What If I Had Taken The Roads Not Travelled

Taking a brief respite from blogging. Would welcome your "stories".

2012-02-24T08:55:00.002-08:00

The Silent Killers

2012-02-15T10:33:00.000-08:00

There has been enough “buzz” in our media saturated world that we easily recognize our enemies. Oh I ‘m not referring to the wars we are still involved in. I am referring to enemies of our self esteem and specifically our internal enemies – the ones we create for ourselves. We are armed against the most common internal predators like statements such as “You are not a good wife, mother, employee, spouse, daughter because a good mother doesn’t say that to her child or a good employee does not arrive late for work. We often say these things to ourselves when our behavior doesn’t match our image of what we should be doing or how we should be acting in that role. We recognize that perfection is unattainable and we are on guard when we expect it of ourselves. We can forgive ourselves for not attaining the unattainable. At least I hope we can.

But what about the silent killers of self- esteem? They are not so easily recognized because they do not convey explicit messages of failure. They creep up on us and hide in our psyche. They can envelope us so quickly.

I was relaxing, reading the newspaper the other morning. I couldn’t quite seem to enjoy reading it. I kept interrupting myself with comments like, “you have work to do”, “the dishwasher needs to be unloaded”, and “you have many phone calls to make today”. Eventually I gave in to the voice telling me I should be doing something other than what I was doing and put down the newspaper. Really what’s wrong with taking 15 or 30 minutes to read the newspaper early in the morning while you drink your morning coffee? Intellectually there is nothing wrong with it but subconsciously there are many things wrong with it. You are not doing what you are supposed to be doing which is typically something “productive” like work – housework or other work. You are lazy. You shouldn’t enjoy yourself until all your “work” is done. Is it really ever done?

So let’s guard against the silent killers of self-esteem – the malaise or cloud hanging over us telling us that we are a “bad” person because we are taking some time out of the day to do" nothing" or to do something that isn’t defined as “productive” or to do something that benefits no one but ourselves. It is hard to recognize, I think, because this attitude is so ingrained in us.

Q: What negative messages are you sending yourself daily? Recognizing them, I believe, is the first step toward prevention.

What about God? (Part Four)

2012-02-08T11:08:00.000-08:00

The days and months dragged on. I don’t recall if Deborah (the "angel") ever came back to visit us again. Something changed that day. We still had sleepless nights and we still experienced all the physical manifestations and emotional fallout of the illness. But I no longer felt totally alone, isolated and abandoned. Some days I didn’t even feel so angry. I can’t explain what happened. It is difficult to find words to explain the beginnings of an emotional transformation. How could Deborah’s act of reading a few psalms and telling us it was OK to be angry with God change everything? It just did. Maybe it was because I was reminded that others had suffered and were suffering like we were. Maybe I needed someone to tell me that I was not being punished or singled out. This illness is something that happened for no particular reason. God had provided comfort to the psalmists in their darkest hours. I wondered what that would that look or feel like for me. Would He be there for me as well? Maybe God did exist and maybe he hadn’t abandoned me.

I had no idea then but Deborah’s visit opened the door to looking for and finding something more than misery and despair in this situation. I started to see my experience in terms of something other than my own personal suffering. It was part of something bigger. I don’t mean some kind of a “plan. Many others were suffering and others, like Deborah, understood our despair. Deborah had mirrored God’s love, understanding and support. I wouldn’t understand that until much later. I was reminded that others had suffered greatly and triumphed over it. Maybe we could too. My suffering was not a punishment. I stopped seeing myself as being victimized.

This one dimensional, inert God of my childhood was gone. He was replaced with a, figuratively speaking, breathing, living entity. I could express my inner most feelings to Him. He could even accept my anger and yes hatred toward Him and not turn away from me. He understood my pain. He loved me unconditionally with a steadfast love. How did I know this? I saw it mirrored in Deborah. My rational armor was beginning to crack. I was starting to believe there was a spiritual world –a world that we can’t measure scientifically but that exists nonetheless. My belief would grow and strengthen but for now it was minute. Her words were powerful but not as powerful as her presence. Her presence spoke much more than words ever could. I wish I could say more but words are so inadequate to explain it. It has to be experienced – felt. I can close my eyes and feel that loving presence. I would do that in my darkest hours.

There are very few people like Deborah. She just exuded spirituality. It oozed out of her pores. I was fortunate to have met her. This was brought home to me when some time after Brian died I went to lunch with Deborah. She couldn’t talk of such mundane matters as jobs, children, husbands, etc. Her focus was elsewhere. At first I was sorely disappointed that I couldn’t connect with her on that level. I was angry that she didn’t treat me differently or special because of what I had been through. Then I realized that I connected with her on a much higher or more important level. I see that her love for everyone was the same. Isn’t that how it should be? Her presence was inspiring and calming. Her main focus was beyond the mundane affairs of the day. Isn’t that what a spiritual leader should be? We never went to lunch together again.

Q: Do you have or have you ever had a person or experience that raised you to a different or better understanding of spiritual matters?

IIlegitimate Unhappiness?

2012-02-01T10:09:00.000-08:00

I just feel plain sad these days. Oh there have been a lot of serious changes in my life. I know that a lot of the sadness is just the process of grieving over my losses. That seems to me to be a legitimate type of unhappiness.

But this cloud of sadness has been spreading and morphing into self pity and general unhappiness with my life. I think of it as an emotional temper tantrum. I started to get angry about everything and at everyone. I ended up in a very dark place. I’ve done this before, of course, but I’m tired of it.

Have you ever noticed that most unhappiness stems from wishing things were other than they are? We wish a spouse, partner, child, parent, employer, co-worker, job, house or bank account was something other than what it is. We almost can’t help ourselves when it comes to material things because we are constantly bombarded with advertisements and messages that we need more, bigger and better material things. I think that attitude has spilled over into our relationships, employment and other aspects of our lives. In my opinion wishing things were other than what they are is an illegitimate form of unhappiness.

So I stopped wishing and complaining. I reminded myself that it is good to accept things and people as they are. Oh that doesn’t mean I don’t want some changes to happen in the future. It is a totally present state of mind. I accept everything as it is and I do it gladly. This includes me and where I am in my life.

Funny thing - positive changes happen when I gladly accept things as they are. For starters, I get along better with the people in my life and I am much happier. Imagine that!

Q: Have you experienced an "emotional temper tantrum"? How do you resolve it?

The See Saw of Parenting

2012-01-27T12:20:00.000-08:00

“No. I am sorry but we can’t turn around and go back to get your teddy bear. You were holding it when we got into the car? What happened to it? I will be late for work if we go back”, I said firmly to Gary. He knew there was no changing my mind. He made a few sorrowful sounds and emitted a few sighs but he seemed resigned to going to preschool without his teddy bear for share day.

As we drove to preschool I kept going over in my mind the justification for not returning to the house. I carried on a conversation with myself in my head, “It would take at least an extra 20 minutes to go back to the house and pick up the teddy bear. I had a meeting at work at 7:30 a.m. Traffic would be lighter but still I couldn’t do all of that, drop Gary off at school and make it to the office in time for the meeting. It would be good lesson for Gary to learn.”

“Isn’t there something else you can share? Can you take your share turn tomorrow instead of today?” I asked. Gary was silent. Gary gave me a rather sorrowful and somewhat angry look as I dropped him off at preschool. I raced backed to the car hoping traffic would be light so I would not be late for the meeting.

“You seem a bit frazzled this morning”, one of my co-workers said to me as I raced past her desk on my way to the meeting. “It wasn’t a good morning. Gary was upset that I wouldn’t go back to the house to get his teddy bear. He needed it today for share day”, I replied. “Wow I can’t believe you were so tough on a 3 year old”, she responded. Well, my then cynical self replied, “Life is full of disappointment. He may as well get used to it.” I felt guilty the entire day that I did not go back and get the teddy bear for Gary.

Parenting is a constant balancing act. We struggle to balance love and discipline every day. We struggle to balance the demands of work and parenting. Sometimes we strike the balance and other times we fail miserably. It is a daily challenge. I would remind myself on days that I had failed miserably that I had succeeded on other days and that the most important thing was to let my children know that I love them.

Parenting reminds me of a see saw. One day I feel like I have conquered it all and I’m riding high like I am on the top end of the see saw. The next day I feel like I have failed miserably, I'm depressed and I am at the bottom of the see saw - on the ground. Other days I feel serene like I am balanced on the see saw. It can change daily, hourly and even moment by moment. It is a wild ride.

“I’m sorry I could not go back and get your teddy bear this morning, Gary”, I said to him that evening. “I love you,” I said. Gary came over and gave me a big hug. He has always been a very loving and forgiving person. I’m a lucky Mom.

Q: Do you sometimes feel as if you are on a see saw when it comes to parenting?

Raising Children the Best We Can (Part Four)

2012-01-24T11:18:00.000-08:00

“What do you mean you can’t count money,” I said to Jessica. “It is simple. Here is how you do it,” I impatiently said in a raised voice. A five minute, hostile demonstration ensued after which I left to clean up the kitchen after dinner. Jessica struggled with that issue and others for quite a while. She didn’t ask me again for any help with her homework. Of course my message to Jessica was that she was stupid even though I don’t think I ever said that word.

“If you don’t leave us alone I am going to disappear in the night and you will never ever see the children again!” I told David. I thought for sure he would have given up and gone away by now. It had been over 11 months since I filed for divorce. During those eleven months, David punched and hit me in front of the children. He called me at all hours of the day and night and threatened me with further violence. David regularly threatened to kill me in front of Jessica. I was absolutely desperate. I thought about this for months before I said it to David. I spend a good bit of time thinking about what state I would go to and how I would change my name so he couldn’t find us. It had no effect on David. Maybe he didn’t believe me. Maybe it was just a fantasy but I don’t think so.

“Frank can you please speak to your brother and get him to leave us alone?” I said into the phone. I don’t know how I had the courage to call him but I sensed that Frank would believe me when I told him what was happening. I hadn’t spoken to Frank or anyone in David’s family since a few months before I filed for divorce. Frank was the one and only person David looked up to. Why hadn’t I asked for his help earlier? Was I was embarrassed or ashamed? I wasn’t the one acting like a maniac. Frank was, as usual, gracious and kind. Shortly after that conversation David moved back to his home state.

The court eventually entered an order for child support. David simply ignored the court order. He never paid any child support. I wasn’t surprised and really didn’t much care. All I ever wanted from David was for him to leave us alone. I sensed that if I tried to enforce the child support order David would come back into our lives. The money was not worth it. Years later when I tried to collect some child support that is exactly what happened. I abandoned my claim forever.

“Samuel has been missing on his bike for several hours,” the after school babysitter told me over the phone. He was 5 years old at the time. I left the office in a panic and drove around our neighborhood. I found Samuel riding his bike with some older boys in the desert. This wasn’t the first or last time I would received that phone call

“Mrs. Smith this is Dr. Howard. I am the school psychologist at Remington Elementary School. We tested Samuel in preparation for kindergarten. He has a learning disability and we recommend he be placed in a special education class for a year before matriculating to the regular kindergarten class.” I left the office in tears and drove home.

“M’am this is the police department. We have you son Samuel here at the convenience store. He and some other boys tried to steal some chewing gum.” Samuel was seven years old at the time.

“I quit,” the babysitter told me as soon as I walked in the door. “Samuel is impossible. He doesn’t follow any rules. He is impossible to control. He does what he wants when he wants. He took off on his bike again today and was gone for 3 hours. I was afraid to call you again,” she said in exasperation. I couldn’t argue with her because it was all so true. This was the third sitter that had quit in about 4 months. As if finding them was not difficult enough – keeping them was even harder. I hoped she would agree to stay until I could find someone else.

“Samuel pack a suitcase and get in the car. You have to find someplace else to live,” I said. “Where are you going?” Jessica asked Samuel. “Mom is giving me away, “Samuel replied very matter of factly. After we got in the car I started to drive around our neighborhood. “Samuel you have to find another place to live unless you can agree to follow the rules,” I said sternly. He was about seven years old. “Will you follow the rules?” I asked. Samuel was silent. I stopped the car. This kid is going to call my bluff I remember thinking to myself. He is the most stubborn kid on the planet.

“Get out and go knock on one of these doors and ask if you can live there,” I said. Samuel didn’t move. “Do you want to come home and follow the rules?” I asked hopefully. Again Samuel was silent. He got out of the car and stood at the corner holding his little suitcase. My heart sank. It was getting dark. “Have you changed your mind?” I asked Samuel. He was silent. “OK I am leaving now,” I said. I drove away and around the block. My heart was racing. What was I going to do? I waited what seemed like an eternity and then I drove back to where I had left him. He was standing in the exact same spot on the corner still clutching his little suitcase. I opened the passenger door. “Do you want to come home and follow the rules?” I asked. Samuel nodded his head, “yes”. He got into the car. Samuel’s behavior improved somewhat after that. At least I was able to keep a babysitter for longer than a month or two. It was an abominable thing to do but I was desperate. I couldn’t work unless I had a babysitter. I couldn’t keep a babysitter unless Samuel behaved. Samuel’s refusal to follow even the most basic rules could result in him getting hurt or worse.

Q: Under trying circumstances the balance between discipline and abuse sometimes can be hard to discern. It is easy to look back when life becomes easier and berate yourself but I think perhaps we did the best we could under the circumstances. There are things I did as a parent I am so ashamed of but hopefully I am learning to forgive myself. Have you had similar experiences and feelings?

Marriage and sometimes even a love story (Part Six)

2012-01-12T10:58:00.000-08:00

“You don’t need to do that,” Nancy, Brian’s sister said to the young respiratory technician. She had just placed an oxygen mask over their Father’s mouth to start some treatment. We were all standing in the hospital room around their Father’s bed, Brian, me, Nancy and her husband, Bob. The last year had been a roller coaster of ups and downs regarding his health. Brian was very close to his Father. “He’s dying,” Nancy continued. The poor young girl looked like a fawn that had just looked into the headlights of an oncoming car. She took her machine and slithered out of the room. “How could Nancy know that?” I asked myself.

A moment or so later I heard a gruesome sound. It reminded me of the sound I have heard mortally wounded animals make in TV documentaries. It was emanating from Brian. He was face down on the bed next to his Father’s lifeless body. I wanted to go over and comfort Brian but I couldn’t seem to move. That sound went on for what seemed like an eternity. After a few minutes Brian pulled himself together. He and Nancy went out into the hall where they made arrangements for the body. Our wedding was to take place in less than two weeks but for now we had to plan a funeral.

Brian and I didn’t talk on the ride home from the hospital. I so wanted to comfort him at least one part of me did. I had come into this relationship as a strong, independent single mother of three children who was competing in a very intense business environment. I had just recently learned to be tough. Instinctively I was afraid of getting sucked into the traditional female role. Sadly I thought it would demean me. I did not yet know how to be tough and tender.

I felt terrible for a long time that I had failed Brian because I didn’t hug him or make any overt act to comfort him. Emotions were very scary to me back then. I couldn’t let my guard down. I literally felt paralyzed from reaching out to Brian. If only I had some time and energy to really think about all of this back then! It might have spared Brian and I a lot of agony.

Women instinctively know how to do that stuff except for me or so I thought. I berated myself. I wasn’t a good wife or mother because I lacked that gene. I wondered if I was born that way or whether the demands of the workplace and life eradicated that part of me. I always felt inadequate especially back then so I just added this to my list of inadequacies.

Q: Do you struggle, as I have, with the nature of the role we are supposed to play or the qualities we are supposed to possess as a wife or partner? ( It has certainly evolved and changed dramatically since the 50s and 60s.)

Grief (Part Two)

2012-01-06T10:20:00.000-08:00

I wasn’t in this room at the moment Brian died. But still I was with him at the moment of his death. I was attending the performance of Swan Lake by the Russian ballet. It was my first outing without Brian or the children in several years. I felt so guilty about going that I almost cancelled my plans. It was during the Dance of the Swans that Brian died. Strange how I knew that. As I raised myself up from the floor I felt the same peace I had experienced during that dance. I had been transfixed during that dance. I have never experienced anything like it before or since. It was as if the ballerinas were angels floating up to heaven. My thoughts now turned to the children. I must tell them.

Q: Have you had a similar experience where you sensed something was true or had happened before actually becoming aware of it?

Measure of Success?

2012-01-03T08:39:00.000-08:00

A few of my son’s friends and acquaintances from college dropped by over the holidays – a couple of guys and a lone girl. They were in route to a concert. They stayed only a few minutes but I could see it in her eyes. It gave rise to that sadly familiar feeling that I have been battling since I moved here four years ago. My daughter moved here first. She and her husband were just starting out and they bought a house in a subdivision that is a great location physically but not highly regarded by the inhabitants of this city. When I moved here to be near them I thought how silly to buy a house some 20 or 30 minutes away. When two people are working and lead very busy lives 20 or 30 minutes can be the same as a couple of hours and result in fewer visits. So I bought a house in the same subdivision as my daughter. I am immensely happy with my choice until I let other peoples’ attitudes enter my world. “Where do you live”, I asked my son’s acquaintance, thinking she lived in another city. She proceeded to tell me she lived in one of the most exclusive areas of this city. She tried, unsuccessfully, to hide her feelings of disdain for where we live. Maybe I was imaging it but I don’t think so. She was definitely uncomfortable and maybe a bit contemptuous of where we live. And I am sad to say so am I sometimes.

I so don’t want to measure success by how much money I earn, where I live, the vacations I take, how busy I am, how much I accomplish in any given day, the clothes I wear and on and on. I battle those demons quite well for certain periods of time. But inexorably I get drawn back to that material measure of success. I am so disappointed in myself when I feel embarrassed by where I live and the choices I have made. I worry that my son notices both his friend’s and my attitudes.

You see, I strive to measure my success(if it needs measuring at all) by the quality of my relationships and connections to my family, friends and the community, by the time I spend doing for others and by my conduct that I hope reflects my spiritual beliefs. Why is that so difficult to do? The obvious answer is that we live in a materialistic world where you are valued and judged by the money you earn, the size of your bank account, your network of business connections, where you live, the car you drive and on and on. A definitive measuring stick is already in place vis a vis these icons of success. In contrast, the “successes” I strive for are rather intangible, difficult to measure and certainly are not highly valued or regarded in the world we inhabit.

