’s Marathon Training Tips

-You can do it in less, but six months is optimal training time.
-Practice your breathing. Hogan inhales for two steps, exhales for four.
-Purchase a GPS tracking device to keep track of mileage, etc.
-Subscribe to a running publication. Hogan recommends Runner’s World.
-Music/books on tape are your friends on long runs.
-Learn how to feed your body. Drink Gatorade to replenish electrolytes.
-If you can’t stand “goo” on long runs, Hogan recommends miniature chocolate Hershey bars and grapes for fuel.
-Listen to your body. Don’t ignore injuries and if you’re ill, take time to rest.
-Training for a marathon takes up a lot of time. Make sure your family is committed to supporting your training schedule.

If running is not your thing, UNMC recently kicked off a 10-week decathlon series with multiple choices for exercise activity. Register online by Feb. 25 to be eligible for a T-shirt.

To be notified about upcoming TriExercise events, email cmcdermott@unmc.edu.The educational talk series runs from noon to 1 p.m. in the Olson Center for Women’s Health classroom, on the fourth floor of the DOC. Speakers are listed below.

Feb. 21
Lincoln Murdoch, USAT National Champion and endurance athlete

March 7
Vicki Creigh, triathlete and endurance coach

April 11
Nancy Lennarson, triathlete and coach extraordinaire

May
Swimming tips and more! Speaker TBD.

The UNMC Gay-Straight Alliance, a new student group, held its first event Jan. 30. It asked psychiatrist, alum and author Loren Olson, M.D., to be the headliner. Dr. Olson’s book is “Finally Out: Letting Go of Living Straight, A Psychiatrist’s Own Story.”

There was no gay-straight alliance when Loren Olson, M.D., was studying at the College of Medicine, class of 1968. At his 40^th reunion he asked his classmates: Had they known of anyone in school who had been gay, then? Had they heard of any gay bars in Omaha at that time? Anything? No, no and no.

But Dr. Olson was and is gay. He just didn’t know it, back then.

Wait a minute. Really? Seriously, how do you not know something like that?

It’s true, he knew he was different, growing up as a little boy in rural Nebraska in the forties and fifties, in a town where it seemed like everyone was the same. He wondered why he had to work so hard at “being a man” when it came so naturally to all the other boys. He always chalked it up to his father having died young; he didn’t have a male role model to teach him all that macho stuff – yeah, that’s it. Occasionally he would slip and do something “like a girl.”

“Being in a small town,” Dr. Olson said, “that was devastating to me.”

The people he grew up with were not homophobic, he said, but rather, “homo-naïve.” And so was he.

There were things he simply had no frame of reference for. Later, there were things he couldn’t allow to be true.

Besides, this was the age of McCarthyism. And even if, as a kid, you didn’t follow the news, you felt something in the air. There were things you did not want to be accused of.

This was when and where he grew up.

His marriage? “We both entered it in good faith,” Dr. Olson said, “with the idea we would be married forever.

“We both were pretty naïve. We thought it was as good as it got.”

And yet there was such pain … Dr. Olson would fantasize about his wife becoming an alcoholic, so he could walk out, and no one would blame him.

But his wife, his wonderful, loving wife (and after some rough years, again his friend), “She didn’t cooperate,” he said. He has to laugh about it now.

And so, like so many other self-identifying “straight” men, he found himself drawn toward encounters with men, all the while refusing to acknowledge the truth of his sexual orientation, even in his own mind. He had tendencies, he told himself. Quirks, maybe.

This is not uncommon among men in this situation, Dr. Olson said. Many live their lives in a kind of purgatory. They can’t help themselves. But they can’t face themselves. Sure, they’ll occasionally have sex with men. It doesn’t mean you’re gay!

But, “Secrets are like abscesses,” Dr. Olson said.

Former U.S. Sen. Larry Craig (“I am not gay. I never have been gay”) of airport-bathroom-scandal infamy is largely reviled within the LGBT community. But Dr. Olson feels only empathy.

“I could have been him,” Dr. Olson said.

But then he met someone. And kissed him. And then he knew.

He was 40.

Looking back, maybe he should have always known. But now, all of it came rushing out, there was no denying anymore. This is what he should have been feeling. This is who he was. This is what love is really like. “I knew then,” he said, “I couldn’t put it away.”

His family. His wife found something he had written (hoping to be caught?), and Dr. Olson didn’t deny it. Now they both knew. It was over.

His family …

He’d grown up without a father, and always told himself he’d make up for it by being the world’s greatest dad. Now, here he was getting a divorce. Here he was, leaving.

“That was very difficult,” he said, and swallowed.

Those were brokenhearted times for all involved.

At work, it trickled out as he went along. He made no grand announcement. Good grief, it was bad enough being divorced, where he worked. He felt like an outcast.

He moved to a bigger town, for more breathing room. This, being officially gay, now – it was new to him. How does it work? What does one do? At 40?

Someone had told him about a gay dads support group, and he’d gone. They all seemed like regular, All-American, neighbor-next-door, ordinary guys – just like him. It was liberating.

“I feel more like a man now that I’m gay than I ever did before,” he said.

At his new job, he had to take disciplinary action against someone he was supervising. The guy hinted he would out Dr. Olson if he did. So Dr. Olson took a deep breath, and fessed up first.

“Oh, that,” the hospital administrator said. “We knew that when we hired you.”

Free. At long last he was free.

He and Doug, a farmer (not the man he first kissed), have been together now for 26 years. “Mostly good,” Dr. Olson said. Just like anyone else.

His mother was deeply religious and afraid her son wouldn’t go to heaven. But she loved him. “She treated Doug like a son,” Dr. Olson said.

The first time they visited her at her house he and Doug decided they would stay in a hotel, so as not to make sleeping arrangements uncomfortable. That winter night, after they’d all stayed up late talking, he and Doug got up to leave. And his stepdad said, “You know, there’s no reason for you to go out on a cold night like this.”

And they never did again.

Not long after Iowa legalized same-sex marriages, they were driving, and Dr. Olson looked over. “You wanna?”

Doug, after a second: “S’pose.”

One of Dr. Olson’s daughters is very conservative, politically, religiously. He called her. Would they come?

Of course. Of course they would come.

What would she tell the kids?

She’d tell them that two people who loved each other were getting married.

“I have always underestimated my children,” Dr. Olson said.

When his granddaughter was told that Grandpa and Doug were getting married, her response was, “Who are they marrying?”

Well … each other.

Whaaat? “That’s weird.”

Then: “Will there be cake?”

There was. There was cake.