Are We Lost? (Part Three)

I was pretty tough in those days or at least I thought I was. (This was back in the 80s when I was in my late 20s and early 30s). I certainly had to go outside the parameters of the traditional female role of that time in order to survive and take care of my children as a single mom.  That required engaging in some traditional male behaviors such as direct confrontations with others.  That created some anxiety for me at first but like most things in life I got used to it.

As a result I thought I could face any situation alone.  At least I had convinced myself that I could. I had to because I really had no other options.  It was just the reality of my life back then.  I had no safety net – no support emotionally or financially in the days when my children were very young.   So I was surprised that my “invincibility” was shaken by this upcoming event.   I was afraid it might turn into an ugly confrontation.  Brian, whom I would later marry,  was taking all of us –the children and I- to meet his family for the first time.   He was very close to his family.  We were going to spend Thanksgiving at his sister, Nancy’s house.    She had five children.   Brian was bringing his daughter, Bridget and I was bringing my three.    

By this time, we had met many of Brian’s “friends” and taken the kids with us to business events that included family and friends.     People fussed over Bridget. She was the center of attention.    I remember one of my first experiences occurred when we were all invited to dinner by one of Brian’s clients.   We were going to this great western steakhouse. This was the kind of place I couldn’t afford to take my children in those days.   It was going to be a real treat for them. They were excited and so was I.  Brian and Bridget came to pick us up.   When we arrived at the restaurant our hosts Bob and Kim were already there.  They were waiting at the entrance for us. 

Kim came running over as we approached.   She grabbed Bridget and hugged her.   She started asking her all about school, her mom, etc.   I was waiting for the greeting to finish so I could introduce myself and my children to her.  The “greeting” never finished.   Brian and Bob talked business at one end of the table.   Bridget sat next to Kim.  My children and I sat at the far end of the table.  Bridget and Kim chatted and laughed together throughout the evening.   Kim ordered special drinks and desserts for Bridget.

  At the beginning of the evening I tried to converse with Kim but it was like penetrating a thick wall.    I tried to engage my children in some conversation but they were all silent during dinner.  I sat wondering if there was any way to confront Kim or anyone else about this treatment without looking petty or jealous.  If there was a way I never discovered it.  After all maybe I was just being petty and jealous?    I know that I expect too much of people. I expected Kim to be a gracious hostess.  She wasn’t and I didn’t know how to deal with that.  As I look back I should just have asserted myself there as I had to do in the business world but I didn’t know how to do that, yet, in a social situation.

So I prepared myself for a similar experience at Brian’s sister’s house.    I knew that she was a close friend of Bridget’s mother.    I didn’t want to get all defensive but I didn’t want my children to continually receive that same message of inferiority.  I spent the drive going over several scenarios in my mind as to how I would protect my children even if it meant being confrontational.

  At that time I naively thought this disparity in treatment would pass as time went on.  But in the years to come, Brian and I would have many a heated argument over this issue. There was definitely a subliminal message that my children were second class citizens compared to Bridget. She was prettier, smarter, better behaved than my kids or so the message went.  Brian said it wasn’t happening and that I was overly sensitive.  I went along with that for a while in part because I doubted myself and my perceptions.  People in our business and social world  were blind to it or ignored it and went along with “Brian’s” program.  Unfortunately my children weren’t blind to it. 

 It really hurt to see my children treated like this especially when they would look at me with eyes that said I was supposed to protect them.  It took me a while to trust myself and my perceptions.  I am not exactly sure when I finally did get it.   I had a huge sense of guilt for letting it go on for so long.   But the critical issue for the time being was how I was going to handle this with Brian’s sister?  I braced myself for the worst.

Brian entered the house first.  I heard someone greet him.    As soon as I walked through the door I was smothered with a big hug.   “Welcome, welcome. We are so glad you could be here for Thanksgiving!”   I looked up to see Brian’s sister, Nancy, beaming a huge smile at me.  Each of my children received a similar welcome.  Nancy started talking to me as if she had known me for years.   She introduced my children to her brood and invited them to make themselves right at home which they did.  It was a wonderful holiday.  I noticed that Bridget hung back a little.  I guess that she wasn’t used to not being the center of attention.  I felt bad for her.   My children were having a great time hanging out with the “cousins”. 