My four children and I moved to this city together some four years ago. We live in the same neighborhood. We see each other at least weekly but usually much more often. I passed up several lucrative job opportunities to pursue what I wanted to do and how I wanted to live. When I tell acquaintances all or some of this they look at me askance. My sense is that they think I am strange or weird. I definitely feel like an outsider in mainstream America.

I am disappointed in myself when I allow this young girl’s looks of derision to take me down the path of regret for the choices I have made and the life I lead. I chastised myself for a time for not being more mainstream. Then I revisited the huge positives in my life and the regrets were dispelled.

I am waiting for and working toward the day when I am totally comfortable with the way I measure success. I am making progress. This time I was able to excoriate the feeling of failure much more quickly than in the past. It would be great if the world would set a different standard of success but, sadly, I am not waiting for that to happen. I seem to be out of step with the world a good bit and that can be a lonely feeling. Still I will continue on with my chosen life path recognizing that one of my faults is that I look too much for validation from others. I’m working on that too!

Q: How do you measure success? Does your life really reflect what you value and how you measure success?

Holidays

2011-12-22T20:55:00.000-08:00

I will be taking the next few weeks off and will be back at it in 2012. I hope during this time you will look over some of the "old posts" you have not yet had an opportunity to read. Happy Holidays to all of you. Lillian Hunter

Gift Receiving?

2011-12-16T09:41:00.000-08:00

My friend was sick with the flu and a back injury. We typically walk our dogs together on Fridays and she had been unable to do that for more than a month. I tried to send her some flowers but that darn internet made it impossible to find a local florist. So I stopped by a local market that has wonderful flowers. I had an arrangement prepared and I delivered it myself. She wasn’t home but her husband was. I dropped off the flowers with him and left as he was also sick. Then it happened. Dead silence. Stupid things were going through my head like maybe she didn’t notice them or maybe her husband forgot to tell her they were from me.

It amazes me in this day and age of easy and instant communication how we fail or refuse to communicate. I never received a text, email or phone call from my friend acknowledging the flowers and/or thanking me for them. I happened to run into her a few weeks later and she, looking a bit chagrined, told me she hadn’t texted me (no reason why) but she thanked me for the flowers. It seemed almost like an afterthought. If I hadn’t run into her would she have ever said, “thank you”.

Well you might be saying that the giver should not expect anything in return as a true gift is given freely and without expectation. I agree but I don’t think that extends to a simple thank you.

My feelings were hurt and I wondered as to her character or lack thereof. For me there is no substitute for an immediate and heartfelt,”thank you". That may be the best gift of all because it says I acknowledge you and I appreciate you and all you do for me. The words are so simple but the meaning is so powerful. .” So in these days when we are frantically preparing to give gifts to our family and friends, let’s not forget to say, “thank you” when we receive something. It means so much. It strengthens our relationships while its absence weakens them.

Grief

2011-12-13T10:10:00.000-08:00

I ran into the room half expecting that it wasn’t true. The room was exactly as I had left it an hour or so earlier. Brian was resting peacefully on the bed. I had known for three years this day would come. It was inevitable. I ran up to him and put my hand on his arm. I let out a low, muffled cry. His arm felt like a stone on a cold winters’ night. I felt my body shudder. I remember being amazed that life could depart so quickly. I couldn’t move. I stood staring at him. It felt as if the life had gone out of both of us in that room. I don’t know how long I stood there motionless. I fell to my knees. I heard this horrible loud sound. It sounded like a wailing from some primitive creature in pain. I looked around the room. I was alone. It was coming from me! Life had returned to me with explosive force. I wailed rocking back and forth on my knees.

Q: Have you experienced grief , over an event in your life, that literally knocks you to the ground? For me these events tend to surface around the holidays. How about you? I find that acknowledging these feelings helps me move past them. What works for you?

Loneliness (Part Four)

2011-12-08T07:38:00.000-08:00

An envelope arrived in the mail the other day – just before I left on my business trip. It had a return address indicating it was mailed from my hometown. I anxiously ripped it open. Funny but I still get excited regarding news about my hometown even though I haven’t lived there in 30 years. I guess for my generation that connection runs deep. I am sad and relieved that my children will never have that connection. I opened it to find an obituary. On top of the obituary was a handwritten note. It was from a friend of my parents. She was a neighbor of ours and had been their friend since I was about five years old. My siblings and I had grown up with her three sons. I always think of her with such fondness. Just seeing the note from her brings back good memories of spending time with her family.

“Thought you might be interested in this. I know you babysat for her for many years,” she said in the note. I knew from my Mother that my friend had been battling cancer for a number of years. It had been in remission for a quite a while but apparently it had recently returned with a vengeance. She was only 61 years old. We had a deep connection when I was in high school. After I moved away, I would visit her when I came home to visit my parents. She always seemed glad to see me. But our visits had definitely tapered off over the years. I would contact her but she rarely had the time to see me. I was hurt that she didn’t want to get together. She had been someone I could confide in as a teenager and young adult. We seemed to understand each other even though we were from totally different worlds. Those talks helped me escape the provincial attitudes of the city in which I grew up.

Why didn’t we maintain that connection? I wanted to stay connected. Do friendships have limited life spans? Do I just care more about other people than they care about me? Do I value friendships more than other people do? Am I wrong or weird for feeling that way? Am I the only one who feels so intensely lonely in 21^st century America? These aren’t new feelings for me. I have felt lonely and alienated since I was a child.

I often wonder if our ability to connect is damaged early on in our life whether we can ever completely heal from that injury. I was driven by fear to seek and also to run away from relationships. Fear has been my constant companion since childhood. Anxiety may be a more accurate term but for me the feeling is definitely one of fear. When I was young I would sabotage close friendships when I revealed too much of myself to the other person. Was I was afraid they would reject me so I rushed to do it first?

Q: How would you rate your ability to connect - form deep and lasting connections- to "friends." If you want deeper connections what do you think is interfering with your ability to do that?

Are We Lost? (Part Four) ( or Do we live in a compassionless world?)

2011-12-05T08:48:00.000-08:00

It was another one of those (typical) days – long, lonely, painful, exhausting. No more visits from the “angel”, Deborah, or anyone else for that matter, except Nancy, Brian's sister, and her husband. The phone was silent. The doorbell didn’t ring. I didn’t have the strength to initiate anything. And if I did what was I going to say or talk about. “Hey good morning. This morning I took Brian to the bathroom. I wiped his butt. I showered him. I fed him. I put him in his chair to watch TV. I am tired because I was up all night turning Brian in bed, taking him to the bathroom or rearranging his limbs for him. So what have you been doing today?” I said to myself. I guess I could have faked something but I didn’t have the energy for that. My salvation was my time away with Gary at his activities and my visits with Nancy. That was if I could leave Brian with someone for a little while.

Before he was sick Brian was always busy with social and business functions and sporting events. He had two or three such events every week. We went to dinner. We attended weddings. We attended anniversary parties. We went on trips together. We visited people in their homes and they came to our home. Brian counted himself rich in friends. I never knew so many people before I married Brian. Brian thrived on this type of life. I would have preferred to have a little less social life.

After Brian was diagnosed with Lou Gehrig’s disease, he continued to go to the office everyday and our social life continued as before. There was an outpouring of sympathy and support that was unimaginable. I was touched and a little overwhelmed by it. As the disease progressed and Brian wasn’t able to get to the office or leave the house, his friends would call and come by. Brian’s condition worsened. His body further deteriorated.

“Hey how is he? I’m going to come over and visit tomorrow around 10. Is that OK?” one of Brian’s friends called to say. “Great. Brian will be very happy to see you and have some company,” I responded. Brian was waiting anxiously the next day for his visit. It was 11 and the friend had not arrived yet. I tried to call him but I couldn’t reach him. This friend didn’t come the following day either. He didn’t call to cancel or explain why he didn’t come. “Hey Brian he probably got busy and forgot,” I said. “Do you want me to call him again?” I asked. Brian was silent. I think he already knew.

I did call Brian’s friend a few days later. We chatted about his life and then I asked, “Did you forget about your visit to the house the other day?” There were some excuses and evasions. “What is really going on?” I asked. I didn’t want to promise Brian a visit on another day only to have him be disappointed again. I pressed the issue. The friend finally confessed, “I can’t handle seeing Brian like that. It depresses me. I can’t understand him when he talks. I don’t know what to say to him.” Other people said the same thing to me during the last part of the illness. I wanted to tell all of them, “This is not about you or how you feel. This is about Brian. He is sick, dying, scared and he needs some support and company.” But I was silent.

I judged and chastised these “friends” even if only in my mind. Maybe I should have said those things. Maybe if I had they would have come to visit Brian. Maybe they just sensed my hostility and that kept them away. I so wanted Brian to have visitors! Oh later I understood that seeing Brian reminded them of their own mortality and they did not want to be reminded of that. Still somehow I wished they could have put their own feelings aside for Brian’s sake. I didn’t say anything to Brian about my conversation with his friend. .

In those days I would still call “friends” to ask them to visit. They said, each in their own way, that same thing. I stopped calling. Brian knew that his was not a pretty disease and that his emaciated and distorted body was not a welcome sight. He was confronted with his own mortality each and every day. The lack of visitors only drove that point home. Brian stopped asking me to call “friends.” He accepted they were not going to visit him anymore. It took me a little longer to accept. Maybe I never did. There was little or no relief from the drudgery and monotony of each day. Nancy, the “kook” and her husband were the only visitors. And once a week the hospice nurse came. The doorbell was silent. The phone didn’t ring.

Q: What do we say or do for someone we know who is suffering or going through a difficult situation? Are there any magic words? How do we show them we care and are there to support them? Being present on the phone, via email or in person may be a good place to start. Words can be comforting but is there anything better than a hug or a touch of the hand to say you care? What do you think? How have you handled such situations? Would you do anything different now?

Holidays are too much work!

2011-11-28T12:28:00.000-08:00

“Oh my gosh! Janine run and get a small dish and fill it with hot water and laundry detergent! Hurry!” my Grandmother anxiously said to my Mother. My Grandmother was holding up a portion of the tablecloth and dabbing it with her napkin that she had just dipped into her glass of ice water. Everyone was suddenly silent, staring at my Grandmother and the guilty party, me. You see I had dropped some gravy on the tablecloth. But this wasn’t just any tablecloth. This is one my Grandmother had patiently and lovingly cross stitched for over a year. My Mother arrived back with the small bowl filled with some magic stain remover. My Grandmother placed it under the spot on the tablecloth and still showing some anxiety she sat down. We all breathed a sigh of relief and I hoped that this secret formula could remove the stain from the beautiful tablecloth. I kept looking anxiously in the direction of the stain throughout the meal to see if it was actually disappearing.

My Grandmother would spend weeks preparing for the holidays. I can remember hearing her and my Mother discussing what food they would serve, where they would buy it and how they would prepare it. My grandmother would clean the house and spend hours setting the table for the holiday meal. The table was set with all her best china and crystal. There were candles on the table that we would light during the meal. All the silver was polished and gleaming. All the large platters and serving dishes would be taken down from the top shelves where they had spent the last year. It was a feast!

All this preparation and anticipation created great excitement on the part of the family. We understood these were special occasions. We would all don our Sunday best clothes, behavior and manners. We had great respect for my Grandmother and all the work and love she put into planning and preparing for the holidays. At Christmas time she would spend hours cutting little candies up into pieces which she would use to create holly and other Christmas symbols to place on top of the small tea cookies she had baked. I can see her now in her kitchen bent over the counter concentrating on those cookies. I couldn’t understand how she could spend so much time on something that someone was just going to eat in a few days but that didn’t matter to her. It really was a labor of love and it was part of what she believed defined her as a good wife and mother. Who am I to judge that?

It seems each holiday I reminisce about the past holidays and revisit memories of my Grandmother and her house that smelled of gingerbread and evergreens. Oh it wasn’t all good times but I find the happy memories come to mind much more often than the unhappy ones.

My Grandmother has been gone for quite some time now. As I reminisce about her I wonder what my children will reminisce about in the years to come. I have not had the time or energy or maybe even desire to do what my Grandmother did to make the holidays special. For a while I let that keep me from doing anything. I was overwhelmed by the thought that I would have to do all that stuff and I knew I couldn’t. Still I instinctively knew that I needed to do something to celebrate the holidays and make them special. When my children were very young, as a single parent, I was totally exhausted with just doing the regular daily stuff of living. Somehow I forced myself to engage in certain holiday activities that we repeated each year. Sometimes it was as simple as attending an annual Christmas tree lighting. It was a way of saying the holiday was special but more importantly it was a way to take time out of a hectic schedule to “tell” my children they were special and important. I came to realize, later, that these annual traditions created shared memories and activities that forged a bond between us – helped to shape us into a family.

Even now I find I want to give up on some of our traditions as they are too much work or take too much time. Life continues to be ever busy and filled with activities that take up so much time. I keep thinking we will go out to eat for Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner or I won’t decorate the house or tree this year or I’ll just give money as Christmas gifts. But then I muster the energy and desire and I remember, as we are all standing around the kitchen as I cook and sitting around the beautifully decorated table that these activities bring us together physically and emotionally. As we eat we reminisce about past holidays and meals and the good times we had back then. We also tend to remember and focus on the good rather than the bad – maybe holiday traditions help us do that.

My children are now young adults and they understand the work and effort all of this takes. But if I hadn’t taken the time or made the effort when they were too young or too rebellious to appreciate it or understand the work and sacrifice it takes to “have” a holiday I wouldn’t be reaping the benefits now. As it was with my Grandmother, this is a labor of love – sometimes appreciated and sometimes not – but always a gift of love to my family. Perhaps that is the best tradition of all that I can pass onto my children – that they are special and loved and we are a family. The holiday traditions we create are a wonderful way to say that.

Q: What are your holiday traditions? What message do they convey to your loved ones?

Marriage and sometimes even a love story (Part Five)

2011-11-17T12:56:00.000-08:00

Brian had pursued me vigorously. I had been pursued before. That is not to say that I am so great. It is only that I am part of the generation where men pursued us and the women protested or played hard to get. In this case I wasn’t playing hard to get. I really didn’t want another relationship at least not with Brian. After my experiences with David I was not the least bit interested in having another relationship. Brian and I ended up getting married. But this time I spent a number of years getting to know Brian before we decided to get married.

“It is your husband on the phone,” the receptionist at my office said over the intercom. I picked up the phone. “My Dad is back in the hospital. It doesn’t look good. Can you come to the hospital right now?” Brian asked. I went to the hospital. I called the sitter from there, “Can you stay late today? I will be at the hospital until visiting hours about 8 pm.” “OK,” she said. “Let me talk to the children, “I said. I talked about how their day went. I reviewed whether homework was done and preparations made for the next day. I kissed them all good night over the phone of course. I went back to the vigil by the bedside.

The bedside vigil went on for at least two weeks. It was grueling. Brian and I had been back and forth to the hospital almost every day. During the course of those two weeks, I had received multiple urgent messages at the office advising me to come as soon as possible as the end was imminent. This all took place just a month before our wedding. In that same month I sold my house and moved out. The children and I had moved into Brian’s house. Brian and I were making the final preparations for the wedding. I moved out of Brian’s house when we had a huge blowout and we called the wedding off I was in court everyday as lead counsel in a huge trial that was expected to last at least 6 weeks. Brian and I were both physically and emotionally exhausted.

“Get your stuff together right now. We are leaving!” I shouted as I opened each of the doors to my children’s respective bedrooms. They didn’t question me. While they gathered up their stuff I gathered up some of my clothing. We threw our stuff into the minivan and we drove to a hotel where we would spend the first of several nights. I drove the children to school the next morning and then I went to court. In a few days we would move into a rental house. As I pulled away from Brian’s house that night I looked in the rear view mirror. I saw Brian standing at the front door. He was still very angry but also incredulous.

I remember it so clearly. Brian and I were sitting on the couch in the TV room of the first house we lived in together. The children were in their bedrooms getting ready for bed. I have no recollection of what was said. Brian and I exchanged angry words. I decided I couldn’t marry him. I decided to leave. I had no idea, at that time, what drove me to do that. I am sure I convinced myself it was something Brian said or did. As I look back on it I think I was driven by fear. I wanted the security and comfort of marriage but I was afraid of what that would mean to my independence and identity. Brian had very traditional ideas about marriage. What price would I have to pay to be married? A huge conflict was raging in me. It drove me to leave Brian’s house that night. I was so selfish I didn’t even think about the price my children would pay for my erratic behavior.

QUERY: Sometimes our emotions are so strong, especially fear, that we forget to consider the consequences to ourselves and others. Have you ever had such an experience? Have you figured out a way to deal with those powerful feelings before you cause alot of emotional damage?

Switching Gears

2011-11-16T09:55:00.000-08:00

I was driving down the freeway with my windows open. I was on my way home from the office. I was in one of those old station wagons which thankfully they don’t make anymore – at least I don’t think they do. We were stopped in some gridlock for a time. That was all pretty normal. I noticed the drivers of the cars stopped on either side of me were scowling at me. You see I had my radio blasting – pre IPod days- and I was singing – off key as I have no musical talents – at the top of my lungs and I was moving to the music – again without any rhythm. (My beloved sister is always quick to point out my lack of rhythm and often asks me not to dance). She wasn’t with me at the time so I was free to “express myself”. I felt a bit chagrined when I noticed the drivers staring at me with a look of disgust but I refused to yield to their disgust. This was my transition time and my only “free” time in a typical day. It had taken me quite a while to figure out that this worked but it did so I continued on.

Being a litigation attorney can be a very tough way to make a living. Oh I am not complaining. I chose it – or at least as I did as much as I “chose” things when I was young. I also don’t mean to denigrate other professions or lines of work as not being as competitive or tough. I, however, can only speak about what I know and what I know is working in the legal field as a litigation attorney.

Let’s face it. I think no matter what you do for a living there is an element of competitiveness and combativeness to it. That may be especially true in these difficult economic times. We sometimes feel like we are fighting for economic survival and that can bring out parts of our personality we really don’t like or at least want to encourage. At least it does for me. That is especially true for me when I started working as a litigation attorney. That was Ok because I needed them, on some level, to survive and thrive in that field. (As I matured I learned to temper and control them better but that is not the subject of this short essay).

The biggest problem arose in dealing with my dual roles as mother and litigator. (We will leave the impact of my role as wife to a later date). The role of mother, in my humble opinion, requires an element of vulnerability, compassion, loving, nurturing, understanding, humility, patience and much, much more. It certainly does not require one to be combative or competitive. So I had these two persons living inside of me and they tended to overlap at good bit especially at home. That darn competitor and combatant would not disappear the minute I walked through the front door of my house. Often it was because I was still stewing about something that happened during the work day. I didn’t want to be that person at home.

