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"On an August morning in 2003, Christine Coppa kissed her boyfriend and told him to have fun while motocrossing with his brother. Six hours later, he was a quadriplegic, and she was forced to decide whether to give up every dream she had to stick by him. Read Christine Coppa&amp;#x27;s single-mom blog, Storked!, every day on glamour.com. Order her book, Rattled. Five months before Keith&amp;#x27;s injury, we went to Canc&amp;amp;uacute;nThe sides of Keith&amp;amp;#8217;s head were shaved. Two small rods jutted out, Frankenstein-like, and were attached to a metal casing that wrapped around his head and kept it still and fixed. His neck was braced, his legs were encased in blood pressure sleeves and his feet were in ski-bootlike contraptions. A tube taped to the side of his mouth pushed air into his lungs and prevented him from speaking&amp;amp;#8212;he could only whimper. His lips were dry, and parts of his face were smeared with yellow disinfectant from the surgery he&amp;amp;#8217;d just undergone. It was August 23, 2003, and I was standing at Keith&amp;amp;#8217;s bedside in the intensive care unit, still trying to make sense of the horrible news his brother had given me a half hour earlier: &amp;amp;#8220;Keith crashed his bike on the motocross track. His neck is broken in two places. The doctors don&amp;amp;#8217;t think he&amp;amp;#8217;ll ever walk again. He told me to tell you he loves you.&amp;amp;#8221; It didn&amp;amp;#8217;t seem possible that this could be true. Just hours ago, he&amp;amp;#8217;d dropped me off at my parents&amp;amp;#8217; house in his cherry red SLK Mercedes convertible, the top down and the sun hot on our necks as we kissed goodbye. Now he was motionless, staring into my eyes as machines whirred and beeped all around us. I cupped my hands over my mouth as I sobbed, &amp;amp;#8220;Oh Keith, my Keith!&amp;amp;#8221; over and over. He tried to reach for me but couldn&amp;amp;#8217;t. His arms folded at the elbows and got stuck as if he were a robot. I wanted desperately to make him feel better, to say anything to make him think of happier days, so without thinking I slipped my hand under his&amp;amp;#8212;he couldn&amp;amp;#8217;t feel it, but it was there&amp;amp;#8212;and heard myself say, &amp;amp;#8220;This doesn&amp;amp;#8217;t change anything. We&amp;amp;#8217;ll still get married!&amp;amp;#8221; My father tried to shush me, telling me to calm down and saying this was not the time to talk about such things. But Keith strained to smile and blinked; I could tell he was comforted, and that was all that mattered. Facing reality: Keith will never walk again The truth is, until that moment, we hadn&amp;amp;#8217;t even been close to getting engaged. We&amp;amp;#8217;d fantasized about forever, but in the way I&amp;amp;#8217;d dreamed about becoming a ballerina when I was six. I&amp;amp;#8217;d just graduated from The University of the Arts in Philadelphia, and my future planning was limited to trolling the listings on websites for my dream job at a magazine. Keith&amp;amp;#8217;s focus was on building his landscaping business and spending Sundays at the motocross track, zipping around on his dirt bike. We&amp;amp;#8217;d known each other for years, after going to rival high schools in Wayne, New Jersey, a small, affluent town where almost everyone has trophy lawns and girls carry Gucci bags to class. Keith and I had never really talked about where we were headed as a couple, and some signs weren&amp;amp;#8217;t good&amp;amp;#8212;after two years together, our bickering had become constant. Our rages were hot and often ended with me screaming, &amp;amp;#8220;Get out of my house!&amp;amp;#8221; That&amp;amp;#8217;s exactly what had happened the weekend before his accident. He peeled out of the driveway of my parents&amp;amp;#8217; house in his Benz after we both agreed we needed a break. The idea frightened me, but I was looking forward to meeting someone new&amp;amp;#8212;me. My friends had started landing jobs and booking hostels for impromptu Euro-trips, and I wanted in too. But a week later, when Keith and I met at our favorite bar for a couple of beers, our resolve melted. We spent the night together, and the next morning, as I kissed his scruffy face goodbye, I thought, I guess I really do love this boy. The next time I saw him, I was hovering over his hospital bed in the ICU, unflinchingly promising him forever. I threw myself into my new role as Keith&amp;amp;#8217;s girlfriend/nurse. He liked having me