While we were in the middle of our Thanksgiving meal there was a knock at the door.   Nancy jumped up from her chair and ran over to greet a woman.  The woman was dressed in tight pants and a top that didn’t cover her navel. She had platinum blond hair, purple finger nail polish, bright blue eye shadow and black lipstick.  She was accompanied by a small skinny toddler dressed in clothes that were a few sizes too small for him.  Nancy turned and announced their arrival.  “This is Kevin, my grandson and Deanna his mother.  This is Eric’s son.”  I knew something of the family history from Brian.  Eric wasn’t married and never had been.  He had a drinking problem and couldn’t hold a job or so I had been told. 

 “Deanna is an alcoholic and drug addict.   She claims Kevin is Eric’s son but I am not sure. She and Eric were together only very briefly.  Deanna has trouble holding a job.  She and Kevin were homeless for a while and they stayed here.  She is doing better now but she hangs out with other drug addicts and I worry about Kevin,” Nancy said.  She spoke as if she was reciting ingredients in a recipe.    I kept waiting to hear it – the judgment - the contempt for Deanna, her lifestyle and her inability to be a competent mother to Kevin.  But all I detected in Nancy’s demeanor and tone of voice was love and concern for Deanna and Kevin.

I was shocked that Nancy would fuss over Kevin like she did her other grandchildren!    I remember thinking at the time that people like Deanna, who engage in this type of behavior, need to have some consequence so others will be deterred from such conduct.    At a minimum shouldn’t Deanna and, by implication Kevin, be ostracized or at least treated with a little disdain as some consequence?   That is what I was brought up to believe and that attitude unconsciously surfaced.  

Wait.  Wasn’t I just ecstatic that Nancy didn’t treat my children any differently because I was divorced?   Nancy opened her home and her heart to my children, to me and to everyone else.  What a mean spirited hypocrite I was!

She was all about love.  She didn’t have a mean bone in her body,” my ever sensitive eldest son, Samuel, said between sobs.   It was many, many years after we first met Nancy.  We were standing together at the cemetery for Nancy’s funeral service.  How true I thought.  My eldest son was just a child when he spent a lot of time with Nancy yet her message reached him.   She welcomed everyone into her home and her heart.  She had health problems that were beyond horrible. She had serious issues with her own children.  Yet she always smiled. She never complained.   She was ever so grateful for what she did have. Most of us wrote her off as a nut case.  She was out of touch with the real world we said to ourselves.  I guess she was out of touch with the way the world worked.  She wasn’t judgmental.  She didn’t treat people differently based on their lifestyle, mistakes or history.  Nancy lived her Christian faith.   We watched as they lowered her casket into the ground.  She had always been there for me.  I would sorely miss her.  Her love enveloped you and could take the cares of the world away.

Marriage and sometimes even a love story (Part three)

 It is difficult to imagine that attitudes were so different in the mid eighties regarding domestic violence but they were.   The police were not sympathetic.   They would come to my door after a 911 call.   They would look at me in a totally disgusted manner.   When I said David had fled they would simply turn and walk away. They never examined me for bruises or marks.  They never even made a report.  They never gave me any information about any domestic violence shelters or court remedies.   The procedures to have emergency court hearings were not in place as they are now or if they were they didn’t tell me about them.   I stopped calling the police because they made me feel like the scum of the earth.

 The process of obtaining the restraining order was humiliating.  The courts and judges were not particularly sympathetic to domestic violence victims especially well educated ones. The fact that I was well educated made it even more embarrassing.    I didn’t have any police reports to corroborate my story.   I sensed that they thought I was making it all up – a hysterical woman. There was no self help available through the courts like they have now where you can obtain forms and instructions on how to do everything yourself.  I was totally on my own. 

Why did I marry him – David?  It was obviously a poor choice but of course I didn’t recognize that at the time.  The violence didn’t start until the very end when the marriage was falling apart.  There may have been warning signs that he was disposed to such violence but it wouldn’t have mattered to me.  I would simply have ignored them.  I was “in love”.   I wanted to “save” David.  He has his problems but the power of my love would change him or so I thought.  It is hard to believe that I could be that stupid but I was.  I have since learned that it is OK to want to “save” the world or help people but it probably isn’t something you should do when choosing a mate.  It is better to choose a mate with whom you can form a solid relationship so that relationship can provide the support you need to go out and help others and “save” the world.    Crippled partners make for crippled relationships which in my experience can have disastrous consequences. 