I discovered, quite by accident, that I could transform myself from a combative, competitive lawyer to a mother. I did this by listening to the radio and singing along at the top of my lungs as I drove home from the office. The more I did this the easier and better the transition from lawyer to mother became. I had struck gold! So scowl away other drivers!

QUERY: Are you working in a combative and/or competitive environment? Do you often arrive home in a hostile or angry mood? What do you do to transition from “business person” to “family or relationship person”? Does making a conscious effort to transform yourself help bring more harmony to your home life? If you aren’t doing something now do you want to and if so, what can you do?

Raising Children the Best We Can (Part Three)

2011-11-10T09:01:00.000-08:00

“How could you have lost your glasses?” I screamed at 5 year old Samuel. “I can’t afford to buy you another pair right now!” I shrieked. I carried on like this for a while longer. I was definitely ranting and raving. Every extra expenditure was a crisis in those days and I often took that and my other stresses and frustrations out on my children. In fact everything was a crisis in those days. I was exhausted all the time. I was overwhelmed by the demands of daily living. Work was stressful. The divorce was dragging through the courts. I was receiving threats and being harassed by the children’s father. The children were acting out and not doing well at school. The house was a mess all the time. The laundry was always piled high. We lived paycheck to paycheck. I would rush home from the office, cook dinner, and help a little with homework, get the younger two bathed and in bed, wash the dinner dishes and fall into bed exhausted hopefully by 9:30 pm. Then I would start everything over again the next day at 6:30 a.m. On the weekends we went to the grocery where some weeks we had only $25.00 for groceries. I was able to take the children on one fun outing each week. We usually went to a park or other free venue to try to have some fun. This is the environment in which my children spent their early, formative years.

During the demise of my first marriage, I couldn’t wait to get out of the office at lunchtime so I could go for a drive. I would race to my car and drive into a quiet residential neighborhood not far from the office. I would park my car, put my head down on the steering wheel of the car and sob for my entire one hour lunch break. I would clean my face up or so I hoped and go back to the office. Thankfully the people at the office were gracious enough not to ask me what had happened. I think they instinctively knew I couldn’t handle their questions.

QUERY: Have you made similar mistakes? Do you berate yourself for them? Do you carry around alot of guilt like I did and sometimes still do? Is it better to forgive ourselves and to devote our energy to finding better ways to handle things? Have you ever apologized to your children for your bad behavior? Did that improve your relationship with your child and/or relieve some of the guilt? What works for you as a parent to deal with your parenting mistakes?

Successful Women?

2011-11-08T08:09:00.000-08:00

I picked it up and looked at it. I wanted to put it back down but I didn’t. I dread reading them but I seem drawn to them like a moth to a flame. Whether it is that type of article in Austin Woman or the sections of the New York Times or Austin American Statesman where they have interviews or identify persons who have been “promoted” in the business world, the articles evoke unpleasant emotions for me. I am referring to articles about successful women.

You know you’ve read them. They go something like this: “Nancy Smith was recently promoted to Head of Marketing in this multinational corporation. These articles are followed with a glowing biography or glorified resume chocked full of amazing credentials. There is a photo and then an interview or announcement or both. Nancy says something like, ““I started out as a file clerk and now I am President of this large corporation.”

I would like to say I celebrate the success of these women but if I am honest I don’t. Mostly I just feel inadequate. I compare where I am in my career with where they are in theirs and I definitely have failed. Why do I let others’ success make me feel inferior? Some of it is cultural I think. We are bombarded with stories of “success” and we glorify the materially successful. They get the accolades and respect in the news and community.

Sometimes I convince myself that they have made sacrifices I wouldn’t make. I wouldn’t want to work all those hours I say. But putting aside the standard excuses why I didn’t achieve that level of success, how do I come to terms with where I am now? I don’t really think I am less smart or less energetic. I maybe –no I am definitely- less ambitious. I’d love the money and prestige but I wouldn’t want to do the work it takes to get there or to maintain that standing. It takes a lot of intense energy and sacrifice to accomplish and maintain all of that, I think.

I know that, without consciously doing it, I set professional goals for myself when I was young. Being more conscious of my choices would have helped me to be more satisfied with where I am now. (If I were a younger woman in a career I would make that a priority.) I saw my career as a way to support my family – nothing more. And as I look back I can say that I accomplished exactly what I set out to do – nothing more, nothing less. So perhaps I should have been more careful in setting my goals or revisited my goals as time went on. I didn’t. I stuck to my original goal and now I am unhappy that I achieved what I set out to do. Along the way I missed out on more professional opportunities. I didn’t make them a priority. Part of it may be my generation. It was OK for us women to work outside the home to support a family but nothing more.

I am never going to achieve those heights in the business world or maybe anywhere and I will work on coming to terms with that fact. I’ll let you know how that goes. In the meantime I am going to celebrate the success of others. That is a good place to start, I think. I am going to set some new goals in this field or maybe another. I am also going to celebrate my own “successes” even though they look very different from the successes of the women in the magazines and newspapers. Sounds trite but I really believe it comes down to your individual definition of “success.” To be sure, there will be more to follow on this subject.

QUERY: Do you compare yourself to every successful women you read about? Do you denigrate the successful woman's accomplishments in order to make yourself feel better about where you are in your career? Does doing that really make you feel better about where you are? What are some positive ways you could foster acceptance and enjoyment regarding where you are right now? How do you define "success"?

Post Halloween Dilemma - Kids and candy UGH!

2011-11-01T13:57:00.000-07:00

“Can I have some of my Halloween candy for dessert?” Samuel asked after we had finished dinner. I froze. Before I could respond he and his younger sister, Ellen, had both gone to their bedrooms to fetch their candy.

“YOU STOLE MY CANDY!” my son screamed as he came racing out of his room. I heard the angry voice and footsteps before I saw him. He was about 7 years old at the time. “Yeah YOU STOLE MINE TOO”, Ellen added.

"Oh Lord”, I said under my breath. By this time both my son and daughter were standing right in front of me with a look of disgust and rage on their faces. My daughter had her hand on her hip like she does when she is angry. My son was holding the pillowcase, which was his bag of candy, in front of my face. “This pillowcase was ¾ full last night and now it is only about ¼ full”, Samuel shouted.

“Oh my gosh Mom”, my daughter Ellen said. “I remember that so well!” We both started laughing hysterically. My daughter, Ellen, and I were reminiscing about past Halloweens. We both remember it well because it was repeated for a few years even though more than 20 years had passed since then. It is funny now but it wasn’t back then.

Funny how your children can accuse you of doing things in ways that no one else can or maybe I should say they can strike a nerve like no one else can. Perhaps it is the hypocrite factor that makes the difference.

“I don’t know what you are talking about and please do not speak to me like that”, I shouted back to Samuel and Ellen. “Let me see the pillowcases”, I said. (They had taken to using pillowcases to carry candy as it held more and was easier to carry around.) I looked inside each of the two pillowcases. “The candy just settled like cereal and other things do in boxes after they are in there for a while”, I said trying to be calm and dignified. But I knew the guilt was written all over my face. I was busted by my two kids.

“Mom you’re lying”, Samuel said with disgust. He threw the pillowcase on the ground and stormed back to his room. Ellen followed him. Samuel never ate any more of his Halloween candy.

As Ellen and I laughed I realized what a coward I was at that time. Even though it is a very funny story in retrospect, it aptly illustrates my lack of parenting skills at that time in my life. You see my children, especially Samuel, would eat candy until he got sick. I took the candy away so he wouldn’t eat so much of it and yes I ate a few pieces myself – maybe more than a few. That part is OK but I lied to him about it rather than face a confrontation with Samuel. Samuel was the king of temper tantrums. They could last days. I should have just been honest. Trying to avoid the conflict only made matters worse. It took me many years before I had the courage to be and learned to be honest with my children.

Honesty, appropriate for the age, really is the best policy as I learned. I would have to put up with a temper tantrum but then it would be over. I didn’t have to be a hypocrite in the eyes of my children by preaching honesty and then acting dishonestly. That course of action had far more lasting effects as they learned not to trust or respect me. I have apologized for this and many, many other parenting deficiencies. We can laugh about most of them now as Ellen and I did with our post Halloween trauma. But, before we could do that, I had to “fess up” to my own mistakes and lies. That wasn’t an easy thing to do at least in the beginning. It was one of the most important things I did. By admitting my own mistakes, it freed my children to admit their own faults and mistakes to me. The honesty has helped us to form good and strong relationships.

QUERY: Have you made mistakes or are there times when you have not acted in conformity with how you tell your children to act? Is now the right time to “confess” that to your children?

Marriage and sometimes even a love story (Part Four)

2011-11-01T09:03:00.000-07:00

“I like you a lot,” one of the regular customers at the health food store where I worked in high school said to me one day. I didn’t know quite what to say. Richard had graduated from an Ivy League school and was working in my hometown. He seemed much too old at the time – 5 years older than I. I really can’t recall how it was that we starting dating. Over the next four years we spent a lot of time together. We broke up after he moved away. He came by my parents’ house several years later to hear from my Sister that I was married and having a baby. I only appreciate now, almost 30 years later, what a great guy he was. You see I wanted to fall in love like Jennifer Jones and William Holden did in “Love is a Many Splendored Thing.” I wanted some adventure or something different from my middle class upbringing. As to the latter, I got my wish!

I wasn’t “in love” with Richard as I understood that phrase with all of my 19 year old wisdom. I didn’t have that burning feeling in the pit of my stomach that told me he was the right person for me. When he wasn’t around I didn’t feel agitated and anxious like something was missing. I had that feeling for David so I had to be “in love”.

Why am I lately so filled with regrets over lost loves? Have I really missed opportunities for love or am I just experiencing some middle age pangs of regret for my youthful choices? It is one of the principal ironies of life that we make the most important decisions of our life when we have absolutely no idea what we are doing – like choosing a spouse and a career. I found myself continually daydreaming along the lines of”What if?” What if I had married Richard was a question that was haunting me.

Do I really believe that certain relationships are meant to be or conversely not be? Do I believe in fate? Did I make the right decision or a grievous mistake? It was so long ago who really cares and why does it matter? As I passed the halfway point in my life I seem haunted by a need to find answers to those questions or somehow to put the inquiries to rest- permanently. That question was pressing in on me as I had just ended another marriage – my third. How did I end up here I wondered. I have experienced so much adversity and my life has been such a struggle. How do I make sense of it all? Sifting through my past relationships seemed like as good a starting point as any.

QUERY: Can you recall an early love? Is there a lesson or any wisdom to be gleaned from looking back over that first love? Have we glorified it in our mind to an unhealthy level? Is it interfering with our satisfaction in our present relationship?

Loneliness (Part Three)

2011-10-26T13:44:00.000-07:00

I spent three days in that desert town on this business trip. So much had changed sometimes it was easy to forget where I was. At times I was overcome by a constant barrage of “what ifs”. What if ……??? How different would my life have been if I hadn’t married Brian? I would probably still live here. I wouldn’t have those memories that drove me away.

What happened to the connections I thought I had forged there? When I moved there I thought I would put down roots and that this would be my new “hometown”. For a time it seemed like that had happened and then with the death of Brian it all abruptly ended. Perhaps our connections to places are only as good as our connections to the people who live there. The connections to our memories, our personal history and the culture and identity of the place can evaporate slowly or they can quickly dissolve as they did with me.

Perhaps connections with people are best left untested by the trials of life. If Brian had not gotten sick I am sure I would be visiting and reminiscing with Eloise on that business trip. Perhaps I am just too hard and unforgiving when it comes to others. Maybe I should have spoken to Eloise in the restaurant that day. I couldn’t at that time. The wound was much too raw. Maybe Eloise would have told me why she acted like she did – why she stopped being my friend when I needed her friendship the most. Would any explanation have been able to change us back from strangers to friends again?

I have come to understand, although it has taken much time, that there are many different types of friendships. A therapist once told me I had an adolescent notion of friendship because I expected too much from people. In retrospect I think she was right. As we mature we have so many competing demands for our time – careers, spouses, and children that there is much less energy and time for friendships. Could I have relegated Eloise to a casual friend? I have learned to enjoy casual friendships but I don’t think I could accept a casual friendship from someone who was once so close to me. I think it is OK to expect close friends to be there during the crises in life if not physically at least with some emotional support. No it was better not to talk to Eloise in the restaurant that day. There was nothing to gain. As it is now I have good memories of our close friendship. It is better left that way. I don’t need to travel down the road of “what if” I had rekindled my friendship with Eloise. This trip to the desert has made it possible for me to stop making that journey. That is a relief!

Unfortunately everyone acted like Eloise during the time Brian was ill and dying. I lost all my friends. Everyone abandoned us. I was bitter about that for many, many years. I made no effort to form any close friendships. Should I trust again? We have no idea how our friends, spouse or children will act in difficult times. We have to have faith they will rise to the occasion and support us. Everything in life is a risk especially relationships. I can’t hide from that forever. I was too lonely. I was going to have to trust again.

I hoped to make better choices in friends this time around or maybe just to lower - maybe that is too harsh a word - change my expectations for others and for myself. Still I am haunted by the question whether it is asking too much of friends to show compassion and stick by you in difficult times?
QUERY: Have we lost the ability to forge those type of connections? ( I hope not.) Is it something that can only be formed when we are young or is it possible to find or develop those connections later in life? Did I simply chose wrongly when it comes to friends? Did I expect too much of them? Is what I see as the loss of "community" in our modern world a death knell for the close bonds of friendship? How do we forge such close and enduring connections? I do know that, as with any relationship, it takes time and commitment. Are we willing to make the effort and take the time to forge such friendships? Does our busy modern life prevent us from having the time and personal interaction needed to form such close bonds? Maybe this just isn't a priority for us anymore. Do you have close and deep friendships in your life? If not do you want them? I know I do. Are you the type of person who sticks by her friends through very difficult times?

Raising Children the Best We Can (Part Two)

2011-10-18T14:03:00.000-07:00

“Hello,” I would shout as I came in the door after arriving home about 6:30 or 7:00 pm. from work. Usually the three children were at the front door to greet me and they would be jostling each other to try to get my attention. “Mom I need help with my homework,” Jessica would say. “Mom Samuel hit me,” Ellen would complain. “Mom the sitter was mean to me today,” Samuel would say woefully. They would all end up shouting at me as each of them tried to get my attention. I would squeeze past them giving each a perfunctory hello and a hug before I rushed to the kitchen to prepare dinner. I know they each wanted some one on one time with me but it would have to wait until after dinner. They were all overwrought with hunger by the time I arrived home. All three of them would continue to talk to me at the same time as I prepared dinner. I would try to get them to take turns but it was pretty impossible.

Sometimes I could find a sitter who was affordable, reliable and cooked dinner but that was the exception. Sitters came and went on a regular basis. I couldn’t afford daycare for three children. My children were not the easiest to take care of. Samuel and Ellen weren’t keen on following rules.

“Mom, Ellen is crying again,” Jessica told me. It wasn’t like I didn’t know. I had just walked in the door from the office. It was about 6:30 pm. I saw Ellen sitting in the hallway that connected the main part of the small house to the bedrooms. She was hugging her stuffed animal and sobbing. I stroked her head and said, “I love you. Everything will be OK. Come have some dinner now.” Ellen continued to cry for the rest of the evening. I finally coaxed her into my bed about 8:30 p.m. She was exhausted. This same scene was replayed every night for months. As soon as I walked through the door she would start to cry. I was desperate to get her to stop. I know I was not always patient and kind when she cried. I was overwhelmed at that time in my life to put it mildly. I wanted some peace and quiet in the evenings. At the time I had no idea why she was crying. As I look back on it I think it was her way of grieving over the divorce and the loss of her father. For Ellen that was a significant loss. But I didn't have any clue about all of that at the time this was going on.
One night I sat down next to Ellen in the hallway and pretended to cry. The funny thing is that real tears came down my cheeks. We cried together for several nights. After that Ellen just stopped sitting in the hallway and crying. If only I had thought to do that sooner!
In all our effort to manage the day to day "necessities" of life sometimes we forget to or simply don't have the energy to make time for the emotional needs of our children. This was Ellen's way of getting my attention. How many times did I ignore her pleas for attention and maybe help? I tried not to berate myself too much for my failures and instead vowed to do a better job in the future. Somehow the pressing demands of life continued to push the emotional well being or emotional needs of my children and myself down to the bottom of the "to do" list. I would pay a price for that later but I would also learn to make it a priority. As a single mom or a busy mom or person, how do we remind ourselves to take the time out of our crazy, busy lives to listen to and give love to our children and others in our lives? Isn't there only so much of "us" to go around. Is it an ongoing challenge for you as it is for me?

Death and Love Together (Part Four)

2011-10-14T08:58:00.000-07:00

Brian’s walk became increasingly unsteady as ALS continued to ravage his body. He would teeter and totter when he walked and I was terrified he would fall down. He started using a cane to steady himself. He couldn’t use that for very long because he couldn’t hold it when he lost the use of his right arm. I bought a wheelchair and put it in the family room hoping he would use it. It sat there empty for quite a while. Brian was having difficulty standing for any extended period of time. He was becoming fatigued very easily. One night we had a few of his high school friends over. He grabbed the wheelchair and sat in it. He was able to move around to talk to everyone that way. It still sat there empty for a while after that.

“Do you want to rent a wheelchair for the day?” I asked Brian. He just ignored me and my request. I didn’t say anything else because I knew it was useless to do so. We started walking through the zoo. Brian started to get very tired. He found a bench to sit down. Without asking him I went back to the entrance and rented a wheelchair for the day. I arrived back at the bench with the wheelchair. Brian didn’t say anything. He just got into the wheelchair. He looked haggard and defeated. Brian refused to look at me for the remainder of our day at the zoo. He seemed to feel a little better when Gary asked to ride on his lap. At two years old Gary thought it was great fun.