there, and I didn&amp;amp;#8217;t have any other responsibilities at the time, so I spent my days sitting by his side. Nurses would come in and ask if I wanted to learn how to give him a blood thinner shot, or if I&amp;amp;#8217;d like to wheel him to physical therapy. How could I say no, especially in front of Keith? He needed me now more than he ever had before. Most nights I slept at the hospital with him, eating pretzels for dinner and dozing in the green chair next to his bed. I knew he&amp;amp;#8217;d be understanding if I chose to tell him how I had to take a Xanax every night to get to sleep, how I woke up almost every dawn in a sweat-soaked shirt. But it didn&amp;amp;#8217;t seem right to talk about my pain when Keith was being fed through a tube, on narcotics to numb the pain in his neck, unable to even wiggle a toe. I remained bright-eyed and upbeat and never said a word as I pushed through one day after another. During his stay in the hospital, doctors couldn&amp;amp;#8217;t tell us how much movement Keith might regain. The open-endedness left us both hopeful: &amp;amp;#8220;The doctors don&amp;amp;#8217;t know anything for sure&amp;amp;#8212;Keith could walk again!&amp;amp;#8221; we&amp;amp;#8217;d agree. He had four surgeries in a month, but each ended the same: &amp;amp;#8220;He&amp;amp;#8217;s stable,&amp;amp;#8221; his doctor would say, then walk away. After the first two, I began to realize the surgeries would not fix him, just sustain him or clean out infection. After about a month, there was nothing more doctors at the hospital could do for him, and Keith was transferred to Kessler Institute for Rehabilitation, one of the nation&amp;amp;#8217;s leading physical rehab centers. On one of his first days there, he said to me, &amp;amp;#8220;Therapy will make me better, right?&amp;amp;#8221; By then I knew it wouldn&amp;amp;#8217;t. I simply told him, &amp;amp;#8220;Just keep up the good work.&amp;amp;#8221; Keith saw through my cheerfulness; for the first time, he broke down in sobs, surrendering to the fact that he was a quadriplegic. I rubbed his back to calm him. &amp;amp;#8220;You don&amp;amp;#8217;t get it, my body is a stranger to me,&amp;amp;#8221; he said. &amp;amp;#8220;These hands are foreign!&amp;amp;#8221; He tried to get me to understand his frustration with an example: &amp;amp;#8220;Wiggle your ears&amp;amp;#8212;now!&amp;amp;#8221; I tried with all my might, but nothing happened. &amp;amp;#8220;That&amp;amp;#8217;s how I feel when the doctor comes in every morning, grabs my hands and tells me to squeeze. I tell my brain to move my hands, but they won&amp;amp;#8217;t budge,&amp;amp;#8221; he said. Several grueling months of physical therapy followed, and at first it was heartbreaking to watch the therapists manipulate his limp body. But I never cried in front of him. Instead, I saved my tears for when I was in the shower at home. With the hot water pouring over me, I&amp;amp;#8217;d slump against the tiles and weep. Sometimes the tears turned to rage: Why did this have to happen? Why wasn&amp;amp;#8217;t I going to step out of this shower, blow-dry my hair, put on some jeans and a sexy top and go on a normal date with my boyfriend? Why couldn&amp;amp;#8217;t it have rained that day? That stupid bike! Soon, though, Keith&amp;amp;#8217;s physical therapy began to pay off&amp;amp;#8212;while he&amp;amp;#8217;d never regain full movement in his upper body, he learned to use his arms and hands somewhat, and these improvements made everything seem better. &amp;amp;#8220;Hey baby!&amp;amp;#8221; he&amp;amp;#8217;d exclaim as I arrived for a daily visit. Or &amp;amp;#8220;It&amp;amp;#8217;s Paw!&amp;amp;#8221; He&amp;amp;#8217;d given me the nickname ages ago because of the way my small hand disappeared in his big, callused one. It felt so good to hear him talk to me like that again. I&amp;amp;#8217;d rush to his bed and jump on him, swallowing his shrinking frame in my arms. We&amp;amp;#8217;d kiss and get straight to our new business: How do you feel today? Any new movement? Should I put your sneakers on you? I bought him Puma workout suits and tees penned with phrases like hot wheels; trust me, i&amp;amp;#8217;m a doctor; and ask the guy in charge. But while I made sure Keith was the best-dressed guy in the rehab gym, I stopped looking in the mirror at myself: I&amp;amp;#8217;d lost 10 pounds, lived in sweats and wore my hair tied back in a knot. These changes were largely invisible to me, but not to my close friends and family. Initially, my parents gently