I was special because only I could understand David and see his good qualities.  I would make excuses for his behavior based on his motivation and character that only I could “see”.  This motivation and character didn’t exist anywhere but in my mind.   “You know how people feel about you by how they treat you,” my friend told me.   That was, sadly, not obvious to me.    

 I thought we had the right feeling for each other.  My Grandmother said something to me once.  She said what held her and my Grandfather together for 50+ years was the knowledge that they had the right feeling in the beginning.  Well sometimes I wish she hadn’t said that to me.  Even before there was a media obsession with romantic love I had imbibed enough literature and personal lore to know that I had the “right feeling” for David.  

I had absolutely no idea how to discern infatuation from love.  I didn’t even know there was a difference.  One of my friends told me he was lucky because his infatuation turned into love.  I was not so lucky.  If I was not so impatient I might have discovered the difference or at least been able to see David rationally.  I was impatient to find love or get married or something else.  

I was just about to finish college.  I had no sense of direction other than getting married.   I am embarrassed to admit that but it is true.   When the voice of prudence did once or twice whisper in my ear about marrying David I dismissed it.   I had convinced myself this was not an impulsive decision because I had analyzed and dissected the pluses, minuses and consequences of such a marriage.   I managed to convince myself this marriage was not the result of impulse.  But it was.  That was a pattern of behavior that I would repeat many more times in my life.  (To be continued)

Because I have been out of town this past week I have not posted.   I apologize for not letting you know this sooner.  I will be posting again this coming week.  Thank you.

Saying Goodbye (Part Two) or What do we expect of our children?

          “I had a serious conversation with Gary before he left for college.  I am very worried about the level of his partying this past summer.  I reminded him rather strongly that he is going to college for an education not partying.  I want him to have fun but he needs to find the balance.  (Finding that balance is part of his maturation process).  Well, I should confess that “reminded” may not be a strong enough word.  I warned him.  I threatened him.  I used every tool available to me to let him know I expect him to get good grades and a good education.  That is why he is going to college.”  I ranted all of this to my friends during lunch one day last week.

          My one friend looked at me rather disapprovingly. I think she thought I was much too “tough”. I could also read on her face that she was shocked that Gary was such a partier.  She is one of those parents who believe her children are perfect and that they tell her everything that they do.   So I got defensive and I started doing even more tough talk and ranting, as if that would justify my position with her.  Afterwards I felt stupid that I had let this mother of “perfect” children make me feel bad about my own child and my own parenting skills.  I thought I was beyond that but I guess I still have my sensitive spots.  Maybe I always will.

         Her disapproval of Gary’s behavior and my parenting style got me thinking though.   I used to have a “secret agenda” for my children.  As I have matured as a parent, it has been refreshing and healthy to bring those agendas and expectations to the surface and look at them.  That is often a difficult thing to do as it is now.  Why am I so angry?  What is it I expect of Gary?  Oh I am clear what I expect in terms of grades and studies.  But I sensed there was some expectation beyond that immediate one that I was not being honest about with myself or him.  I started mentally wrestling with my “expectations”.

          I don’t want to say that Gary “owes” me because I don’t feel that way.  I have done for him for the past 18 years out of love, not duty.  The sense of duty was the mantra of my parent’s generation.  You owed your parents and would be required to do things for them like take care of them when they were no longer able to care for themselves.  Their relationship was based primarily on responsibility and duty.  I don’t want that to be the primary basis of my relationship with my children.  But in running away from a relationship based on duty we may have embraced a relationship based solely on what you “feel” like doing for the other person.   “We need to let our kids do their thing,” we say to each other.   But that attitude seems to totally eradicate certain important elements of our relationship, any relationship. 