The phone rang. I picked it up. “This is Officer Smith of the Police Department. We would like you to come to the police station tomorrow at 10am to talk to us about your son, Samuel.” “OK” I responded. I hung up the phone. “Who is it?” Brian asked.” I lied. “It was nothing important,” I said. Brian accepted that answer. If he weren’t sick he would have known I was lying.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Brian said. He wasn’t able to physically shake me at this point in time. “OK,” I said. “Just give me a minute to wake up,” I replied. “I have to go right now!” Brian said desperately. Patience was never one of Brian’s virtues but, in his defense, who knows for how long he had been trying to wake me. His voice was not very strong at this point in time. I walked to his side of the bed. I wrapped my arms around his waist and hoisted him to his feet. He steadied himself for a minute. “OK” he said to me. We started to walk very slowly to the bathroom. Brian held onto my arm as he shuffled his feet. I lowered him onto the toilet seat. After he was done I leaned him against my body as I reached around to wipe him. I pulled his bottoms back up. (We had actually done this in an airplane bathroom on several occasions). We proceeded slowly back to the bed. Just before we reached the bed Brian lost his balance and fell to the floor with a thundering thud.

“Help, help,” Brian was pleading. I was frantically pulling and tugging to try to get him on his feet. It was the middle of the night. Last time this happened my Father had been around to help. He wasn’t here now. “I’m going to have to wake up Samuel,” I said to Brian. “”Please don’t,” he pleaded. “I have to. I can’t get you off the floor,” I said. I rolled Brian over onto his back and put a pillow under his head. I went to get Samuel. Samuel and I managed to pull Brian off the floor in increments using a vanity stool and to get him back into the bed. Brian would fall a few more times before he finally agreed to use the wheelchair all the time.

I would need a break from the physical demands of caring for Brian. I knew he didn't want anyone but me to care for him. I knew I couldn't last much longer. It would take maybe more strength than I thought I had to face Brian's anger and my guilt when I finally decided to get some help. (To Be continued)

Raising Children the Best We Can

2011-10-12T11:57:00.000-07:00

“I’ll be over to pick up the kids to take them to a movie,” David, my soon to be ex-husband, said over the phone. In my naiveté I told the children that their father would be over tomorrow around 11 am to pick them up and take them to a movie. The two younger ones, Samuel and Ellen, were very excited. They were 3 1/2 and 5 years old. They got dressed early Saturday morning and waited patiently. They were talking about what they were going to do with him and what movie they wanted to see. At least as much as kids that age can discuss those matters. I knew they were excited and quite frankly I was looking forward to a little time to myself. I was going to sleep. “When will Daddy be here?” Samuel asked. “We are going to miss the movie,” he later complained when the time came and went for his father’s arrival. “He will be here. Something must have come up that caused a delay,” I said.

After an hour passed with no phone call and no knock at the door I realized he wasn’t coming. I should have said something to the children. I was a coward. Eventually Samuel just found something else to do besides wait for him. He went to his room and played with his matchbox cars. Ellen, who was three at the time, cried and carried on. I tried to get them interested in going out with me to a movie but they didn’t want to. Their hurt was palpable.

“How could you just not show up,” I shrieked into the phone when David finally did call. I was surprised at myself because I had given up on fighting with him over how he treated me but apparently I still had the energy and grit to fight with him over how he treated the children. “You are crazy. I never told you that I was going to pick the kids up and take them to a movie,” he responded. “Did I misunderstand him?” I asked myself.

I had just about gone crazy the last few months David and I lived together. We would talk, make plans or make a decision and then when things didn’t go as planned he would tell me he never said that. Now I started to doubt myself again. It was actually stronger than that. I felt totally disoriented again – a feeling I had all the time the last months of living with David. Was I going crazy? Was the stress affecting me that much? Why did I even bother to say anything to him? I knew that nothing was ever going to change with him. He would never admit he made a mistake or did anything wrong. But what about the children I wondered.

Most of the time when David did show up he would take only one or two of them. “I simply can’t handle all three of them or I simply can’t afford to take all of them to the movie,” he would say. One very radiant child would leave with him while the other would crumple up in a ball on the floor and cry. I was left with a shattered child whose pieces I tried to put back together. (Jessica, the oldest never really wanted to go with her father.) That is how I came to view my children. They were shattered into pieces at a very young age and the rest of their lives have been about putting those pieces back together. The pieces never fit back together perfectly but at least, now, all the pieces are back and in some kind of reasonable order.

“We don’t want to take a bath. We want to go live with our Dad! We want to go live with our Dad!” Ellen and Samuel were chanting. I was somewhat accustomed to hearing this by now. It had been several months since their father, David, had moved out. This chant accompanied just about every request I made of the younger two to do something they didn’t want to do. I gave them a bath silently, dried them off and got them into bed.

It wasn’t hard to be a better parent than their father, David. I have often wondered if that is one of the reasons, unconsciously, that I chose him. Eventually he just went away altogether. That is what I had hoped for but not until after he had made our life a living hell for quite a long time.

Loneliness (Part Two)

2011-10-06T14:14:00.000-07:00

I continued to drive around the city. I drove past the last home I lived in, past the school Gary attended for kindergarten, past the high school my oldest daughter graduated from, past the elementary school my children attended and past the church we all attended. But I never did drive there. I couldn’t. I had stopped going there long before I moved from this desert city. I felt guilty about that even when I still lived here. Now I felt as if I should go there but I can’t seem to direct the car there. I am not exactly sure what will happen if I go there but whatever it is I am afraid of it. There is something about seeing that name etched for all eternity into a stone in the ground that unnerves me. In the past I would start sobbing uncontrollably when I saw it. I have no reason to doubt that would happen now and I don’t want to be so unnerved while on a business trip.

It was 24 years ago when I first saw this city in the desert. I had already decided we were going to move there – the whole family. I had never been here when I made that decision but sadly anything was better than where I was living at the time. I was living in my hometown which was located in the “Rust Belt”. It was 1985.

I always smell the desert before I see it. It is a peaceful smell or I feel peaceful when I smell it. That was the first thing I experienced and came to love was the smell of the desert. It may be what I miss most about the desert. Smells are so much more evocative and memorable than any other sensory experiences. Sometimes the only thing I can remember is the smell. You can’t really describe a smell in words. It is one of those things you have to experience. You just know it when you smell it. Like the smell of the perfume or cologne of a loved one long after they have gone. The smell of the desert is best experienced at night or very early in the morning. I remember smelling it on my very first visit as I explored the city in my rental car at night. In spite of the painful memories I feel peaceful as I drive though the desert at night with the windows of the car rolled down. I feel enveloped in the comforting arms of the desert.

The desert is a beautiful and fascinating place. As you drive you see lights everywhere and then suddenly you see total darkness. This city is huge now. It is ever so much bigger than when I moved here. Then it was a sleepy, little desert town. But in spite of its growth there are still mountains in this desert that defy development. And so I sat on the balcony of my hotel room and looked out over the lights and blackness. I closed my eyes and soaked up the rich smell of the desert.

This desert town is full of beautiful resorts. For some reason I chose to stay at the resort that I had frequented when I lived there. I thought it would have changed so much over the years that it wouldn’t matter. At least I didn’t recognize it in the photos posted on its webpage when I made the reservation. They have excellent amenities and great rates so I booked a room there. After I settled into my room I went to the restaurant to have dinner. I was amazed to discover that it still bears the same name it did 20 years ago. The only thing that has changed is the color scheme. I waited in the lobby for the hostess to seat me. I remembered the last time I was here.

“Can you meet me for lunch at the Pointe,” Brian asked me. “It is too far from the office. I don’t want to take a long lunch today,” I protested. “I really want us to have lunch with my parents today,” Brian pleaded. As usual he persuaded me to do what he wanted. He had a real knack for doing that. When I arrived Brian and his parents were already seated in a booth. It was that one in the corner over there. I saw it when I entered the restaurant this night. His mom and dad were seated in the middle of the booth. I slid into the side across from Brian. We chatted quietly and then I left to go back to the office. It was the last time I saw his mother. She died of heart failure a few days later.

I decided just to eat at the bar. As I sat down on one of the bar stools I remembered that this is where Bill had first introduced Brian and I to his wife. Bill’s company did business with Brian’s company. They had become friends long before I met Brian. Bill called us a lot right after the diagnosis but he too, like Eloise, simply disappeared from our lives when Brian was in the early throes of the illness. Oh he came to the funeral and even to the event at the house after the funeral. I was amazed that he could do that. I forced myself to stop remembering while I ate my dinner. I returned to my room and thankfully fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

I never really had a plan for my life, at least not consciously. I wanted to be open to all of the possibilities. I didn’t want to be so focused on where I was going that I missed an unexpected opportunity. That was a rather naïve view, to say the least. Without any plan I was buffeted around like a jellyfish in the ocean. You need some sense of direction or purpose I think now. My stubbornness, my obsession to be independent, my craving for affection and my passive rebellion caused me to make choices that I see now were wrong for me. My life, intentionally, did not follow the script set out for women with my background and education. Sometimes I think I just sabotaged myself. Other times I think I just wanted to do the unexpected – to be different and adventurous as much as possible for me.

As I look around I wonder if the people who followed the “script” are really happier than I am. They are in long marriages with grown children living in the same house in the suburbs in which they raised their families. I was, for the most part, following that script in my life with Brian in this desert city. We had a traditional marriage, lived in the suburbs and raised our children there. I remember feeling stifled by all of that at times.

Do the people who followed the script have regrets like I do? From the outside looking in I imagine them to be very content. I will probably never know because for some reason we don’t talk about those things or won’t talk about them honestly. Often I wonder if I am the only person who even thinks about all this stuff. That just adds to my feelings of loneliness and isolation. What are those barriers? Why are we afraid to cross them and open ourselves up to others? What do we think would happen if we did reveal our innermost thoughts and feelings? Are we afraid we would be judged the way we can't seem to stop judging others? How can we connect with others if we don't let our guard down - if we don't let people see who we really are?

Are We Lost? (Part Three)

2011-09-30T09:58:00.000-07:00

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)

2011-09-29T19:03:00.000-07:00

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)

2011-09-24T07:40:00.000-07:00

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?

2011-09-15T14:26:00.000-07:00

“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)

2011-09-13T08:12:00.000-07:00

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

2011-09-08T11:51:00.000-07:00

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)

2011-09-07T11:39:00.001-07:00

“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!

2011-09-02T08:16:00.000-07:00

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)

2011-09-01T08:56:00.000-07:00

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.

Saying Goodbye

2011-08-26T11:55:00.000-07:00

“You want to move into the dorm tonight?” I asked with tears in my eyes. “What is the big deal?” Gary asks. “It is only a day early”. “I am not prepared to say goodbye to you today”, I reply. “Are you saying you will be better prepared tomorrow?” Gary quips back. “You are acting very irrationally right now”, Gary complains. “So what”, I retort back. Gary walks away shaking his head. “Ok I will move just a few things in tonight and move in permanently tomorrow”, Gary says exasperated. “Great”, I say with a big smile. Gary is totally bewildered. He wonders where his rational, independent Mom has disappeared to. I wonder the same thing.

My heart is breaking today! Gary has been my mainstay since his father died of Lou Gehrig’s disease some 15 years ago. Taking care of Gary sustained me through some very dark days.

For the past year I have tried to prepare myself for this day. Contrary to all my experience, I still think I can prepare myself and mitigate the emotional fallout. I am only deluding myself. Still that illusion offered me some comfort until the storm hit. The feelings of loss and despair wash over me like the unstoppable and relentless tides of the ocean. Perhaps that is because the mind is no longer in control – only the heart is. Perhaps the best preparation is to be found in enjoying our relationship with them to the fullest when we are able. I am comforted somewhat because I think I have done that.

“All packed”, Gary shouts to me. I haven’t been able to help Gary pack. I started to cry every time I try. In my defense he really isn’t taking much stuff with him. I look into his room. “I have never seen it so clean”, I say to Gary. “It’s not that clean”, Gary replies. “Well I have never seen it without some clothing laying on the floor”, I retort. As I look around I start to cry. I close the door to Gary’s bedroom quickly. I don’t think I will be entering that room much I say to myself. The emptiness and the way it echoes reminds me too much of the hollowness I feel inside.

“I loved being a mother. It was always what I wanted to be more than anything else in life”, I say to Gary in the car on the way to his dorm. “You still are a mother”, Gary replies shaking his head incredulously. “I guess you wouldn’t understand”, I say to him. “I am not sure I understand it” I say to myself.

I watch my son, Gary, walk away from me weighted down with stuff for his dorm room. He’ll be back in a minute to get more stuff from the car. I am glad there is no parking and I have to wait in the car. Gary returns and gathers up the last bit of his stuff from the car. He turns and waves to me as he opens the door to the building. I wave back. He is saying good bye to me and I am saying good bye to a way of life that has fulfilled and sustained me for the past 33 years. I feel empty and useless. How do I even begin to fill that void? Is it even possible?

This is very anti-feminist attitude I say to myself. I don’t know why I care about this but it popped into my head. I think I imagined sharing these feelings with some of my feminist friends. Are a devotion to motherhood or even motherhood itself and feminism incompatible? I don’t believe they are but that is perhaps counter to main stream thinking. Still I am not going to deny that my primary calling in life was to be a mother. I feel so alone because I don’t know anyone who I could share these feeling with and who would understand how I am feeling right now or perhaps more accurately admit they understand. This is one of those times in life when I really, really miss Brian, Gary’s Dad. He would understand.

“You can do anything you want to do now”, my son said to me as we drove to his dormitory. “I have been doing exactly what I wanted to do,” I replied. “I really wish there was something that I am dying to do but there isn’t. What I want to do and be a part of is going off to college right now”. “Are you going to cry”, Gary asked. “No of course not”, I replied. I know I need the relief that comes from having a complete meltdown but I don’t want to do that in front of Gary. I resist the urge hoping for some relief later. I know the urge will hit me at the most inopportune time like when I am waiting in the check out line at the grocery store.

I have been dreading this day for so many years it is almost a relief that it has finally arrived. That relief is fleeting. Just a few minutes later the grief, loneliness and panic set in again. I know. I will just pretend he is spending the night – well several nights- at a friend’s house. How’s that for honesty?

Powerful emotions swirl around inside me as I watch him walk into the dorm. As I sit in the car, I watch people going about their daily lives – business as usual. It feels like my world has come to an end. I feel like I am drowning in grief and sadness. Silly maybe but I have vowed not to judge my feelings anymore.

My head says it is time to let go. My heart says not yet. Gary has taken the best and biggest part of me for the past 18 years and I was only too happy to give that to him. Now maybe I will have more energy to devote to others and myself. Rationalizations are great but today change still feels like my enemy.

This is death to a special bond we shared, Gary and I. Sharing the bonds of daily living is broken whether we are sending them off to their first day of kindergarten or off to college. The thread that connects us becomes more and more frayed with each passing year until it finally breaks. A new and different connection will be forged. I know that. But I also know that different is good but not always better. I still miss the little boy who was my best buddy and used to give me big hugs and kisses and confide in me. If only I could come back later today and pick him up like I did after preschool! I hope through the grieving process I will come to see this change in a better light but that is not possible today.

Gary is gone now – disappeared into the building with his last load of belongings. This is the building he referred to as “home” on the ride over. When he said that it felt like he had stuck a knife in my heart. I almost said, “That is not your home. Your home is with me”, but thankfully I resisted. What a grand adventure for Gary! He is so ready for this. He looked so happy and excited. That is what really counts isn’t it? I feel a twinge of pride that I have done a big part of my job as a parent. I have prepared him to be independent. In spite of all my sadness I feel strangely energized as well. This can be the beginning of a grand adventure for me too I say to myself. I put my forehead on the steering wheel and cry. Do the challenges ever end I lament as I drive away.

Saying goodbye to our first grader, college student, lover, spouse, friend is always a great challenge for me. What has your experience been?

Marriage and sometimes even a love story (Part two)

2011-08-22T09:57:00.000-07:00

“Let’s watch this movie together tonight,” I had suggested to David a few weeks before this event. I remember distinctly watching the movie “Ordinary People”. “That was exactly what it was like for me growing up,” I said to David. “You’re just stupid,” he retorted angrily. He got up and left the room. How does the person in whom you could confide your deepest secrets become the last person in the world you can or would confide in?

“Get out,” I told David again the day after he had smashed the toys. I said it every day for weeks after that. He simply ignored me. He pretended nothing out of the ordinary had happened. How can he do that? It made me feel like I was crazy. Was I imagining what happened? I knew Jessica had seen it and that gave me comfort and strength. I couldn’t afford to move anywhere with the children. I didn’t have the money for the deposits needed to move into an apartment. I didn’t have money to go to a hotel. I didn’t have money to hire a lawyer and I am not sure that would have helped if I did. The next several months passed without any further incidents of violence. Then the violence returned with even more force. It was now directed at me. I am not sure the children really knew the difference.

“You are out of control. You are crazy!” I yelled at him. “You make me do the things I do because you are such a lousy wife!” David shouted as he hurled something at me. I ran in the direction of one of the bedrooms. He followed me. I turned to face him in the doorway of the bedroom. He punched me and I fell down. Samuel was standing behind me and he fell too. I landed on top of Samuel. He was five years old.

“You are not going anywhere,” David said to me. He stood between me and the door. He wouldn’t let me leave the room much less the house. Every time I tried to leave he pushed me back into the room. I tried not to scare the kids more than they already were scared. I heard the kids in the next room playing together. They came in and said good night to me.

The next day David got Samuel and Jessica off to school. Ellen went next door to the sitter’s house. Eventually David dragged me into the car with him on some errands. He stopped for a red light. I jumped out of the car. I was fortunately only a few blocks from the office. I can’t really remember what I said or did at the office. I know I really didn’t tell anyone what had happened. I was too embarrassed. Somehow I got a ride back to the house. I called the police. David didn’t come back to the house that night.

“We can’t do anything m’am since your husband isn’t at home. If he comes back give us a call,” the police officer said to me.

I went to work the next day. The children went to school and the sitter. The children were understandably acting out at home. I was feeling totally overwhelmed. I called a few family lawyers but I didn’t have the money to hire one. That night David came home again. The next time David became violent and tried to keep me in the house I was able to run out the front door and get to my neighbors. My neighbor called the police. I ran back home immediately to see David pulling out of the driveway with Samuel in the back seat of the car. My heart sank.

“Do you have someplace you can go for the night?” the officer asked me. Finally I was talking to a compassionate officer who didn’t look at me like I had horns. Domestic violence wasn’t taken very seriously by police officers or even the courts back then. I frantically searched in my mind for someone to call. We had just moved to this city several months ago. This isn’t exactly something you want to talk to good friends about much less new acquaintances. “You need to call someone,” he insisted. Since David had fled before the officer arrived there was nothing that could be done to him right then.