pointed out how this was hurting my health and my future; later they threatened to take my car away so that I couldn&amp;amp;#8217;t make the 30-minute drive to the rehab center. My friends tried to stand by me in little ways: One night when my friend Katie came to see me at my parents&amp;amp;#8217; house, she plucked my eyebrows for me&amp;amp;#8212;something I hadn&amp;amp;#8217;t done in months. She put a pillow on her lap so I could rest my head as she tended to me. Katie&amp;amp;#8217;s gentle hands and the easy silence calmed me. I wanted to tell her everything&amp;amp;#8212;how scared I was, how lonely I felt&amp;amp;#8212;but I just lay there, motionless. I realized for the first time that I&amp;amp;#8217;d fallen apart. Still, I never considered giving up my role as Keith&amp;amp;#8217;s caretaker. I attended to his every need without hesitation: sticking him with needles (wishing he&amp;amp;#8217;d yell ouch!), holding a Kleenex as he blew his nose, inserting a catheter into his penis so he could relieve himself. When the nurse first taught me how to help him go to the bathroom, Keith said, &amp;amp;#8220;No, Chrissy! You don&amp;amp;#8217;t have to!&amp;amp;#8221; with conviction. But I brushed my hand on his cheek and said, &amp;amp;#8220;I want to.&amp;amp;#8221; So I rolled him on his side, his face hidden in the pillow, and within minutes, it was over. In time, his care became effortless. We&amp;amp;#8217;d talk as I put in a catheter. &amp;amp;#8220;I can&amp;amp;#8217;t believe that guy is eating rats for money,&amp;amp;#8221; he said, laughing while staring up at Fear Factor on TV. &amp;amp;#8220;Thank you, baby,&amp;amp;#8221; he said after I buttoned his pants up. Within months of the accident, I had grown accustomed to the new us and how we leaned on each other. Keith&amp;amp;#8217;s care distracted me from everything I couldn&amp;amp;#8217;t deal with: finding a job, watching my friends move on, figuring out my future. And my capable tending made Keith feel secure and relieved&amp;amp;#8212;if I was there, he was safe. My friends and family continued to worry. They thought someone else, anyone else, would be a more appropriate nursemaid. &amp;amp;#8220;This isn&amp;amp;#8217;t the life for you,&amp;amp;#8221; my friend Phylissa finally said to me late one night over the phone as I strained to stay awake. &amp;amp;#8220;Because he&amp;amp;#8217;s in a wheelchair?&amp;amp;#8221; I replied. &amp;amp;#8220;No. It has nothing to do with that. You two weren&amp;amp;#8217;t working right before his accident&amp;amp;#8230;what&amp;amp;#8217;s working now?&amp;amp;#8221; &amp;amp;#8220;I dunno, I just&amp;amp;#8230;&amp;amp;#8221; &amp;amp;#8220;So, you&amp;amp;#8217;ll still marry him?&amp;amp;#8221; she asked with concern. I didn&amp;amp;#8217;t know how to answer her. &amp;amp;#8220;Yes&amp;amp;#8221; should have tumbled from my lips, but it didn&amp;amp;#8217;t. I tossed and turned all night. I couldn&amp;amp;#8217;t break up with him, I thought. What kind of girl would walk away from a quadriplegic boyfriend? I couldn&amp;amp;#8217;t be like so many of his other &amp;amp;#8220;friends&amp;amp;#8221; who&amp;amp;#8217;d stop by on a Friday, milk shakes in hand, before they&amp;amp;#8217;d disappear to go clubbing. On the night of his accident, those same friends told me we&amp;amp;#8217;d all get through this together. I hated that they could shuffle in and out and return to their normal lives. When I left, usually at midnight, I carried Keith with me. Tomorrow I&amp;amp;#8217;ll rent that DVD he wants, I&amp;amp;#8217;d think. Monday I&amp;amp;#8217;ll go with him for his checkup. His friends&amp;amp;#8217; sporadic appearances only strengthened my resolve to be all things to Keith: devoted girlfriend, best friend, nurse-in-training. Not long after that, my parents sent my older brother, Carlo, to make me come home from the rehab center&amp;amp;#8212;it was a tactic they&amp;amp;#8217;d use when they hadn&amp;amp;#8217;t seen me home in too long. &amp;amp;#8220;Don&amp;amp;#8217;t you see,&amp;amp;#8221; Carlo said to me, &amp;amp;#8220;he&amp;amp;#8217;s paralyzing you?