          I don’t believe that Gary owes me in the way my parents believe I owe them or they owed their parents.   But I still feel he “owes” me something although I don’t like the word, “owes”.  Gary “owes” me respect for what I have done and sacrificed for him.   I want him to recognize my contributions and honor those contributions and me not by doing something specific for me but by building on the foundation I provided for him for the past 18 years.  He fulfills his obligation and honors me by, in college, getting good grades and a good education and, in life, by acting as a moral person.   I want him to recognize that he is not doing everything for or to himself.  If he fails it affects me and hurts me too.  I want him to think about that as he makes his decisions. 

           Perhaps that is what was meant in the Bible when it is said “Honor thy mother and father”.  I never understood that Commandment before.  I thought it meant something superficial like being polite and respectful to your parents.  But it is much deeper than that.  It means to honor the work and sacrifice your parents have made to get you to your adulthood.  Children honor their parents not with empty words, but with actions.  The actions I speak of are those that exhibit the values imbued in them and modeled for them by their parents. 
         That is my hope for Gary and ultimately what I expect from him.  I have given him a moral compass. He must learn to navigate with it.  This is the maiden voyage and I am afraid for him and for me. Therein lies the source of my anger.  Now that I understand my expectations and fears I can communicate them to Gary.  Of course this conversation will have to wait a while until Gary actually calls me from college!  What are your expectations for your children especially the young adults who are going out on their own for the first time?

Death and Love Together (Part Three)

         We seek and crave connections especially in our darkest hours but we really are alone. No one is experiencing what we are experiencing.  We are isolated in our despair.  Only those who are also experiencing it can understand it and share the burden and pain.  Brian was the one person who shared the experience with me.  But he was enveloped in his own dark world of fear and despair.  Physically Lou Gehrig’s disease deprived Brian of the ability to reach out and touch me.  Emotionally it rendered him incapable of reaching out and connecting with me.  I lost him the minute the diagnosis was given.  Our emotional connection was severed when the death sentence was pronounced.  I didn’t realize that at the time.  I so wanted to connect with him – to grow even closer to him for whatever time he had left.  But wishing doesn’t make it so.  What is that old expression?  “If wishes were horses beggars would ride.”  Brian was entirely wrapped up in his own world – a maze of fear, anxiety, regrets, physical pain, anger, remorse, hatred.  And I was angry with him for pushing me away.

All that remained was the memory of our great love.  That memory would have to sustain us for the few remaining years.  I was reminded of a car rambling down the last distance of road on the fumes from its once full gas tank.  Our lives were reduced to waiting for the end to come and trying to manage the final journey as gracefully as possible.  It was about wheelchairs, bedpans, feeding tubes, bedsores, insomnia, assisted showers, assisted trips to the bathroom and containing the rage and fear.  His pain was my pain and so we traveled down that long, dark road to death together but apart.

We were separated by a wall of silence and anger – his and mine.  I tried to talk to Brian about how I felt.  I often asked how he felt.  He was silent.  He would look at me with eyes filled with anger and hatred.  I suppose he thought it should have been obvious to me how he felt.

Eventually I stopped trying to connect with him.  I think Brian remained angry until the day he died.  I recently read that a person dies in the same way that he lived.  Brian was, in many ways, always a person filled with anger.  I couldn’t control how he chose to die.  I could only control how I chose to react to him and the situation.  My anger over his refusal or inability to connect faded.  I realized I had no right to judge him.  The answer for me was found by asking myself the question, “How do I know how I would be if I was the one dying a horrible and agonizing death?”  I had no right to presume I would handle it any differently or any better than Brian was handling it.  There was no right way to handle this – at least none that I know of.  How arrogant of me to presume that there was.  When I would become exasperated or impatient or angry with him I would ask myself that question. 

            When I first met him, one of the things I found attractive about Brian was the way he dressed.  I am not referring to the type of clothes that he wore.  They were not expensive.  But he was always neatly dressed.  Perhaps the best way I can explain it was that Brian was in the military and he continued many of those habits into his later life.  His clothes were always neatly pressed and he was always very well groomed.  He had beautiful hair.  I know that is a strange thing to say about a man but he did.  One of the nurses even commented on it when he spent some time in hospice care.  She described it as “U.S. Senator Hair.”  It was a beautiful gray color and very fine and soft.