“He is your son’s father and there is no custody order so I can’t do anything about him taking the boy,” the officer said. Very reluctantly I picked up the phone and dialed the person I knew the best in my new city. “Eva can the kids and I stay at your house tonight?” I heard myself ask. I felt like I was outside my body – like I was watching this happen to someone else. I knew Eva was going to ask why and I dreaded that. She did and I responded, “David has hit me and tried to keep me from leaving the house. The police officer does not want the children and I to stay here tonight. ” Eva hung up the phone without saying anything. “We will be all right here,” I told the officer. I spent the better part of the evening in a panic wondering where Samuel was and if he was OK. David dropped Samuel off at the house later that night and left. Maybe things are going to get better I thought.

I had a restraining order issued but I could never get David served with it so it was of no use. During that time I think he would have simply ignored it anyway. I filed for divorce. By some miracle David simply stopped coming back to stay at the house. That didn’t mean he disappeared from our lives entirely.

I was afraid if I told people at the office I would get fired maybe not right then but eventually. I kept everything a secret for a while emulating my upbringing. I must have made some excuses for leaving the office on occasion but I don’t remember anything about that. I know that I never told anyone about the violence. We never spoke about it with the children but I know that the children kept everything a secret as well. We were an isolated island of misery and despair surrounded by and functioning in a huge ocean of normalcy at least for others. I went to work. The children went to school. We carried on as if our life was not all about fear and violence. I felt disconnected as if I lived in two separate worlds. I had no idea how to help the children cope.

“I am going to kill you, cut your body up into little pieces and bury it in the desert so no one will find you. I am going to kidnap the kids and take them to Mexico,” David spewed this venom. He had barged his way into the house on the pretense of picking up the children for a visit. Suddenly he stopped. Jessica had entered the room. It had become a pattern that was repeated over and over again. He would say these things every time I had contact with him. Each time Jessica would enter the room David would stop. I know Jessica heard what he said. My poor Jessica! I was afraid David would really carry out his threats. I think Jessica was too. He was crazy enough, at that time, to do it.

The phone was ringing again. I looked at the clock. It was 2 am. “Who are you sleeping with tonight you whore?” I heard David scream. I hung up the phone. I double checked to make sure all the windows and doors were locked. I lay awake all night. I was afraid if I didn’t answer the phone he would come over to the house and do something worse.

David picked up my mail from the mailbox and read it. He broke into the house, answered my phone and ransacked my things. He stole my car. He called me at the office and at home accusing me of having affairs with every man I came into contact with. He would come to pick up the kids for a visit and punch me in the face when I opened the door.

How does one respond to all of this? Should I fight back? Should I be passive in hopes of placating him? Would it really matter what I did? Is my response really going to affect his behavior to any significant degree? It seemed no matter what I did he was hell bent on abusing me. Nothing could stop that. Any change that could have affected his behavior would have to have been done long before he first raised his fist to punch me. I knew he was in a rage and wanted to destroy everything. Things like courts and police have no power over such a person. That was perhaps the scariest thing of all.

I apologize to the reader if this all seems out of order or makes little sense. As I write this I am overcome by potent remnants of the fear and anger. I feel confused. It is as if my defenses kick in and my mind becomes foggy to protect me from too many bad memories. I have tried so hard to forget the details of what happened. I don’t even want to remember them here.

These events went on regularly for at least nine months during which David engaged in all of the above and more on a weekly basis. The children and I lived constantly, every minute of every day, with the fear generated by his actions. I was trying, perhaps mistakenly, to keep things as normal as possible for the children.

I don’t recall why I did not get more help from the courts or police. Was I right to feel bad about myself because I didn’t fight back? Or should I just judge myself as a victim who is helpless to change, at that particular moment, the course of events? I tried not to judge myself too harshly. In some way I sensed that if I fought David too much and involved the courts and police he would fight harder and maybe carry out one of his threats. I hoped David’s rage would eventually be spent and he would simply go away. That strategy didn't work all that well. (To be continued)

Loneliness

2011-08-17T08:34:00.000-07:00

I hadn’t been back since it all happened. It happened quite a long time ago – almost 16 years ago now. As I prepared for this business trip I promised myself I wouldn’t do it. In fact I swore I would resist any and all such urges. As soon as I disembarked the plane I am afraid it started.

Why do I insist on revisiting the past? Do I just like to torture myself or is there some positive purpose to this exercise? I was on a mission to revisit my past even if I didn’t want to. I was inexorably drawn back there.

It is this past – the events that happened in this desert city - which I sought to escape by marrying Warren. When I met Warren in Italy, I hadn’t resolved or come to terms with this past. I was still mired in the past. I wanted an easy escape and I found it in my new relationship with Warren. Oh I didn’t realize that at the time. I only see that now.

New relationships are so full of possibilities. They can be the catalyst for new beginnings in every aspect of our lives. Romantic relationships, when they are new, have the euphoric effect of a drug. At first, new relationships seem like an escape from the past. But in fact the past, if left unresolved, will haunt and destroy any new beginnings as it did with my relationship with Warren. The seeds of our divorce were sown in the very beginning by the unresolved issues of our past lives.

The first encounter with my past, on this business trip, did not occur of my own volition. I passed by it on my walk from the gate where I disembarked the airplane to the baggage claim. I was struck by the starkness of the scene. The last time I was there it was teeming with life. Back then these were the United Airline gates my young children used to fly out of to visit my sister or parents. Now even the chairs had been removed. It was a big empty room. The emptiness served as an even stronger reminder of how much time had passed and how much had happened since the last time I waved goodbye to the children as they disappeared down the ramp. I continued to follow the signs to the baggage claim and then to the car rental shuttle. As I crossed the street to the island to catch the shuttle I remembered that this is where I used to drop my parents off to catch the plane back to my hometown. I see myself hugging them and saying good bye with tears in my eyes. It all seems so real! My children grew up here but they don’t think of this place as their hometown. Sadly, my children don’t have a hometown. I catch the rental car shuttle bus and silently celebrate that there are no memories here.

This is why I left. Memories were everywhere. They surrounded me and, for a while, they suffocated me. The memories were painful back then. The memories are still painful. I was surprised by the strength of those memories after so many years. I felt tears welling up in my eyes. Some memories are merely poignant as so much of my life is behind me now. Some memories evoke regrets for my choices and failures and for the roads not travelled. Then there are memories of the unhappy events over which I had little or no control. These are the most powerful memories. I felt paralyzed by the intensity of the pain those memories evoked.

Oh there is much to regret and there is much to celebrate about my life here. I do feel sad that so much of my life has gone by. I feel like I failed to enjoy so much of it. I do regret getting caught up in the treadmill of life. I imagine myself as a hamster running inside the wheel in its cage. In my drive to get to the next task I missed out on the joys of the moment. I remind myself that I did gain valuable insight and wisdom during those years which has helped me to avoid this pitfall in my later years. If I allow my thoughts to dwell here too long I will be overcome with sadness for what is past.

But there are other memories as well here in this city. A real tragedy happened in my life when I lived here. In many ways that tragedy has defined my life. I calculate events as prior to or subsequent to the tragedy. I calculate my personal growth before and after that event. I mark the emotional growth of my children based on that event. That event marks my life and the lives of my children in so many ways.

If I ignore my memories I feel like I am acting outside of myself. If I indulge myself and go back in time I feel overcome with grief and regrets.

I found myself driving, without any conscious thought, around this city in the desert where I spent so many years of my life. It was here I spent my life as a young adult, wife and mother. It was almost as if someone else was in control of the vehicle. I drove past the last place I worked. I drove past the first place I worked right after I moved here. I drove past the historic district where so many events in my life took place. I stopped in front of the beautiful historic home that houses a restaurant and is a venue for private parties. The wedding reception for my last marriage took place in that house. Many years before that I threw a 40^th birthday party for Eloise there. She was one of my closest friends. I tried to recall the last time I saw her.

“Eloise, Eloise!” I called as she walked past me in the cavernous hallway of the sports arena. She finally turned and said hello. We hadn’t seen or spoken to each other in months. She didn’t ask me how I had been. “Can you and Brian come over for dinner with some friends next weekend?” is all she said. “We are going to be out of town that weekend,” I responded. “Another time then,” she said. I never heard from her again.

I can’t help but wish that I were staying with Eloise and her husband while I am here on this business trip. We could be reminiscing now about when our children, who are now young adults, were toddlers. We spent that part of our lives as friends. We had met quite by accident. We instantly connected. We did so much together with the children and with our spouses. We spent all our holidays together. In fact we saw each other almost every weekend when the children were young. Our spouses even became good friends. Then one day our friendship ended just as suddenly and mysteriously as it had begun.

Eloise and her husband didn’t come to the funeral. They didn’t send flowers or even a sympathy card. Maybe they didn’t know that Brian had died. They knew he was sick with Lou Gehrig’s disease.

I ran into Eloise at a restaurant a few months after the funeral. She was waiting in line in front of me. I recognized her immediately. I hoped she wouldn’t notice me. When she turned to go to her table she saw me. After I placed my order at the counter I sat at a table at the opposite end of the restaurant from where Eloise was. I deliberately sat with my back to her. A short time later, I looked up from my food to see here standing next to my table.

“Don’t you want to talk to me?” she asked. I wanted to scream some things at her but I didn’t. Did she even know what had happened in my life since I last saw her? Did she even know Brian was dead? Did she care? “I have nothing to say to you,” is all I said. She looked hurt, turned and left the restaurant. What would I have accomplished if I said those things to her? We could never be friends again not after what she had done. She was my closest friend. Right after Brian was diagnosed she and her husband disappeared from our lives.

Still for some mysterious reason I called her many, many years later. I lived in another state by then. We chatted. We brought each other up to date regarding our children. We exchanged contact information. Neither of us ever contacted the other again.

It feels so incredibly empty to return to a city where I spent so much of my life – 14 years- and so many important events in my life occurred and yet I am seeing no one from that time in my life. It feels like a huge void. My thoughts returned to Eloise. What if I had said those things to her in the restaurant? What if I had told her how much she hurt me? Would we have rekindled our friendship? Do I really want to be friends with a person who deserted me at one of the most difficult periods of my life? Maybe, while I am here on business, I should pick up the phone and call her to see if she can get together for a cup of coffee. I was tempted to call her but I never did.

Blended Families - Can we make them work?

2011-08-09T12:41:00.000-07:00

It struck me that it was a very strange thing to think about at that particular moment. It was just a few moments ago that Warren and I resolved our divorce after two years of acrimony. As I was walking to my car from the courthouse I realized that I would never see or hear from them ever again. I would never know if they graduated from college, married, and had children. Why did I care? It seems to me that under certain circumstances a connection can never happen no matter how hard we try. Even in the best of times of our marriage a connection never happened between Warren’s two daughters and I. Circumstances can make it impossible. That was the case here I think.

It was ten years ago – the first time I met them, Teresa and Louise. They were young girls at that time and very timid and shy. They had come to my house to spend the day. Somewhat sheepishly they examined everything in the house carefully. They tried to do it so I wouldn’t notice. After checking everything out in the house they wanted to go swimming. That seemed like a good idea. Participating in an activity together usually is a good ice breaker. It is certainly beats standing around trying to make conversation with a stranger.

“Where the heck is Wentworth, Mississippi?” I asked Warren after the girls had returned home. I had never heard of it. That is where his daughters lived. It is a town of about 100,000 people. I had absolutely no point of reference to understand living in such a small town in the South. I would later discover, to my surprise, that our lack of such a common experience would be significant. In this day and age of so much national and international travel, communication and information it struck me as so odd that this difference could be so powerful.

“The girls are coming to visit for the summer,” Warren told me. They would be coming to the megalopolis of Southern California. Warren and I had married and moved there a few months earlier. They had spent vacations there before so it was familiar to them. For my family it was a new full time living environment. We had visited there but never lived there. There were a lot of firsts and new beginnings that summer. It was definitely too much change all at once but I was blind to the need to introduce change carefully in those days. Maybe this was a result of my impatient nature. I wanted everything to be resolved as fast as possible or maybe “in place” would be a better phrase.

It was, to put it mildly, crazy that first summer. We had six kids living with us ranging in age from 6 to 21. We, the parents, or at least I, were walking around on egg shells. I can’t speak for Warren. I so wanted all of us to somewhat gel, i.e, to at least arrive at an amiable tolerance of each other that had the potential to blossom into something more when everyone matured. I understood it was a difficult process. I had been through it before. I did not want to adopt the attitude of let’s wait to enjoy ourselves until the kids no longer come to visit or no longer live with us. I am not sure what Warren thought because we really didn’t talk about it. I should have pressed him to communicate about it but people’s children are such a sensitive topic. We did what I imagine most second marriage couples do – we muddled through without any thoughtful plan. Maybe we were just too involved in enjoying being with each other to formulate a plan. Did we naively think that because we were happy the children would follow suit? It is hard to believe we could think that! That first summer ended up being all about damage control.

“I’m not going to do it!” I heard someone shout downstairs. I heard some more commotion downstairs. It sounded like someone was screaming or crying. When I got to the kitchen Teresa was standing by the dishwasher with her head bowed down. The phone was in her hand. Her shoulders were shaking. In between sobs she was able to blurt out, “I have to unload the dishwasher!” I hate it here. I want to go home,” she continued. By that time the commotion had drawn an audience – pretty typical for those early days of the marriage “Did you call your mother because you have to unload the dishwasher?” I shrieked. “Everyone is pitching in and helping out. You need to the same,” I said not very nicely I’m sure. I left before I said more I would regret. The crowd dispersed. I have no idea if Teresa ever unloaded that dishwasher. I went upstairs to finish getting ready to go to the office. I was already late.

I am sure it started earlier but this was the first time I really saw it. Of course on the drive to the office I went over everything about that scene in my mind. I remember observing that my kids, except for my youngest –the six year old, were elated. Warren and Louise were silent. I know that when I spoke to Teresa she reeled to look at me with eyes filled with hatred and loathing. I knew previously there was some animosity but this was something more. Did it start that morning? Is that when the animosity turned to loathing? No, I think it started on our wedding day. On that day Teresa looked like she was attending a funeral not a wedding. She never said she was unhappy but then she didn’t need to. Her demeanor said it all.

I had intentionally asked very little of Teresa that first summer. Before this explosion Warren and I had discussed nicely with Teresa on many occasions that she had to help out at the house. Everyone had some assigned responsibilities. Her response was that she didn’t have to do any chores at home and she didn’t see why she should do any here. She managed to avoid doing anything for several weeks but eventually my children started getting angry. Children always feel like they are doing more than their siblings. It is much worse when the other sibling is a step-sibling. Truthfully Teresa was not doing anything. I had made a point of observing her for a few weeks because I didn’t want to be favoring my children or being unduly harsh on Warren’s children. I wanted to be fair. Warren acknowledged Teresa wasn’t doing anything. We discussed that she needed to pitch in. Warren was going to insist that she do some chores. I guess he must have insisted that morning. Maybe I finally insisted with him. So what happened during the first overt breakdown of the summer? I got angry, lost it and I yelled at her. As I drove to the office, I remember regretting my behavior and asking myself what it would take to make things work. I wasn’t asking for the moon. I just wanted everyone to tolerate each other. Even that may have been asking too much as I found out later. As soon as I got home that night I should have gone downstairs and apologized to Teresa for my outburst but I didn’t.

To be continued...

Death and Love Together (Part Two)

2011-08-03T11:27:00.001-07:00

The disease ate away at and ravaged our emotions just as it ate away at and ravaged Brian’s body. Brian first lost total use of his left arm. It just kind of hung on his body like a dead tree limb hangs from the trunk of a tree. When he walked it would flap around like a dead tree limb does in the wind. Brian developed the habit, whenever he moved, of using his right arm to hold his left arm close to his body. His left arm would still hang loosely at his side when he held Gary with his right arm pressing him close to his chest. That left arm was a gruesome and constant reminder of the disease that was eating away at his body.

Physically his body deteriorated in increments. Brian started to shuffle when he walked. He couldn’t stand for long periods of time. His right arm deteriorated. He couldn’t hold our baby son in his arms anymore. After 18 months he was in a wheelchair on a full time basis. The damage was irreversible. The doctors had informed us that there are just about as many variations in the way the disease progresses as there are individuals that have it. We had no information regarding the emotional deterioration.

I do believe some people experience or feel things more deeply than others. I believe I am one of those. Oh I wished many times that I wasn’t.

Right after the diagnosis the best time for me was early in the morning when I was half awake. Initially, when I was waking up, I would have this ominous feeling in the pit of my stomach that something bad was going to happen. In my half awake state, I could convince myself that the foreboding feeling was just the remnant of a very bad nightmare. I would sigh with relief. But when I was fully awakened I could no longer delude myself. As time went on I could no longer be comforted by the delusion that this was all a nightmare. I would bolt awake with the feeling that I was going to throw up. It was a nightmare - just not the kind you have when you are asleep. Fortunately whatever I was feeling could not be front and center for very long. There were many things to attend to including a crying baby. However, this evil was never forgotten for long. It had taken up permanent residence in my psyche. It was like a black blot in my consciousness comprised of every horrible feeling you can imagine – pain, desperation, loneliness, rage, fear, anxiety. That black blot grew in size and shape as the disease progressed until at the end it swallowed me.

Tears would have been such a relief. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t cry except on a very few occasions. And I wouldn’t describe what I did then as crying. I emitted some kind of a primitive sound deep from within my body. It scared the hell out of me. I couldn’t believe that sound came from me. It was a primordial sound. The first time it happened I was in the bathroom of our house. It was shortly after Brian told me about the disease. The last time was when I first saw Brian’s lifeless body. I have no idea what brought it on the first time. I was alone in the house except for the baby who was sleeping. I collapsed onto the bathroom floor, screaming, crying, sobbing, heaving, writhing and emitting that sound. I must have looked like some primitive animal that had been fatally shot and was slow to die. Words were not coming out of my mouth only that weird, non human sound. After several minutes I was exhausted. I lay on the floor quietly for a while, more exhausted than I had ever felt. I heard the baby cry. I slowly pulled myself up off the bathroom floor. It was time to get back to the demands of the living.

Adversity by its nature is unique. We each define it differently and we each cope with it in our own way. Hearing the stories of other widows and widowers gave me hope that I could survive but it really didn’t give me the tools to get through each and every day. I didn’t want to go about my business as usual pretending everything was “fine.” Yet what was the alternative? I had to find my own way to live with the pain just like I would eventually have to find my own way to heal. I felt like I was slowing sinking into a quicksand of despair. No one seemed to be able to throw me a lifeline. Certainly Brian could not.