&amp;amp;#8221; I said nothing and tried to focus on how the autumn wind through the open window gave me goose bumps on my arms. It was rush hour, and a bevy of girls in a BMW were stopped next to us. They were laughing in that weightless way that I had laughed with my friends not so long ago. I watched one of them smear sparkly eyeshadow across her brow bone, and for the first time since Keith&amp;amp;#8217;s accident, I understood that the world was still going on&amp;amp;#8212;every day, people were still ordering five-dollar lattes, reading the newspaper, walking their dogs. Soon it would be Christmas, and they&amp;amp;#8217;d drag trees into their homes and climb on ladders to hang up strings of lights. Thinking of my own future scared me. Underneath it all, I felt overwhelmed by Keith&amp;amp;#8217;s care, and I was starting to think I was confusing love with loyalty. The prospect of &amp;amp;#8220;forever&amp;amp;#8221; with Keith was terrifying. Would he ever be able take care of himself? How would he go back to work? And what about sex? Doctors reassured us that it was possible, that many men who are paralyzed can have an erection and some are still able to climax. But when a therapist recommended we watch a video on how to do it, I refused. I was clinging to the memory of receiving him, all of him&amp;amp;#8212;his blue eyes, the breath-on-breath, our fingers woven together, the movements that could have seemed so rehearsed but were always brand-new. I couldn&amp;amp;#8217;t bring myself to watch a how-to video&amp;amp;#8212;not when our connection had once been so magnetic and effortless. I knew I needed a break and had been looking forward to a weekend getaway: my cousin&amp;amp;#8217;s wedding. But minutes before we were about to pile into the car, I abruptly announced I wouldn&amp;amp;#8217;t be going. My parents pleaded with me to reconsider as I stormed out of their house. The irony of watching my cousin starting her new life&amp;amp;#8212;the white dress, the petal-dotted aisle, wine and laughter&amp;amp;#8212;all seemed like too much to bear. It wouldn&amp;amp;#8217;t be an escape, especially with the questions everyone would ask and the pitying looks they&amp;amp;#8217;d give me. Besides, how could you go? I scolded myself. You can&amp;amp;#8217;t leave him for a whole day and night! That day, I showered Keith in an open steamy stall&amp;amp;#8212;massaging a dab of shampoo into his dark hair, pushing him forward in his rubber chair to wash his back, kneeling down in the wet, soapy mess and cleaning his bottom. I can still smell those washrooms&amp;amp;#8212;damp and foul but also infused with the sweet scent of baby shampoo. Back in his room, the aide scooped him into bed, and I rubbed his legs and feet with lotion. I strapped on the sleeping shoes that kept his feet upright, rolled him over and shoved a pillow under his butt to prevent bedsores. Lying next to him that night, I realized just what we&amp;amp;#8217;d become: codependent. Our romance had been hijacked; relationship staples like making out, dinner dates, even privacy (his roommates, family and doctors were always around) were nonexistent for us. More than anything else, we were simply best friends. The breakup In January 2004, two filmmakers from New York City came to visit the rehab center and asked to film Keith in his daily activities. That was how he (and I) came to join the cast of what became the Academy Award-nominated documentary Murderball, a film about quadriplegics who play full-contact rugby in their wheelchairs and aspire to win the Paralympic Games in Athens. Hearing Keith gush about his new friendship with the directors was a huge relief; I could see the spark in his eye when he tested out one of the players&amp;amp;#8217; rugby chairs. From the sidelines, I watched the directors film Keith and ask him pointed questions about his disability. I began to realize this had nothing to do with me. When the camera crew came around, I snuck out more and more. And in my absence, Keith learned to use a hand adapter to do his own catheters and other necessities. His confidence soared; the stars of Murderball showed him just how much he was still capable of, and the producers loved him so much that they featured him more prominently in the movie than they&amp;amp;#8217;d planned. For the first time since the accident, I found myself visiting my grandmother, getting a manicure, looking for a job&amp;amp;#8212;without feeling crushed by guilt. As Keith relied on me less and less, I began to review the last year of my life. Sitting on the back porch watching my dog eat dandelions, I was proud at the way once-squeamish me had mastered Keith&amp;amp;#8217;s care&amp;amp;#8212;that had forced me to grow up. But I was anxious that a new group of graduates would soon be applying for the magazine job I hadn&amp;amp;#8217;t attempted to land; that I&amp;amp;#8217;d never again in my life feel a pang of