Brian would wash and dry his hair each morning, comb it into place and then apply some hairspray.  Well the time inevitably came when Brian could no longer fix his own hair.  This happened early on in the disease or as soon as he could no longer use his left arm.  He had use of only one arm and you needed two to manage the hair dryer and the comb.  He was still going to the office at that time.  Brian was very particular about his appearance, especially his hair.   It became my task to style his hair every morning.  It was a huge process for me to try to get his hair to look like he did it.  I could never do it right.  He was usually disgusted with me because I never did it the way he did.  Disgusted may be too tame an adjective but I will leave it at that. 

After I dried and styled Brian’s hair I would dress him.  That was a bit easier at least at that point in time.  Brian’s balance was impaired but he was still able to steady himself on a counter or wall while standing.  Once he was fairly steady he would lift each leg and I would put his pant leg over his foot.  Unfortunately each day brought many more and new aggravations and limitations.

“You b****.  You whore.  You are so stupid.  How can anyone be as stupid as you are?  F*** you!  You are a piece of s***,” Brian shrieked at me.  Brian was staring at me and his entire face was contorted with rage and hatred.  “Get the f*** out of here,” he screamed at me.  I had just raised my head up from the floor where I had been putting on Brian’s slacks.  My hands are trembling as I write this. 

 I had felt something brush against my head after I bent down.  I realized that Brian had taken a swing at me with the fist of his good arm.  He missed me because I had ducked down to put on his pants.  It took me a minute to sort all this out.  I was stunned.  The look on Brian’s face was terrifying.  It was beyond rage.  “Get the f*** out of here,” he kept screaming at me.

I was shaking as I left the room.  “Close the f****** door on your way out you b****!” he screamed at me.  I left the bedroom and closed the door.  My whole body was shaking.  I felt like I was going to throw up.  I waited a little while and then I knocked on the door.  “Get away from that f****** door,” Brian screamed from inside the room.  I ran to the telephone and called one of his friends. 

“Richard I don’t know what to do.  Brian is in the bedroom and refuses to come out.  He is acting irrationally?  Can you come over?”  I asked.  I didn’t tell Richard about anything that had happened.  To his credit Richard came right over to the house.  Richard knocked at the bedroom door and announced his presence.  I heard Brian tell him to come in.  I have no idea what was said between them that morning.  Richard left after about an hour.  I went in and helped Brian get dressed.  He left for the office shortly thereafter.  After Brian left for the office I asked myself, “How do I know how I would act if I was the one dying a horrible and agonizing death?”  Brian and I never spoke about the events of that day.  

NOTE:  Life can be tremendously difficult and challenging but also tremendously rewarding if we cultivate the "right" attitudes toward those events and our lives.  This will become more apparent to you as this story unfolds.  I tell you this because it is not my intent  to make you feel depressed but to help you to cultivate attitudes in your own life that make even such times as those written above something you are grateful for.

"Real World" Advice

My most recent post was a bit out of character for me.  It was less philosophical and more "real world".  I was asked to post it on the website of life coach - Ann Daly.  If you have an on going career issue check out Ann's website for some good "real world" advice regarding such issues.  http://www.anndaly.com.  I will be back to my philosophical self -with a smattering of real world advice- tomorrow.

 

What about God? (Part Three)

“If you put me here I will block the aisle,” Brian said angrily.  I looked around for another place but there wasn’t any better place to put the wheelchair.  It wasn’t that people would get upset with us that we were blocking the aisle.   The issue was that Brian felt totally exposed and conspicuous sitting out there alone in the aisle.  People definitely stared at Brian from the moment we entered the church to the time we left.  Brian and I got something out of the church service so it was worth the embarrassment. 

The time church offered a respite from the demands of our daily lives.   It was a quiet time to mediate and contemplate.  We could forget, well almost, that Brian was dying.   Brian and I never talked about God but something about the service and being in church touched us and brought us closer together.   I can’t explain it any better than that.  That feeling would last for a few hours after we left until the demands of the terminal illness ravaged the feeling of comfort.