Have you ever been haunted by the what ifs of your life? ( Part Four)

2011-07-25T08:42:00.000-07:00

The following "chapters" of this blog contain some of the experiences, observations and insights I have acquired in living my life. The "chapters" are in no particular order. The events related in each "chapter" are in no particular order. The "chapters" are not really connected except for the fact that they relate my personal experiences and observations. The "chapters" don’t build on each other. You can read the "chapters" in any order you wish.

I hope you, the reader, can find at least one thing of value for your own life in the pages of this blog. Perhaps you will start thinking about the choices you have made in your own life and about the roads you have travelled. It may help you to understand why you made the choices you did. It may help you to recognize what you have learned along the way. It may help you abandon the fantasy of the roads not travelled. It may open the door to discussions between you and your family or friends that can lead to a closer connection with them. It may help you make peace with where and who you are. It may help you to be open to the spiritual side of life. It may help you decide what roads you want to travel in the remaining years of your life. I humbly offer my own personal experiences and insights to you in hopes they may help you on your own journey wherever it may lead you.

Have you ever been haunted by the what ifs of your life? ( Part Three)

2011-07-19T13:27:00.000-07:00

I know I cannot change the past but I want to make better choices in my remaining years. I want to actually make a choice. I am not sure I did that before. I felt more buffeted around by forces and emotions that I didn’t understand and by misperceptions about myself and others. I convinced myself that none of my decisions were impulsive because I took a lot of time to analyze and think about them. I dissected the consequences, pluses and minuses in my mind of each proposed course of action, sometimes for a year or more. But I realize now that I was just rationalizing my impulsive decision. I see now that I often dismissed the voice of reason or prudence. In my loneliness over the loss of my husband, I overlooked the warning signs that this most recent relationship would never work.

What if I had decided not to marry early? What if I had decided not to marry my ex-husband? What if I had married instead my first serious boyfriend? What if I had decided to seriously pursue a career? What if I decided to delay or not have children? You see what I have been doing to myself these last few years. I can’t live in the present as I am continually dragged back to the past. Sometimes I feel paralyzed to act because I recognize that I have made so many “bad” choices in my life. How do I move forward? I think I can only do that by coming to terms with my past.

I don’t have any idea if I can answer all or even any of those questions. The” what ifs” are infinite. I know that I have to try if I am going to find any peace. And above all I want to make peace with my life and my choices. Only then will I make peace with where I am right now and begin to live more in the moment. I will keep my eye on the future –where I am going but with more of a sense of trust that I am making choices and those “choices” are taking me where I want to go.

I have tried but I can’t find peace in superficial answers or in busy activities. So I have to venture down this difficult path that is strewn and overgrown with “what ifs”. I reluctantly look down the roads not travelled. I try to imagine my life if I had made another choice. I imagine I would be happier, more successful or in a better place. But I don’t really know that. That is all fantasy and I don’t want to base my journey on fantasy and imaginings. I only really know the outcome of the roads I have travelled. And so I decide to embark on a journey to review the roads I have travelled in hopes I may come to terms and make peace with the roads I didn’t travel.

This is not meant to be a comprehensive or chronological recounting of my life. This is the story of an emotional journey, not a physical one. Emotions or should I say emotional memories don’t lend themselves to any kind of order. They perhaps are better told as they are remembered, that is, as a series of unconnected vignettes. Their formation and experience is a process and not a very orderly one at that. Emotions surface at inopportune times. Emotional growth does not progress in any chronological order. Oftentimes an experience will have an impact on us only many years after it has happened.

As I look into the mirror I see the face of a middle aged women staring back at me. The image reminds me so of the passage of all the years. It frightens me that so much of my life is now behind me. Why did I do the things I did? If I understand that will it make any difference in my life as I look toward the future? In the end will my life have any meaning?

I started on my life journey with no roadmap. It might be more accurate to say I had small bits and pieces of a roadmap that were unconnected and huge pieces were missing. In some of my darkest hours I would sustain myself by saying if my children learned from and were able to avoid even some of the mistakes of my life it would all be worth it. I hope in my life and with this journal I have provided them with at least a rudimentary roadmap for their journey. It would give my life some meaning.

What about God? (Part Two)

2011-07-15T12:25:00.000-07:00

Where have all the men gone? That is a question often asked by clergy. The men of my father’s generation attended church. A much smaller percentage of the men in my generation attend and are involved with the Church. This next generation has even less. Sure attendance is down as a whole but that doesn’t explain the conspicuous absence of the men. I knew Brian had attended church and several Bible studies before we met. I liked that about him. After I divorced when my children were very young, I started to have a vague sense that God was important. After Brian and I were married the vague sense became something more.

Something was pressing in on me kind of like a person in the airport security line who gets so close that they invade your personal space. I have had this feeling at various times in my life. I am usually busy and it is easy to ignore it in the beginning. I push it into the background hoping it will eventually go away. But usually it persists. It is kind of like being followed around by an omnipresent specter. It keeps its distance as long as I am moving but when I stop it gets close enough to really annoy me. It presses in on me more and more as time passes and I ignore it. It starts to engage in a “persistent nagging.” The specter won’t go away. It won’t stop “nagging.” I am in a constant state of annoyance. This feeling starts to interfere with my ability to enjoy my life. Eventually I can’t enjoy anything I am doing. I feel like I am being suffocated. When that happens I am compelled to deal with it. There will be no peace in my life until I do. In my case I don’t really know what I am being nagged to do. I have to conduct a sometimes exhaustive search. It is strictly a search by trial and error. I know when I have hit on the “right thing” because the discomfort stops. So it was that I was visited by my specter of discomfort when I was 37 years old.

At the time my “specter” was pressing in on me, my life was incredibly full or more appropriately incredibly busy. In fact I was so busy I wasn’t enjoying my life. Back then, the innumerable daily demands prevented me from savoring any moments. Now my life is devoid of everything that made it so busy back then. Now I have time to savor the moments but not as many daily moments to savor. It seems that life is so out of balance. Is there any way to arrange it so that we aren’t robbed of enjoyment by the overwhelming demands of making it all work? Is there any way to keep the memorable moments from clumping together like small metal fragments stuck to the end of a magnet? At that time in my life I couldn’t’ imagine where I was going to find the time and energy to add anything else to my life. But something kept “nagging” me relentlessly.

“I want to tell you a story about a time I was disappointed,” the young minister said. “I really, really wanted to go to this particular college. It was the only school that I wanted to attend. My parents forced me to apply to other schools but I just knew I would be accepted and go to the school of my choice. Sadly I wasn’t accepted. I was very angry at God for a long time because I thought He could have made it happen for me if He wanted to,” he said as he continued to tell history. As I sat in the church pew that morning and listened to this eerily familiar story, I kept wondering to myself why I had come to church that Sunday. At that time in my life everything was going smoothly at least by my standards. I was married to Brian. I was pregnant with Gary. I was employed in my field. Money was no longer a huge issue. The children were settled and doing well. The roller coaster ride of the previous years had become more of a train ride or almost. The trip still included travel over big mountains and valleys but they were smaller, fewer and farther between. Why then urgency to go back to church? I realized that my “specter” had stopped “nagging” me as I sat in church that morning. That was reason enough for me.

“Do we really want all that space?” I asked Brian He was so excited that I hadn’t wanted to say anything for fear of spoiling this for him. I am not sure why I did ask. I knew it wouldn’t change anything. It was too late in the process anyway. Brian looked at me quizzically and resumed giving instructions and orders to the construction crew. We would be moving to a new house on the other side of town in a few months. Everything would have to change including the church I would attend.

Eventually we settled into our new home. I found a church close by where Brian had attended services in the past. I remember our first visit was to attend a Thanksgiving service. Gary was about 5 months old at the time. He sat quietly on my lap during the service. It was, obviously, about giving thanks. I remember thinking that was a strange topic for us at the time. We had already received the preliminary diagnosis of Lou Gehrig’s’ disease, months earlier. I didn’t feel like I had much to give thanks for at the time. Brian was going to die. In the early days of the illness, the church service offered me some peace but not because I experienced God there. I enjoyed the familiar hymns, the message, the chance to mediate, the rituals. I didn’t connect these things to God.

My decision to attend church at this time had a rational component to it. I knew, even though I thankfully had no idea how difficult things would be, that I could not cope with Brian’s by myself. I knew that I needed help. That was a big admission for me given my background and temperament which I won’t repeat here. You see I had resolved that I would no longer just soldier on and suffer through difficult times. I wanted to arrive at the end feeling like I had “triumphed” not just survived. By triumph I don’t mean patting myself on the back or blowing a horn of rejoicing like we do Easter morning. I am referring to getting to the end and saying something other than,”I made it” bitterly. I had no idea how to do that. The church seemed like a good place to look for that kind of help. I wasn’t really thinking of it as a place to seek a relationship with God. I was thinking more in terms of finding people who could offer me some support in the ensuing months or years.

I saw it announced in the church bulletin one Sunday. A new group was forming. I think it was called “Living with Chronic Illness.” That wasn’t quite my situation but I decided to give it a try. I was totally new to this church so I did not know a soul – no pun intended.

I arrived at the appointed time or a few minutes late as is my habit. The door to the meeting room was closed. I wanted to secretly peek in to see what was happening but there were no windows. I put my hand on the door handle but I couldn’t turn it. I let go of the door handle. I was afraid- no terrified. Was I afraid of facing my feelings? Was I afraid of sharing my life with strangers? Oh there were so many fears back then it was difficult to know. If red was the color of fear my entire body would have glowed bright red. I was shaking. Something made me open the door a little bit. People were sitting in a circle wearing name tags. Ugh I hate name tags! The leader saw me before I could close the door and escape. I hope they don’t expect me to say anything I thought as I entered the room.

We talked and prayed at the “Living with Chronic Illness” group meetings. After all this was church. I went through the motions of prayer. I didn’t get anything out of it. Maybe that’s because I didn’t really believe anyone was out there listening or at least anyone who cared. Prayer to me was just empty words but the community of people, especially the leaders, did nourish me emotionally. That is what kept me coming back. I was staring into the dark, cold, black abyss of despair and anger. At times I was totally immersed in it. This group was a light in the darkness. It was the only light. I couldn’t talk about my life in the “real world.”

“Don’t talk to your friends about what you are going through,” a woman whose husband had recently died from Lou Gehrig’s disease advised me. “If you do you won’t have any friends,” she continued. How sad that she was right! God not only afflicted us with terrible suffering but left us friendless and alone in the process. Why should I talk to Him? He obviously was not going to answer any of my prayers. There was no way Brian was going to get better no matter how much I prayed. I knew that. I didn’t believe in miracles.

To Be Continued...

Have you ever been haunted by the what ifs of your life? ( Part Two)

2011-07-10T20:18:00.000-07:00

I am not writing this to escape any responsibility for the demise or failure of my relationship with Warren. In fact the opposite is true. I am not looking to play the blame game that our society so obsesses over. I want to find my mistakes. At times my recounting of the events of my life it may seem I am being unreasonably hard on the people in my life. I don’t intend to portray them in a bad light. Maybe it is just that I can see them more clearly than I see myself. It is so very difficult if not impossible to see ourselves as others see us. It is too scary! I can see little bits and pieces of myself but not the whole picture. Perhaps it is in only in seeing the whole picture that we can understand and forgive ourselves. Maybe this writing exercise is an attempt to see the whole picture.

The failure of my recent relationship looms large over my life. How could I have made such a mistake again? A nebulous and infinite array of questions has hung over my life since my divorce from Warren. I can’t shake them.

I wonder “what if” I had made this choice instead of that. What if I had decided not to continue a relationship with Warren after the trip? How would my life be now? Would I be any happier or more content? Would I be more successful? Would I have more and better connections to friends? Would I feel less lonely? Would I have made less costly emotional and financial mistakes? Would I have experienced less stress and heartache? I am haunted by those roads not travelled. They keep tugging me backwards to the past and I so want to live in the present.

I can’t seem to shake it no matter how hard I try. It even overshadows my state of contentment in my new city and with my new life. I am haunted by this feeling that somehow my life would have turned out better or at least been easier if I had chosen a different path(s) than the one I did choose. Of course “choice” may be the wrong word. I tell myself everything turned out as it should be but that doesn’t stop the pull from the past. So I have embarked on this intellectual journey. Did I make the “right” choices? Is there a “right” choice? How did I get to where I am? What were the forces that lead me to choose the roads I did? Where would I be if I had chosen differently or taken the roads not travelled?

Death and Love Together

2011-07-06T09:49:00.000-07:00

Why do we have such a fear of the unknown? Why do we torture ourselves with wild imaginings of what lies ahead? Have you ever noticed that our anxiety or dread of a future event is almost always worse than the actual event? In my experience the fear surrounding the end of a relationship is usually much worse than the reality after it ends. I have discovered that there is one exception to that general rule.

We met through work. We didn’t work at the same company. Our paths just randomly crossed and we were thrown together working toward what eventually became a common goal. Brian is the one who transformed an adversarial situation into a cooperative business venture from which we could both benefit. He had a real knack for or intuition for bringing people together in a business setting. It was so sad that the exact opposite was true in his personal life. From my observations it seems that it is exactly those qualities that make people successful in the business world that make them unsuccessful in their personal life. Brian was, to put it mildly, a very intense and demanding person. He was also very charismatic and charming. I was a little put off by his intensity. If he wanted something it was no holds barred and for some reason he wanted to have a relationship with me. It was a little scary but also very flattering.

Brian and I knew each other for four or five years before we married. We were able to evaluate, somewhat rationally, all the baggage that came along with the other person. He could readily see that I had three very young children. He had one young child. It was not so easy to identify our respective emotional and relationship issues. Still, during that time we were able to see each other with all our warts. There was something between us that made us want to connect in spite of our issues. That desire made us willing to work on connecting with each other. Why we were both so willing to do such hard work is still a mystery to me. There was something that brought us and held us together. Was that something a genuine and enduring love for each other?

It was wonderful to finally have some adult companionship and support. It was a relief to have someone to share the responsibilities and stresses of life. Brian genuinely loved my children. His love seemed to flow naturally – not contrived at all. Maybe when you really love the other person you love what they love or all that comes with them. That is not to say we didn’t have issues between us regarding the children just that they didn’t derail our relationship permanently as they had the potential to do.

I think the fact that we saw and acknowledged each other’s warts made us love each other more. We didn’t have to be expending all our energy trying to be, pretending to be perfect or protecting our perfect image. We were slowly tearing away our respective protective shrouds to reveal our true selves to each other. Romance, infatuation and all the baggage we bring to relationship can be transformed into real love. It is of course a process. Brian and I were working on that.

“I don’t want any more children. If that is important to you we should stop seeing each other,” I said to Brian one day as we were driving to attend a business event. I am not sure why I brought the subject up at that moment. We had been seeing each other for a while by this time but we had not yet discussed marriage. Brian never said anything directly about that subject but we continued to see each other. I think he understood how much I had struggled as a single parent of three young children.

Isn’t it odd how life’s most routine events end up, later, having the biggest impact on our lives. This was one of those situations. I made my annual visit to the gynecologist. There was a problem. The doctor asked me to return. It was described to me as potentially very serious so I asked Brian to come with me. We had been married a few years by this time. That is how we both came to be seated in the doctor’s office on this particular day.

“You have a condition that will require the removal of your uterus – a hysterectomy. I know that you mentioned to me that you might want to have more children. If you do want another child you should do it now,” the doctor said to Brian and me. Brian and I were seated next to each other. We turned, looked at each other and said “yes” to each other with our eyes. We seemed to have an ability to communicate without speaking – at least regarding some issues. We never had an actual verbal conversation ever about having a child together. We instinctively knew it was the right thing to do.

I was 37 years old at that time. Brian was older. Good Lord! That would make 7 children between us with the new one being 9 ½ years younger than its next closest sibling. I figured that, by making this decision, I added 10 years to my full time parenting years. In the ensuing months of my pregnancy when I would become anxious or question the soundness of my decision I would remind myself that I would not be doing it all alone this time. I know Brian sensed my fears. He had a knack for reassuring me in a very real way without words. I can’t explain it any better than that. Brian was a very involved husband and father. I knew he would share the burdens, responsibilities and joys with me. I so wanted to share the experience of parenting a child. In addition to shouldering the financial and physical burdens alone, life as a single parent it is a very lonely experience emotionally.

“What’s wrong with your arm?” I asked Brian. He had been moving his right arm in circles and rubbing it for several minutes. “It feels a little numb. I think it might be a pinched nerve,” he replied. We had just completed our morning swim together. Brian and I carved out certain times to be alone together as a couple. That was something of a challenge as we had my three young children full time and regular visits with his daughter. We both worked at demanding jobs. In the summer time we would wake up early in the morning and swim laps together. We had a beautiful backyard and after swimming we would sit together for a brief time and talk over a cup of coffee. “It will probably go away on its own,” Brian said to me. “If it doesn’t I will make an appointment with the doctor after the baby is born. It is probably a pinched nerve in my neck. I have already been through this once before with my back,” Brian continued.

“Are you still grieving?” she asked. I was taken aback. After all 14 years had passed. I had just answered a question regarding why Gary’s father wasn’t attending the swim meet to watch Gary. I felt a few tears on my cheeks. “Some part of me will always grieve for what I lost,” I replied.

A couple of weeks after Brian first complained about his arm our son, Gary, was born. Brian was ecstatic. He had always wanted a son. He was a rather macho guy. I didn’t hold that against him. Being a mother again was exhilarating and I was pleasantly surprised by that. For the past three years we had been working hard to blend our families. This baby accomplished in a moment what we had been unable to do in years. We all finally had a common bond or connection– a baby that we all loved and adored. I pinched myself to see if I was awake. Life was so great it had to be a dream.

“Samuel, Jessica, Ellen, Bridget can you all please come into the family room,” I yelled. Several different voices chimed in asking why we wanted them all right then or asking if they could come in a few minutes. “No we need everyone here right now,” I said firmly. There was the sound of pounding feet or was maybe it just the pounding of my heart as Brian and I waited for everyone to arrive. Brian was seated in the middle of the sectional sofa. Samuel sat down right next to him. I don’t remember where the girls sat. I was holding Gary in my arms. They were all looking at Brian eagerly waiting for him to announce plans for our next family vacation.