can&amp;amp;#8217;t-eat-can&amp;amp;#8217;t-sleep kind of love. But how could we break up now, I wondered. After 10 months, Keith was getting discharged from Kessler and he needed me. His release was like a coming-out party&amp;amp;#8212;everyone wanted to see him, so we started making tentative, laborious trips to old hangouts. &amp;amp;#8220;That was fun,&amp;amp;#8221; he said, one night after I took him home. He was wearing a lime green shirt and looked so handsome. I was in tight jeans, with strands of blond hair spilling down my back. We looked so much like the old version of us that we even fooled each other. I&amp;amp;#8217;d actually had a dirty martini with three olives that night&amp;amp;#8212;just one, since Keith was in my care. &amp;amp;#8220;I guess,&amp;amp;#8221; I said, but in my mind I was replaying the evening: folding up his heavy chair and hoisting it into my trunk, breaking mid-party to shoot medicine down his feeding tube. Suddenly the words escaped my lips: &amp;amp;#8220;I can&amp;amp;#8217;t do this anymore.&amp;amp;#8221; I was terrified, but felt as if I was finally coming up for air. &amp;amp;#8220;What? Why?&amp;amp;#8221; he asked, dumbfounded. &amp;amp;#8220;Because I can&amp;amp;#8217;t, I can&amp;amp;#8217;t. I need a break,&amp;amp;#8221; I said. Then I did something shameful. I turned to walk away from him, leaving him there in his wheelchair. &amp;amp;#8220;If you break up with me, I&amp;amp;#8217;ll never take you back,&amp;amp;#8221; he said. &amp;amp;#8220;Thanks. Girls don&amp;amp;#8217;t date guys in wheelchairs, you know! This is it for me!&amp;amp;#8221; As I gathered my purse and jacket, he said, &amp;amp;#8220;You&amp;amp;#8217;ll regret this!&amp;amp;#8221; He put his head down, refusing to look at me, and I realized in that moment that I&amp;amp;#8217;d lost my best friend. Being &amp;quot;the girl who left&amp;quot; People end relationships all the time, but when you break up with a quadriplegic, you&amp;amp;#8217;re shadowed with &amp;amp;#8220;how could she?&amp;amp;#8221; whispers. My family and closest friends had been supportive, so one night two months after our split, I felt ready to go out with some friends. Squeezing my way through the crowd and up to the bar, I saw one of Keith&amp;amp;#8217;s friends who had visited him early on. &amp;amp;#8220;Hey! How are you?&amp;amp;#8221; I said, smiling. She ignored me. Maybe she didn&amp;amp;#8217;t recognize me, I thought. &amp;amp;#8220;It&amp;amp;#8217;s Christine, Keith&amp;amp;#8217;s Christine,&amp;amp;#8221; I said. She looked at me flatly and said, &amp;amp;#8220;I know,&amp;amp;#8221; and looked away. It quickly became clear that I had assumed a new identity: The Girl Who Left. A few nights later, one guy crassly commented, &amp;amp;#8220;You broke up with him because he couldn&amp;amp;#8217;t have sex anymore!&amp;amp;#8221; He was ignorant and wrong, but I couldn&amp;amp;#8217;t respond. My cheeks flushed and my eyes filled with tears, and while he apologized, it was clear what he, and everyone else, was thinking about me. I went to my family for comfort, but my experience didn&amp;amp;#8217;t surprise them. My brothers confessed that people had made comments to them, too. It was ironic: So many people were talking about our breakup, but none of them cared about Keith or me during the months he was hospitalized. Still, I couldn&amp;amp;#8217;t face all the accusations. I started to hide out&amp;amp;#8212;sending my mom to the drugstore to fetch me shampoo, making excuses when my girlfriends would ask me to join them for a drink. I was afraid to run into people, and I even felt panicked when stopped at a red light, wondering who would pull up next to me. I resorted to napping even when I wasn&amp;amp;#8217;t tired as a way to escape the heavy guilt that hung over me. If I was asleep I couldn&amp;amp;#8217;t feel so empty, alone and insignificant. Truth was, I agreed with what everyone was saying. How could I have abandoned someone I considered family? Keith angrily refused to talk to me when I called to find out how he was, and I didn&amp;amp;#8217;t blame him. By the time Murderball went to the Sundance Film Festival, what contact I still had with Keith was lost in the shuffle of his new life. He was making appearances at red-carpet premieres in New York City and Los Angeles and hanging out with his new friends at VIP parties. I saw him on the pages of Spin, The Hollywood Reporter, the New York Post (alongside Winona Ryder!). But it was weird to see myself in Murderball commercials. The