Time passed.  The chronic illness group meetings ended.  Brian’s condition worsened.  The memory of the nourishment of the group faded.  Oh I stayed in touch with the leaders of the group but it didn’t help.  Nothing helped ease the suffering, pain and anger.  Generally I was too tired to be angry.  Every day was an incredible struggle physically and emotionally.  I felt like a lone oxen pulling the wagon, loaded with Brian, the children, pain, sadness, anger up the steepest mountain known to mankind.   

I was just surviving and I felt lucky to be doing that.   My old unhealthy self, despite my best intentions, had taken control. With all of my resources being tapped to manage my daily life I did not have the strength to do anything but engage in survival mode.   The abyss was looming darker, colder and blacker than ever.

Eventually it was too difficult to get Brian to church.  We stopped attending.  No one seemed to miss us.

Brian would move from his bed to his special chair in the corner of the TV room to the bathroom and back.   If I had to leave the room, I would turn on the baby monitor which sat on the table next to him taking the other monitor with me.  He was awake asking for things constantly during night.   Occasionally I would try to take a nap during the day.  Just as I dropped my head onto the pillow and started dreaming of my escape I would hear a noise over the intercom. 

Anxiety, anger, hostility, fears, resentment ravaged our days and our lives.   Trying to shelter the children from the anxiety, anger and hostility and take caring of Brian’s physical needs was my job along with the typical daily chores.   Brian’s job was to get through each day.  As each day passed his anger grew and my resentment grew proportionally.  If only we could talk about it!   But that never happened.  Who knows if that would have even made any difference. 

The number and frequency of visitors decreased in direct proportion to the increase in the symptoms of the disease.  At the end Brian’s only personal contacts were the children, me, an occasional visit from his sister and her husband and the weekly visit from the hospice nurse.  Even the children started to avoid coming home although I would not realize that until much later.

I really didn’t want to interact with Brian at all that day.  For weeks now I so wished I could avoid him but I couldn’t.   As I entered the family room that morning, Brian looked at me with such hatred.   I looked back at him with an equal or greater amount of hatred.  I literally had to force myself to be in the same room with him that day. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, run away, and yell that I hated Brian, God, life and everyone else who is not going through what I am going through.   “God I hate you,” I remember saying to myself.  I screamed inside my head, “How long is He going to torture us?” and “I can’t take this anymore!”   My well of coping mechanisms had run dry.     Brian couldn’t’ talk but I could read his eyes and feel the hatred that was spilling out of them.  After our initial interaction, I tried to avoid meeting his eyes as I was afraid that he could read the hatred in my eyes as well.  I used to cope by closing my eyes and imagining that I had ran away and was living alone in a cottage on the beach in some South Pacific island.  That fantasy couldn’t even give me any relief by this time.

 “I can’t make it through even one more day.  I don’t deserve this!  I hate my life!  I hate God!”   were some of the things I screamed to myself that day and for many weeks before.  Every pore of my body oozed hatred.    Brian and I were trapped in a tomb out of which the air and light were being slowly drained until the time would come that we would suffocate in total darkness. 

No matter how either of us felt or what we wanted to do the matters of daily living had to be taken care of and so it was with this particular day.    I had just settled Brian into his lift chair in the TV room when the phone rang.    I was surprised to hear it ring since no one ever called our house anymore.   I answered it. “Hello” I said into the receiver.  The voice on the other end was unfamiliar and cheerful.    It had to be a wrong number.  “This is Deborah from the church.  I am new the new associate pastor and I realized that we have been remiss in visiting our sick church members.  Would it be all right if I came to visit you right now?”  she said.  I automatically said, “OK.”   I regretted it as soon as I had uttered it but I had already heard the receiver on the other end click.  I was definitely not up to having a visitor.  I had no energy to talk to anyone especially not a complete stranger and especially not a minister.  Brian couldn’t speak at all. 

  About 30 minutes later the doorbell rang.   I groaned.   This woman literally burst into the room.  She was vibrant, alive, upbeat, full of energy and smiling from ear to ear.  I was offended.  Doesn’t she know Brian is dying I wondered to myself.  Brian and I immediately exchanged a look but not one of anger or hatred.  That was at least refreshing. 