“I am going to die,” Brian said. No one moved. No one made a sound. Even Gary was quiet in my arms. “I have a terminal illness. There is no treatment or cure. I don’t know how long I have to live,” Brian continued. Samuel’s head was bowed and he was quietly crying. I could see the tears dropping onto his shirt. I felt the tears on my face as I hugged Gary close to me. Should I let the children see me cry I wondered? They are already losing one parent. If they see me cry will they be afraid they are losing both parents? I didn’t want them to think I didn’t love Brian. On the other hand I didn’t want to make life more traumatic than it already was for them.

It was surreal how the routines of life pushed the illness into the background. They acted like a salve. But the knowledge of illness and death was always there – like a dark specter following you and haunting you everywhere you went. The only relief was sleep at least some of the time.

You see Brian had gone to visit the doctor as he promised. That night, as our two week old infant slept in his crib next to our bed, Brian told me the doctor thought he had ALS. They wanted to do more tests to be certain. I had never heard of ALS before. Brian gently explained to me what it was and told me that there was no treatment or cure. I was numb. Somehow I was able to sleep.

“How do you live with this pain every day? How do you get up every day and do the things that need to be done knowing that one of the persons you love most in the world is dying a little more each day that passes?” I asked Walt. He was a marriage counselor Brian and I had been going to see, on and off, for several years. I didn’t really expect him to have an answer although I secretly hoped he might have even some small insight. Walt just looked at me with eyes that mirrored the despair in mine. He had no answers, not even any insights.

This was unchartered territory. There were no road maps and no guideposts to be found. There were no instruction manuals. Doctors provide the information regarding the physical progression of the disease but they have absolutely no information regarding the emotional aspect. I felt like I was falling off a cliff with no safety net. There was no hope that Brian would survive and I was starting to think there was no hope that I would survive either.

The demands of daily living came to my rescue. They numbed me to the pain. I felt like a zombie. I was physically present and functioning but emotionally I was absent. My physical body or shell performed the daily tasks but there was nothing inside.

Many years have passed yet I still get overcome with emotion as I write this. I am both sad and angry and everything in between. My emotions run the gauntlet. The past still has a powerful hold over me. Is that true for everyone or am I just weird?

I believe that some wounds are so deep they never completely heal. It is as if a piece has been ripped out of your heart leaving a huge gaping hole. In the beginning the edges of the wound are shredded, torn, raw and bleeding. The pain is excruciating and constant. Over time the wound begins to heal but the hole remains. If you touch the hole you no longer experience a sharp, stabbing pain as you did when the wound was new. But the wound is still tender enough that a touch can bring tears to your eyes. For me certain memories “touch” the wound.

My wound has remained tender for many, many years and I expect it will remain in this condition for the remainder of my days. I have come to accept that this wound will never completely heal. In some ways that is a good thing as it reminds me of some of the important lessons I learned from that horrendous experience. I learned to be grateful for what I do have and not to get distracted by less important things. It also has its dark side. If I am not careful, I can find myself travelling down that dark and well trod path of anger and bitterness.

“Get your affairs in order and prepare to die,” the doctor said to Brian when he gave us the final diagnosis. “There is no treatment or cure. The average life span after the onset of symptoms is 3 years,” the doctor continued. Brian asked some specific questions. Why is it that we often find comfort in knowledge? It is as if we believe a bunch of facts can change the outcome or ease the pain. I didn’t really listen to the conversation between Brian and the doctor. I listened to the sound of Brian’s voice thinking that I wouldn’t be hearing that for much longer. I was startled back to what was happening when the doctor spoke the word “coffin”. “It is often called the coffin disease because you are trapped in a dead and lifeless body. The brain is never affected by the disease,” the doctor continued.

Brian and I didn’t explain all of this to the children when we returned from the doctor’s office. I am not sure I ever really explained it to them. They were still in shock from the initial announcement. The children weren’t interested in details. I think it would have made things worse for them. They would have something else, in addition to death, to dread.

For the previous six months our life had been a series of highs and lows as we lived through a myriad of medical tests that would confirm or maybe even reject that diagnosis. ALS is a cruel disease. The emotional devastation begins long before the physical deterioration manifests itself. It started as we waited for the confirmation of the initial diagnosis. The only way to diagnosis ALS is by a process of elimination. If it doesn’t fit the pattern for other diseases then it must, by default, be ALS. I think we were given the final diagnosis at Christmas.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Your experiences

2011-07-05T08:52:00.000-07:00

I would love for you to share your personal stories or experiences. You can post them anonymously.

I apologize that I failed to mention that I was out of town last week and wouldn't be posting. I will be back on track for posting at least twice a week starting today or tomorrow.

Marriage and sometimes even a love story

2011-06-23T10:58:00.000-07:00

I won’t make it to 50 years with anyone I thought. I did the math in my head. Yeah there is no way I will make it to 50 years with anyone. I don’t have enough years left. Does it really matter? I won’t be missing out on a gold medal or anything. I don’t even think I will be missing out on having a close connection with another person. I will miss out on having a shared history but that requires too much living in the past and I have sworn off doing that.

I still remember the 50^th wedding anniversary party held for my Grandparents. It was quite an event – like planning and executing a wedding. My Grandmother wore a beautiful lace dress. There was a huge cake. It was held at a beautiful hotel. Guests brought gifts. I remember my Grandparents standing side by side in front of the gift table for a photo. They weren’t standing close enough to touch each other. What I remember most, because it struck me as so odd at the time, was the triumphant look on my Grandmother’s face. I didn’t understand that look back then. I was in high school at the time. She had triumphed. To her I think it was equivalent to winning an Olympic gold medal. She had made it. She crossed the finish line into the marriage longevity hall of fame. I realize, now that I am older, what an accomplishment that was and why she looked so triumphant. I, on the other hand, have failed. I respect my Grandparents for working to achieve something that was very important to them and their generation. I just don’t know if I place as much value on it. Maybe that is just a defensive attitude because I couldn’t do it but I don’t think so. My Grandfather died a few years after that celebration. I never saw my Grandmother cry over his death. I was jolted back to the present.

“Take the stand please m’am,” I heard someone say in my direction. I walked slowly up to the witness box. “Please raise your right hand and be sworn,” the bailiff said. I did. I was. I sat down. I looked around the courtroom. It was almost empty. He didn’t even bother to show up. I didn’t really expect him to. I was relieved he hadn’t fought the matter in the courts. The judge asked me a few questions. “You may step down now. If you wait the clerk will give you a copy of the divorce decree,” the judge said. That was it. Legally it was over. If only the emotional connection could be severed as quickly and simply as the legal one I thought. I didn’t “feel” anything. That drama – the emotional end -was playing out on a different stage. I moved on to the next task at hand. I had to get back to the office.

Have you ever noticed that unhappiness just kind of creeps up on you like vines growing on a trellis? A vine starts with gentle tendrils. The tendrils grow large and strong and become vines. If left alone, without any pruning or tending, these vines will warp and eventually break the trellis. So it is that little tendrils of unhappiness ever so surreptitiously start clinging to our soul. Some unhappiness is good as it helps us to grow and mature. However those tendrils of unhappiness can grow and grow until, if left unattended, they choke your soul. This is not sorrow. Sorrow is palpable and real. It makes itself known. This is not real depression. Depression has you totally in its grip.

Unhappiness is insidious. It is so easily disguised or explained as a momentary response to a temporary, unfortunate situation. It can be so easily ignored. It is so very dangerous because we can become accustomed to that emotional state and we stop being able to recognize when momentary unhappiness grows and becomes something more. We must always keep our finger on the pulse of our happiness or the tendrils of unhappiness will become vines and choke us. We must prune and tend. I let my unhappiness go for far too long. By the time I realized how unhappy I was it had much too strong a hold on me. Pruning and tending were ineffective. I had to tear the vine out by its roots and in the process my soul was irrevocably damaged.

“Mom, mom,” Jessica greeted me at the door when I arrived home from the office. It was about 7 pm. I had left for the office around 7 a.m. It was the day after Christmas. Usually the children came to greet me at the door when I arrived home. Today they didn’t. There was an eerie silence in the house. “Where are Ellen and Samuel?” Where is your Dad? “ I asked Jessica. She was clinging to me silently with her head buried in my stomach. “David, Ellen, Samuel,” I called out. No one answered. “Jessica you have to let go of me,” I said. Jessica finally looked up at me and said, “Mom, Dad broke all of Samuel’s toys with a baseball bat. He smashed them to pieces!” I started up the stairs to Samuel’s bedroom. I could see that the door to his room was closed. Jessica was still clinging to my waist. I felt like I was going to throw up. I pushed open the door to Samuel’s bedroom. Broken pieces of toys covered the floor. The ramp to the hot wheels garage he had just excitedly opened yesterday was in pieces on the floor in the middle of the room. I recognized other pieces of toys he had received for Christmas just yesterday. I was now calling frantically for Ellen and Samuel. David was nowhere to be found or so it seemed. I walked next door into Ellen’s room. She and Samuel were seated together on the floor playing with some of her toys. None of her toys were broken. I hugged and kissed them and then I went looking for David. He was in our bedroom. “How could you do that? You need to get out of the house right now!” I shouted at him. He said nothing. I think I shouted at him a while longer. He still said and did nothing.

Emulating my upbringing I went downstairs and fixed dinner. David remained in the bedroom. At dinner I talked a little bit but, for the most part, the children and I ate in silence. We didn’t discuss what happened. I had Jessica do her homework. I bathed the younger two and put them to bed. Samuel slept in Ellen’s room that night as I was too exhausted to clean his room. I would do it tomorrow night I said to myself. I closed the door to his room and told the children to stay out of there. I fell into bed exhausted. I convinced myself that it was better to maintain some order and predictably after such an ordeal. It was as if David had smashed our marriage to pieces that night along with the toys. I closed the door on the relationship that night as I closed the door to Samuel’s room with the broken toys in it. I knew then that I would file for divorce. The marriage had been broken for a long time.

TO BE CONTINUED.....

Are We Lost?

2011-06-21T12:41:00.000-07:00

I hate it. Every day over and over again it invades my consciousness. I do not want to believe it. I certainly do not want to be reminded of it everyday. I can’t escape it. It is in the news. It is in the newspaper. I hear it in the public conversations of everyday people. I observe it in the actions of all of us. We live in a compassionless world.

We were sitting in the lounge discussing the lesson for the day. We had been together as a group for about 3 months by then. It was a nine month course. I think there were about 16 people in the group. I really can’t remember what we were discussing that precipitated the remark. Irene was always a serious person but her face hardened as she spoke. “I resent when the administration tells me to take extra time or pay special attention to a particular kindergartner because his parents are going through a divorce,” she said through clenched teeth. “Why should I have to go out of my way to help people who are going through a divorce? It is their fault they are getting divorced, not mine,” she spat the words out angrily. As she spoke she puffed her chest out as a sign of her moral superiority.

The silence in the room was deafening. When no one murmured or made a sound, Irene looked around at the faces in the room. They were all frozen staring at her with the same incredulous expression. She was struck by the realization of what she had said. You could see it in her face. She didn’t say anything else. She quietly sat down. As I looked at her face I didn’t sense any regret for the feeling she expressed. I saw only embarrassment that she had made the confession here in front of all of us. After all we were in Church at a Bible study group.

Our leader at the Bible Study group was a person who exuded spirituality. It seemed to kind of seep out of her pores. She was the angel that had visited Brian and I that fateful day. After we finished staring at Irene we turned to stare at her. What could she possibly say that could reach Irene and placate the rest of us, I thought. We all waited breathlessly for some words of wisdom or for Irene, at least, to receive a tongue lashing from her. After all wasn’t this a great opportunity to teach Irene a lesson? “Let’s look at section two of our study guide,” was all Deborah said.

I asked Deborah later about this or maybe I should say confronted her about it. Deborah explained, “I have come to know that people attend church for all sorts of reasons most of which do not include a desire to really understand and follow the teachings of Jesus. The silence of the group spoke volumes to Irene. I suspect that the school district’s direct request backfired and that Irene actually treated that child worse than the other children. After today, when the administration makes that request, she will probably be more responsive.”

I have to admit that, at the time, I was disappointed. Since then I think I have come to understand what Deborah already knew. If Deborah had confronted her, Irene would have been backed into a corner and would have dug her heels in more regarding her self- righteous resentment. The reaction of the group and the silence of Deborah made an impression on her. Hopefully Irene saw her lack of compassion reflected back to her through our eyes like a reflection in the mirror.
In retrospect I wish Irene's behavior had reflected back to me my own routine failure to show compassion. I was a bit too self- righteous to recognize my own failings at the time. Other people's bad behavior and "character" flaws are always so clearly visible to us. Oh if only the same were true for our own!

“There but for the grace of God go I” is an expression that I used to hear a lot when I was a child. We would automatically repeat that phrase when we were confronted with or became aware of someone else’s misfortune. I never hear that anymore. In fact I can’t remember the last time I did hear it. Now I hear things like “They deserve it” or “I earned it and they didn’t”. If it isn’t directly spoken, it is implied. How did an attitude of gratitude get replaced by an attitude of entitlement? Is it all a result of our cultural marketing gurus touting self indulgent and self aggrandizement quips as a way to market their clients’ products? We seem to be bombarded with the slogan “You worked hard. You deserve …... You earned it.” Maybe after a while we started to believe that everything we have and everything we are was earned solely by our own efforts. After a while we even seem to have left out the “you worked hard” part of the equation.

I also, as a child, used to often hear, “Those to whom much is given, much is required” and “Waste not, want not”. All these expressions embodied acts of selflessness – looking beyond our own individual needs and wants to something bigger – something that would benefit others and the community. Sadly those expressions and the actions generated by such sentiments seem to have disappeared from our personal and national psyche.

I promised myself I wouldn’t cry. It was silly but here I was sitting in my car with tears streaming down my checks. I had just completed my route for “Meals on Wheels”. It is difficult, if not impossible, to have an attitude of callousness toward the less fortunate when we volunteer to serve them and witness their suffering, trials and tribulations first hand. I think our parents and grandparents understood that. Have we forgotten the simple lesson of humbly giving and serving the less fortunate? How can we want bigger cars, bigger houses and grandiose vacations when we see others who don’t have the basic necessities of life satisfied? Are they really to blame and if they are does that really matter? As I cried I reminded myself to be ever grateful for what I do have and how fortunate I am. “There but for the grace of God go I” I thought as I closed the door on the last client who was mentally handicapped. How could I have forgotten to be grateful? How could I have forgotten to make service to others an integral part of my life? It is, among other things, the quickest way to get me back to living with an attitude of gratitude?

What about God?

2011-06-15T08:44:00.000-07:00

“I believe in God,” I recently said to an acquaintance who was bashing religion. “I attend church regularly,” I added. Oh I can’t pat myself on the back for saying that because there were many, many times I was silent when the conversation turned to religion bashing. My current conversation abruptly and immediately stopped. It was a much more powerful response than words could ever be. The look on my acquaintance’s face said it all. Intelligent people don’t believe in God!

Why are we so called "intelligent" people embarrassed to say we believe in God and/or attend church regularly? Why do others look askance at those who make that confession? Why do I respond by failing to or being embarrassed to admit my faith? Am I really less intelligent because I believe in God?

“Girls are you dressed yet?” my Mother shouted up the stairs. My Sister and I had already managed to put on our frilly new dresses, lace ankle socks and patent leather shoes. We had helped each other with buttons and buckles. We were squealing with delight. “We’re coming,” we shouted down. We were still putting trying to put on our hats with the ribbons streaming down. It was such an exciting time! We weren’t going to Sunday school this day. We were too young to take communion but we were going to stay in the church with our parents for the entire service! We raced down the stairs. My Mother carefully inspected us. My Father and Brother were dressed in suits and ties. My Mother had on a new dress with a matching hat. My Mother, Sister and I wore white gloves.

When we arrived at the church, my parents greeted everyone in the narthex. As soon as we entered the sanctuary we were admonished to be very quiet and not to talk. There was a beautiful stained glass window in the front of the church. In the middle of that window was a huge cross. The sun was streaming through that window filling the sanctuary with light and warmth. Beautiful hymns were being played on the organ. The choir members were dressed in their robes and waiting in the narthex for their procession into the sanctuary. The minister was dressed in his black vestments with a purple sash. As we walked closer to the front of the church I saw many of my schoolmates sitting with their parents and siblings and sometimes grandparents. They too were dressed in frilly, lacy dresses and bonnets. The boys were in suits and ties. The ushers were setting up extra chairs around the sanctuary. The church would be overflowing. After we sat down, the minister and choir proceeded up the aisle singing “Jesus Christ is risen today… Alleluia”. As they entered the sanctuary we all rose and joined them in singing that hymn.

My Sister and I felt a bit wilted by the end of the service. After the service our parents visited with our friends, neighbors, parents of our schoolmates. We got to play with our friends. “Be careful with your new dress and shoes,” my Mother scolded us. We didn’t stay too long at church. We had to drive to our Grandparents’ house which was about an hour away. You see my Aunt, Uncle and Cousins had come from far away to spend the holiday with my Grandparents and us. They did that almost every year. We would all sit down together to eat a wonderful Sunday dinner of roast lamb my Grandmother had prepared. Then we could change clothes and play with our cousins while our Mother, Aunt and Grandmother cleaned up the kitchen.

Religion or at least church was an integral part of my childhood. It was one of the foundations of our community. Our time at church was both religious and social. My Sunday school class was made up primarily of my classmates from school and my teacher was almost always the mother of one of my friends. It was an outing- a break from the monotony of being at home. We didn’t have all the options for recreation the children do now. I have wonderful memories of the church of my childhood although that is not where my faith in God was born. But, perhaps the seeds were planted there.

“This is for you,” my Father said handing a package to me. “I couldn’t bear to throw it away when we sold the house.” My Parents had recently moved out of the house in which I had grown up. I unwrapped the package. I recognized it right away. I couldn’t believe he kept it all these years. Well maybe I can. My Father has always been very sentimental. The package contained something I had made one summer at Bible School. As I held it the memories of Bible School came flooding back. I was about 10 years old at the time. I was so proud of that glazed tile. I had drawn a picture of my dog on it.