footage had been shot so long ago, yet there I was, kissing Keith on-screen. As I watched, I felt my old mix of feelings&amp;amp;#8212;attachment, loyalty, affection&amp;amp;#8212;flood back. After caring for him in such an infantile stage, there was no easy way to put him out of my mind. My instincts to care for and protect Keith never went away; I yearned to feel that important to someone again. With Murderball, Keith had a new purpose, while I just felt an emptiness and struggled to fill my time. I should have been looking for an apartment of my own and at least considering going on dates. Instead, I sat in my childhood bedroom, half-dialing his number, then hanging up, writing him e-mail love letters in poetic metaphors. He never wrote back. Finding forgiveness I was still in that rut when Keith surfaced six months later. Seeing his number displayed on my cell phone made me squint. &amp;amp;#8220;Hello? Hello, Keith?&amp;amp;#8221; He said he wanted to see me, and I agreed without hesitating. Thanks to new hand controls in his car, he pulled up to my house like he always had. &amp;amp;#8220;Come here,&amp;amp;#8221; he said as I slid into the front seat. We hugged. I held him close and smelled his old scent of laundry soap and wintergreen. &amp;amp;#8220;You feel so good,&amp;amp;#8221; he said. We went for a drive and then came back to my house. I found myself on his lap, kissing him. It was instinct; neither of us could help it. &amp;amp;#8220;I was scared when you left,&amp;amp;#8221; Keith confided. &amp;amp;#8220;I hated you. I was so used to you helping me&amp;amp;#8212;with everything. At the time, I thought for sure I&amp;amp;#8217;d regress physically, but I didn&amp;amp;#8217;t&amp;amp;#8212;I progressed. I had no choice.&amp;amp;#8221; I realized something wonderful had come out of our breakup: Keith&amp;amp;#8217;s emancipation from the prison he had envisioned for himself. And I saw and believed that Keith didn&amp;amp;#8217;t need me. Knowing that the worst of his anger toward me had subsided, I was able to take some baby steps forward. Over the next few months, I started ordering another mimosa just to extend brunch with my girlfriends; I ran my own errands again with my head held high no matter what zip code I was in. Eventually I moved to New York City and got a job with a magazine. I took a vacation in Europe and even started dating. It&amp;amp;#8217;s been two years now and Keith and I have forged a peaceful friendship&amp;amp;#8212;we e-mail occasionally, and connect once in a while with long phone chats. It&amp;amp;#8217;s been exciting to hear about him playing rugby, just like in Murderball; traveling to Russia; and raising awareness for spinal cord injuries. I was even happy to learn that he was seeing someone. I realize now that nothing can destroy the bond Keith and I forged that year in the hospital. I still remember every detail of our nightly routine&amp;amp;#8212;how I&amp;amp;#8217;d fill his cup with ice chips and position it just right on his tray so he could maneuver it between his wrists in case he got thirsty in the night. How we&amp;amp;#8217;d weave our fingers together to pray: &amp;amp;#8220;Dear God, keep Keith strong and focused, and please God, give us a miracle.&amp;amp;#8221; I don&amp;amp;#8217;t expect anyone to understand our relationship&amp;amp;#8212;or grasp how hard it was for me to walk away from my first love and best friend, someone who depended on me in a way a newborn depends on its mother. It&amp;amp;#8217;s an indescribable feeling to be so wanted, loved and needed. For me, it was a little intoxicating, addictive even. Breaking that cycle demanded determination I didn&amp;amp;#8217;t think I had, but I gained that strength from tending to Keith. To help make sense of it all for myself, I even looked up the definition of betrayal not long ago: to be false or disloyal to. Seen in that light, I realized that staying with Keith would have been the ultimate betrayal. By leaving, I enabled him to heal himself emotionally and physically. And it forced me to finally attack my life, not just let it pass me by. I know there are people out there who will judge me harshly for the breakup. That&amp;amp;#8217;s OK. There&amp;amp;#8217;s only one person whose feelings about it really matter, and he forgave me a long time ago. Christine M. Coppa has been a stringer for Glamour since September 2005; she&amp;amp;#8217;s working on a memoir."^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.glamour.com/sex-love-life/2007/02/ultimate-betrayal>