    She introduced herself to Brian and tried to shake his hand.  Good Lord I thought this woman is an idiot!    Why would she try to shake hands with him?  She obviously didn’t know anything about us or our situation.  Why was she here then?  If she sensed my hostility she didn’t show it. She seated herself on the sofa between Brian and me.  I didn’t listen to what she was saying. I was just waiting a polite amount of time before I could ask her to leave with the excuse that Brian was tired.   I was determined to get her out of the house as soon as possible. 

Was she actually doing that?   I can’t believe she would do that!  I didn’t notice she had it with her when she came into the house!  She was actually reading to us from the Bible.   I don’t remember how long she had been doing this before it kicked in – my awareness of the words she was actually speaking. “I hate God,” I blurted out.    I looked at Brian and he had a look of shock on his face – to put it mildly.    Brian chastised me with his eyes.      

            Deborah didn’t skip a beat, “That’s OK.   Don’t be afraid to tell God you are angry at Him.  He can handle your anger.   He won’t punish you. He loves you,” Deborah said.   I think secretly I had been afraid to say that out loud for fear that God would punish me.  But wasn’t I already being punished?   Could it get any worse?   The obvious retorts to Deborah’s statement popped into my head – He has some way of showing love and Maybe He could love me a little less. But I didn’t say any of this out loud. 

            Deborah turned the pages of the Bible. She started reading some of the Psalms – the ones where the authors are calling out to God in anger because they are suffering or feel abandoned by God.  I don’t remember the exact Psalms.  I have never been much of a Bible reader – then or now.   The words of those Psalmists struck a chord with Brian and I.   I connected with them and their anger over their suffering and at God.  They knew or had known the depths of despair that Brian and I were experiencing and worse.   As Deborah read, I felt a huge surge of relief and gratitude.   We are not terrible people because we were filled with anger and hatred toward everyone and everything including or especially God.   She read to us for a little while.   Those Psalmists expressed my anger and despair better than I ever could.  They survived their trials. Deborah showed us that it was OK to be angry even at God.   God understood.   He didn’t abandon the psalmists.  He was with them in their darkest hours. 

            Deborah left.  Brian and I looked at each other in amazement and relief. Deborah reached into the depths of our despair and lifted us up.   We were both so desperate – so pushed beyond our limits.   I honestly don’t know what would have happened if she had not come when she did.  When she left she left behind some of the solace and peace she had brought with her.  I felt it when I first met her at the door.   Of course the anger and suffering would go on but it never again reached the depths of despair it had that morning.  As write this I am acutely reminded that I have known the depths of despair.  Words are truly so inadequate to describe it. The blackness surrounds you.   It clings to you like saran wrap.    Eventually there is no air.   You slowly suffocate.   On that day I think we were both close to taking our last breath.  Deborah tore an opening in the wrapping.  You will laugh.  I want to laugh at myself.  I hesitate to say this lest I be labeled a nut case.   I have to say it.   An angel visited us that day and rescued us from the depths of despair.

What If Again!

I have been contemplating a career move for quite some time.  (Who isn’t these days?)  In what I have always thought to be a responsible way of dealing with such a huge change I started envisioning and evaluating the consequences of such a change.    It is good to evaluate the pros and cons.   However because I have recently been working on being more self aware regarding the way I deal with things and the messages I send myself I realized that I only evaluate the cons.  My internal dialogue is peppered with “What Ifs”.  For example:  What if I don’t like the change.  What if I fail at the new venture?  What if I am doing right now what is best for me?  What if……

I have really started to dislike those two words.  For me they seem to be the embodiment of negativity.  I rarely say, What If I am really happy at my new venture or What if I am a huge success.   The words seem to naturally be followed by a negative statement.

As I contemplate this huge change in my life I have decided to banish those two words from my vocabulary and my mind.  When I use them I am lamenting some long past choice that I made and wondering if it was the “right” choice or imaging a negative future. I don’t want to devote my time and energy to either of those ventures.  Traveling down the road of “what if” is a dead end.  Is it the same for you?  

