My husband and I met in an ambulance. We’ve been married for 24 years.

I don’t remember what I was wearing when I first met my husband , but I do remember the pain. Doubled over, I curled up on my bed while my mom called the doctor. Stabbing pain shot through my stomach.

I remember everything around me like an old-fashioned slideshow. She reached over and pressed on my stomach with her free hand, trying to diagnose me. She got no definitive answer.

We called an ambulance. I don’t remember the waiting. Time has a way of hovering and rushing all at once when you’re in pain.

Before I knew it, I was ushered out of my room, down the hall, and down the stairs, into the cool night air. I was buckled into the stretcher and lifted into the ambulance. Heavy doors closed, and red flashing lights lit up the treetops outside.

Looking up, I saw a boy, a few years older than me, and I suddenly didn’t notice the pain as much. He was nice — you could see it in his face. Determined and kind, focused on the task at hand: me.

He spoke calmly and asked what hurt. When I told him about my stomach, he reached to examine me. He warned me that his hands would be cold.

I whispered a throaty “that’s OK. ” There was nothing to say, nothing to be done but ride to the hospital. I was stable, and the boy talked to me.

We discovered that we went to the same school; he was a senior and I a sophomore. The conversation turned, as it does in small towns, to who we both knew, the people we have in common. The ride ended as fast as it began.

I don’t remember saying goodbye that day when we arrived at the hospital. I was rushed into fluorescent lights and fast feet on tile floors. I went one way, and the boy went the other.

The pain subsided more. Tests led to the diagnosis of a cyst, and then I was discharged. I headed back home to my room, to my 15-year-old life.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about the boy. Lucky to be in a small town, I didn’t have to wait more than a day for us to cross paths again. In the halls of the high school, with my friends, I saw him.

I don’t even know if he saw me, but I knew I wanted him to. I told my friend about him — she knew him and promised to reintroduce us, perhaps without flashing emergency lights. We met in the hallway, and I was taken with him.

He saw me only as a girl he’d taken care of. I, however, am not one to give up easily, and I sought him out. I’d see him in the hall or happen to go by his locker.

When I discovered that he worked at the local grocery store, I was all too eager to help my parents with the shopping. I didn’t care if he could see through what I was doing, as long as he saw me. And finally, he did.

He asked for my number at the deli counter. Our specialty is unconventional romance. We talked on the phone, twisting coiled cords the whole time as only nervous teens did before the safety net of texting.

It was simple and beautiful and awkward all at the same time. But it was us. We’ve been married for 24 years, with three kids and a beautifully ordinary life.

My EMT became my friend, who became my husband. He still saves lives in the ambulance, and I’m still grateful for that day — grateful that what started as pain ended in love. .