Are We Lost? (Part Two)

Thirty years ago divorce was not what it is today.  Oh I am not talking about the legal system or its ramifications.   That has developed with the changing times.  I am referring to the social attitudes regarding divorce.   Back then, divorce was humiliating and shameful.   You were a failure.  It was all your fault because you didn’t try hard enough blah, blah, blah.   That “social status” of “divorce” meant the woman and her children were treated with veiled contempt.  You were not required, as Hester Prynne was, to have a bright red “A” emblazoned on your chest but the treatment was somewhat similar.    We were outcasts and pariahs.  Irene’s comment, made less than 10 years ago, is a reminder that, in some sections of our society, that attitude still exists.

“Jessica your grades have dropped.  What is going on?”  I asked her.  She was in fourth grade at the time.   She looked at me strangely and shrugged her shoulders.  I could tell I wasn’t going to find out what was going on from Jessica.    I called her teacher and scheduled a conference.     The teacher was kind enough to come to school early to meet me so that I could get to the office on time.  I arrived at school around 7:45 a.m.    The teacher was in the classroom.   We chatted a little bit about Jessica’s school work.   I detected a little hostility but I was awfully tired and stressed out in those days so I thought I was imagining it. 

“Jessica is not doing as well as she did last year or even earlier this year and she doesn’t want to come to school lately.  Is there something going on with the other kids that I should know about?”  I asked.   “No” was the response.   “Do you have any idea what may be causing this change?”   I continued to probe the teacher.  “No,” she responded again.  I asked, “Where does Jessica sit?”    I have no idea why I asked that question.   The teacher pointed out the location of Jessica’s desk.  It was located in the very last row in the far corner of the classroom.  It was the desk that was furthest away from the teacher and the chalkboard.   My facial expression must have reflected my surprise.  Somewhat sheepishly the teacher explained,   “I moved her there a few weeks ago.  “Why is she sitting there if she is having problems?” I asked.  “Shouldn’t she be in the front of the room?”   The teacher had stopped looking at me at this point in the conversation.    I pressed the issue. “Why isn’t Jessica sitting in the front of the classroom?”   I really can’t remember exactly what the teacher said.  I just remember that it made no sense and seemed to be a perfectly ridiculous explanation.  I trusted my instincts, for once, and said in a firm voice,   “I will expect her to be moved to the front of the room right away.”  There was no verbal response although I did receive a brief look of contempt.   “I hope I don’t have to go to the principal about this,” I said as I got up and left.  

Jessica was moved to the front of the room.   She started to enjoy going to school again and her grades improved.  Was I imagining the teacher’s hostility and contempt?  Was I imagining that the poor treatment was a result of my status as a divorced woman?   Maybe.  I tended to doubt myself and my perceptions in those days.  I still do.   Things certainly changed for the better for Jessica after my talk with her teacher.   Maybe by confronting the teacher regarding her treatment of Jessica she realized what she was doing.  Like Irene maybe she just wasn’t aware of what she was doing.  I hope that was the case.

The school Jessica attended was located in a wealthy suburban area which was primarily populated by married couples in traditional households.  Fortunately for us, and unfortunately for them, it encompassed more than just those types of families.   There were other similar incidents after this one.  Eventually I learned to intercede before the situation got really bad or maybe I just stopped giving the teachers the benefit of the doubt.   I am a slow learner. My children say I am bit naive.  Maybe so.    I wish I had learned that lesson sooner.  My children may have been spared some pain and humiliation.   Must everyone who is different pay a price?  Children of divorce may not any longer be considered “different” and subjected to such treatment but others are.

ADDENDUM AND CAVEAT:  I don't feel comfortable expressing myself other than through my stories. However several of my readers have asked repeatedly that I do so.  So I ask that you indulge me as I humbly offer up some of my feelings and opinions.  My life experiences have affirmed to me that we should cultivate an attitude of compassion for everyone. How do we do that? I believe one way is to start living with an attitude of gratitude for all we have and for all that we are.  Gratitude fosters an attitude of compassion because when we are grateful we recognize that we did not or could not achieve all we have or all we are without the help of others.  (For some of us others include God). We didn't do it all by ourselves. We lose the arrogance of entitlement.   I believe, regardless of  your religion or politics or belief system, that an attitude of compassion toward our family, our neighbors, our fellow Americans, our fellow world citizens unites us and evokes a softness in all of us which fosters a sense of caring and harmony. It doesn't solve all the world's problems or even our own personal problems but it is a good place to start.