In the summer we all went to Bible School. It is hard to imagine in these current times but we looked forward to those two weeks. Bible School was our break from the monotony of playing with the neighborhood kids. Neighborhood activities were fun but we wanted some variety. Many of my schoolmates attended Bible School along with me. My Mother and the mothers of my classmates were the teachers. We had arts and crafts. We learned stories from the Bible like we did in Sunday school. We had some recreation time together. The world felt safe and comfortable.

“Are we going to get to go the first day – Friday night?” I asked my Mother. “Can we go on Saturday as well? Can we play all the games? Can we buy something?” I continued to pester her. I was asking about the Fall Festival at the Church which was going to take place in a couple of weeks. My Sister and I were very excited. It was an annual event. My Mother was usually one of the organizers of that event. It took months to arrange and coordinate everything. Volunteers had to be procured and scheduled to man the many the booths and cook the dinner. The booths had to be set up by the fathers on the weekends or evenings. White elephant items had to be procured, tagged and displayed for sale. We played games and won prizes. My favorite game was throwing a bean bag into a backboard one of the fathers had made and painted. There was great food. We always had a dinner but there were snacks as well. I can still smell the sautéed mushrooms that were being prepared in electric skillets at one of the booths. I still love the smell and taste of sautéed mushrooms. It reminds me of the Fall Festival. As I think back to the time I spent at those festival and other church events I am overcome with a feeling of warmth and comfort.

As I matured I remained involved in the church. I taught Sunday school. I participated in the high school youth group. I attended church summer camp for two weeks although I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to do that. It was an expensive camp and I overheard my parents discussing whether they could afford it. In the end, they made some financial sacrifices because they thought it was important for me to attend. What a thrill!

The camp was located in the next state. It was a long bus ride but it was so worth it I thought. It had been a wonderful two weeks. We studied the Bible but we also did a lot of other things. We went sailing and water skiing on the lake. We had campfires, cooked smores, sang and talked.

“Camp is coming to a close. We want to encourage everyone to find a quiet spot and contemplate Jesus,” Sally, our Church Youth Minister said to all of us. She had accompanied us on this trip. During those two weeks Sally kept asking me if I had “experienced God”. I had no idea what that meant and I was feeling like a failure because “it” hadn’t happened for me. This would be my last opportunity to do that. I distinctly remember finding a tree, leaning against it and closing my eyes. I thought hard about God and Jesus for a short while. Then I just relaxed and tried to tune everything out. A short while later, I jumped up and ran to find Sally. “Jesus appeared to me,” I exclaimed to her. Sally was ecstatic. My experience and that of several others were announced to the whole group later that day.

“Jesus Christ appeared to me,” I wrote to my parents on a postcard from camp. I think that the camp counselor must have encouraged me to write because my family never discussed these types of things. Emotional or spiritual experiences were never a topic of conversation in our family. Our conversations focused on the physical events of school, work and church.

I was on an emotional high that lasted for several weeks after I returned from summer camp. But as more and more time passed I started to doubt my experience. We had so much pressure put on us to “experience Jesus” that I started to doubt my experience was genuine. I felt the youth minister put too much emphasis on those types of experiences. It turned me off to religion. I started drifting away from church and the youth group after that. The youth minister lost interest in me. I guess I wasn’t experiencing religion as she thought I should.

“We can’t afford it. I won’t fill out the financial aid application. Those colleges think parents should contribute huge amounts of money. It is ridiculous. We can’t contribute anywhere near the amount they will want from us,” my Father said. I had worked incredibly hard to have the credentials to be admitted to an Ivy League or similar University. Now my Father refused to allow me to apply. This was one of my first huge disappointments in life. I had the sophomoric notion that God could make this happen if He wanted to. In those days my faith in God was rather immature and I was angry at God. Other kids from my high school were accepted and attended the schools I wanted to go to. Their credentials were not as good as mine.

“Brad is attending a very expensive university away from home. Why can’t I do the same? ” I complained to my Father. “He will have to support a family,” my Father said to explain why my brother got to attend the university of his choice and I didn’t. I never got the message, which I understand some of my peers did, that a woman could be anything she wanted to be. I felt alienated from the world in which I had grown up and by implication that included God. I was depressed. I lived at home and attended college. That is what my parents could afford. I wouldn’t give God much thought again, if any, for at least 18 years.

The events of my life would compel to contemplate God again later especially as I cared for and watched my beloved husband die from Lou Gehrig's disease. However that is a topic for another day.

Embarking on our journey as a parent

2011-06-13T09:22:00.000-07:00

The phone rang. I instinctively looked at the clock before answering it. It was 4:30 am. Any time the phone rings before 7 am I am overcome with anxiety and a foreboding feeling that something bad has happened.

The divorce and its fallout have been the source of my most recent anxiety. But I have always lived with a lot of anxiety. Anxiety overshadowed or maybe even defined my early years as a parent.

I didn’t want to answer the telephone that morning. Calls at such hours rarely bring good news. But I was able to see the name of the caller displayed on caller ID. I still panicked. I picked up the phone. “I have to go to the hospital,” her voice said over the phone. “Do you want me to come with you?” I asked. “No, not now. D is going with me,” she said. “I will call when I need you”. “I love you," I said. I hung up the phone. I lay awake in bed for several hours until it was time to get up and take my youngest child to school. During that time I didn’t really have any cohesive thoughts just a lot of anxiety.

“I need you to come now,” she called to say sometime later that morning. I headed for the garage. Along the way, I stopped to clean the kitchen. I unloaded the dishwasher. I put a load of clothes in the washing machine. It was until about 45 minutes later that I remembered I was supposed to be somewhere else. No, I am not senile although my children often joke that I am.

“What you doing?” I asked myself in an exasperated voice. I talk to myself often, sometimes even out loud. I became aware that I was avoiding the trip. I was terrified to see my daughter suffer physically or emotionally. I am such a wimp when it comes to my children. I have had to learn, painfully, to step back so as not to rob them of their growing pains and experiences. They need to learn for themselves. This experience will mature my daughter, Jessica, greatly I say to myself somewhat convincingly. Still I wish I could endure the suffering for her. As I drove to the hospital my thoughts were mired in the past.

“Are you here all alone?” the nurse asked me. “Yes,” I replied. I had been alone in that room for what seemed like an eternity. I think I was actually in there all by myself for about 12 hours before I was wheeled to the surgical room and moved onto a cold hard metal table. At least in the delivery room I had the company of the doctor and the nurse.

“Where are you taking her?” I asked the nurse as she was removing my newborn daughter from my arms. “She has to go to the nursery and get checked out,” the nurse replied. “You can see her tomorrow,” she said. I was wheeled into the recovery room where I again spent a long time period of time alone. I didn’t see my baby, Jessica, again until sometime the next morning. My heart sank when they brought Jessica into my room. “Why is she in an incubator? What is wrong with her?” I shot off in panic. “It is just a precaution because of the condition you had while you were pregnant,” the nurse replied. I emitted a huge, audible sigh of relief. I took Jessica into my arms. There really are no words to describe the rush of feelings you experience when you hold your newborn child.

The “script” set out for my generation provided that women got married and had children at a young age by today’s standards. I had absolutely no idea what I was doing or what I was getting into when I became a parent. It makes sense that new parents typically look to their parents to learn how to parent. But I knew even before I had Jessica that such a plan wouldn’t work for me. When Jessica arrived essentially all I knew about parenting was that I didn’t not want to be a mother like my Mother. That was the extent of my knowledge along with a little bit of experience I gained from babysitting some of the neighborhood children when I was a teenager.

For me, becoming a parent was the most significant maturing experience of my life. I was totally responsible for another person. I would have to put her needs first and always think about what was best for her in everything I did. My primary focus was no longer and could no longer be myself. I don’t know that I was afraid or overwhelmed by any of that. It all just seemed to be part of the natural progression of life.

Many women of my generation didn’t follow the “script”. They elected not to have children. I really didn’t think of that as an option when I was young. I am thankful that I was blissfully ignorant of the other choice. While I enjoy the company of these women tremendously there is a chasm that divides us. They never learned to put another first. They never experienced the kind of love where you would sacrifice everything for another –your child. What a loss! From the moment Jessica was born my life would never be the same. Being a parent has brought me the most joy and the most pain in my life. It has enriched my life beyond measure.

Now my daughter was about to embark on this sobering and enriching experience herself. Life has come full circle as they say - whoever “they” are. My daughter, Jessica, is now giving birth to her first child. In fact as I write this I am sitting in her “birthing” room with her. Writing this would distract from my worries or so I hoped.

The nurse bustled into the room and checked some machines - those annoying things that kept beeping. She was very brusque with a no nonsense attitude. She never said much. “How is everything going?” I asked. “You’ll make it. When I had my babies my husband was in the Navy. They knocked you out and you woke up with a baby. Those nurses gave you no sympathy,” she said. Things haven’t changed much I said to myself. She was my only human contact during many long hours of labor.

“Is that you making all of that noise?” I heard someone ask. I turned to see my doctor standing by my bedside. It was very dark outside now. When I arrived the sun was just coming up. She reached out and touched my arm. My entire body relaxed and I a feeling of warmth and comfort literally spread from where she touched my arm through my entire body. It was overwhelming. I was struck, in spite of all my desperation, by the power of the human touch. I feel it now as I recall that night. I have tried so hard to remember to touch my children. It is not something I grew up with so I have to remind myself to do it. My great grandfather expressed the importance of the human touch much better than I ever could:

Tis the human touch in this world that counts,

The touch of your hand and mine,

Which means far more to the fainting heart

Than shelter and bread and wine

For shelter is gone when the night is o’er,

And bread lasts only a day,

But the touch of the hand and the sound of the voice

Sing in the soul away.

The birthing process was, thankfully, so different for Jessica. I felt both envious and relieved. I am relieved that she will not suffer physically or emotionally as I did. She has her husband by her side and other family members when she wants. The nurses are so kind. She can dispense her own pain medication. They even gave her medication to speed up the process.

I wanted to forget my first birthing experience other than the moment when I first held that beautiful baby girl in my arms. The only time I wanted to remember is when we mothers were telling our “war stories”. We would compete as to who had the worst and most painful childbirth experience. I have some pretty gruesome “war” experiences to relate. In true puritan WASP fashion I felt I had to forgo any comforts to give birth. If I had taken any medication or made it in any way easy on myself I would not have been blessed with my beautiful baby or so I unconsciously believed.

I unconsciously believed that everything in life was earned including good fortune and happiness. They are earned through suffering. Suffering has the added benefit of keeping anxiety at bay. Something bad is already happening so I didn’t have to be anxious as to what misfortune lie ahead. Is this a vestige of the Biblical teaching of Adam and Eve that the price of sin is suffering?

I have always had a difficult time with the concept that love and good fortune are gifts to be appreciated and enjoyed. I had difficulty accepting such gifts, any gifts. I felt everything had to be earned including love. I also believed I had to go it totally alone on this journey. Isn’t it a sign of weakness to need anyone or any help? I would never want to appear weak. These attitudes would leave a mark on my early years as a parent. I would make things as difficult as possible for myself to test myself, to earn love and good fortune and keep anxiety at bay. I was unconsciously seeking out difficult circumstances to see if I could survive them. It was a test I could never complete. Unfortunately my drive to make things as difficult for myself also made things incredibly difficult for my children. I think I was just unaware that I was operating under this principle at all. That is just how I functioned. So I was oblivious to the consequences to my children as well. You can see now why I assess myself as a terrible parent. There are other compelling reasons as well.

“There are no purple hearts given out for suffering and pain,” the Jessica’s doctor said. I could see, on Jessica’s face that she was struggling with the concept that she will not suffer as much as she should. (Maybe she has heard too many war stories). Thankfully she is able to fight off that WASP urge to suffer. “You can control the medication with this pump,” the nurse told her. “It will numb the pain and speed up the process.” Jessica nodded that she understood. This to me was a triumph. Jessica was able to accept the help of modern science and the comfort offered by her loved ones.

I have anticipated this day with much joy and much fear and trepidation. I fear that my daughter will have to suffer too much or experience some life threatening complication. I am joyful that there will be a new person in this world to care for and to love. I fear that, even with all the tools of modern science, the baby may not be healthy.

I have fears about getting older. I am apprehensive about becoming a grandmother. After all grandmothers smell like formaldehyde and are totally out of touch with what goes on in the world. I don’t want to be one of those grandmas nor do I want to be one of those modern grandmas who strive to look like the mother rather than the grandmother. With the birth of my first grandchild staring me in the face, I can no longer deny the passage of years simply by refusing to look closely at myself in the mirror.

Jessica’s husband came into the waiting room. “We have a beautiful, healthy baby girl!” he said with such joy and relief. “Mom she is healthy!” Jessica said to me when I was able to enter the birthing room. We all had the same concerns I thought to myself. Why didn’t we share our concerns with each other? Were we afraid to speak to each other about them for fear we would upset each other by discussing what in reality we all already knew. How silly to think that everyone would not be aware of the potential dangers. Worries and fears that are shared are so much less powerful I think. Oh the WASP ways are so ever powerful!

“Can you come to the hospital with me?” is what I should have asked him. Instead I was silent and David went to work – a business trip – from which he would have to be called back after Jessica was born. I did not want to appear like I needed any help. I would do it on my own. I don’t think David really wanted to be present for the birth anyway. David arrived at the hospital after I had been moved from the recovery room to my hospital room. “You should have been here an hour or so ago. What took you so long to get here?” I asked. “Well I had to go home and shower before I came here,” he replied. “The baby was born about an hour ago,” I said to him. David stayed just a few minutes and then left. After all I was totally exhausted.

You are going to cry,” Jessica said making fun of me. “No I am not,” I replied as I looked into the face of the new baby. The resemblance to Jessica was absolutely uncanny at least in my mind. I felt a little numb. Memories flooded into the present and sometimes I couldn’t distinguish between the past and the present. I kept repeating to Jessica, “She looks just like you!” until even Jessica got sick of hearing it. I felt like I was somewhere outside of my body watching this all happen. Maybe that is just my defense mechanism when my emotions overpower me and I can’t control them.

“How did you know it was the right time to have a baby,” a friend of mine asked a few months after Jessica was born. She was much older than I and had been married for many years. “We need to save more money and James has to get a better job so I can quit working,” she said. She continued to tell me all the things that would have to change or occur before she would be ready to have a baby. I listened. “There is never a perfect time to have a baby. You just do it. If you wait for the perfect time it will never happen,” I replied in all my immature wisdom. That turned out to be all too true for my friend. She never had a baby even though I know she desperately wanted one. I guess it was never the perfect time for her. Is it ever? Isn’t dealing with the unpredictability of life a catalyst for personal growth? I am not advocating the absence of planning but, as with everything, shouldn’t there be a balance? Doesn’t too much planning make life stale?

Will we always feel a connection to our partner even after the relationship ends bitterly?

2011-06-09T12:00:00.000-07:00

I looked across the table over the heads of the two lawyers. Our eyes met and I felt a huge surge of love flowing in both directions and then a wave of despair rolled over me. Wasn’t it only yesterday – 8 years ago is like yesterday when you are my age – when we looked across at each other in a very different setting with a huge surge of love. I had just seen our wedding photos. He had introduced them into evidence at the trial. I did not want to cry here in front of him, the judge and the lawyers. It was difficult to hold back the tears as my lawyer began to ask me the questions that are a prerequisite to the granting of a divorce.

The love was still there and at that moment it felt as strong as it had on our wedding day. Why hadn’t we – he and I – been able to build on that powerful feeling of love to create a fulfilling and lasting relationship? I wanted to shout to the judge – stop we still love each other – we could still make a go of it. It had to be a mistake if that feeling could last through all of the acrimony of the last two years. What if we just changed a few things – then it would work. I forgot. We, or at least I, had already tried all of those things. Then the reality set in. It was over. The feeling of despair swept over me like the force of a powerful wind. I felt like I swayed from the power of that force. I had to sit down for a moment.

He had already moved onto another relationship. It was eerily similar to what we had shared – at least outwardly. When I heard this I felt a huge emptiness and I was angry with myself for having that feeling. As if feelings can be bad! But I was raised on that. By this time I understood that we can’t control feelings only our response to them. But of course that went out of my head in the power of the moment. He was creep, a cad. He had used me. How could I be stupid enough to still have feelings for him? Love – in whatever way shape or form is such a mystery.

I wanted to reconnect even if just for a few moments after the judge announced that we were divorced. We had actually connected briefly a little earlier. I was sitting in a small conference room with my lawyer waiting for the trial to begin. The door opened. “Can I talk to you alone?” he asked but it was his eyes that pleaded with me to let him in. This was probably just another con or so I thought. I hadn’t seen him or spoken to him in over 6 months. Any contact was too acrimonious so I stopped communicating. I finally accepted that this marriage would never end in even a remotely amicable fashion. So I was very surprised when he poked his head in the door. I signaled to my lawyer that it was OK. She left the room reluctantly.

His voice and demeanor were so soft and loving that I couldn’t help responding. It was such a complete contrast to the anger and animosity of our communications of the past two years. He started talking to me about his new life and business. I wondered to myself why I was listening. What did I care about his new life and why would he think I would care? Still I listened. I found myself listening intently, asking questions, caring if he was happy. He confided in me. But I was better now at distinguishing between his lies and his truth. I needed to engage my brain to remind me that no matter how I felt at this moment – this relationship was over – it was not good for me even though he was right now acting like the person I had fallen in love with. He was at his best but, as in the past, circumstances would call up the worst in him. That is not to say that was not true for me as well but only that this is my story to tell, not his.

Stress was his Achilles heel. Stress brought out the worst in his personality as, I think, it does everyone. Just like pain some people have a lower tolerance to stress. For him stress was created by anything that didn’t go his way. He couldn’t adapt. That forced me to unconsciously work to create a world for him where everything went his way. It was exhausting and I lost myself in the process. It seems the more I compromised and the harder I tried the less he tried. Could I have forced him to compromise more by being more unyielding myself or would it just have sped up the inevitable demise of the relationship? The seeds of the end were planted at the very beginning. Here we were at the legal end. I so wanted it to be the emotional end as well.

He seemed anxious to return to his new relationship and busy life. The new life that was so eerily similar to the life we had shared. I suspect that helped him bury the pain if he felt any. We sat and talked in that small conference room adjacent to the court room in that intimate way married people can and do. It amazed me how easily we slipped back into that mode. He asked about my children. I asked about his. We asked about each other’s parents. We had a history of experiences and connections that was unique to the two of us. We relived that connection if only for those few moments. I knew that a part of him was trying to tap into that connection in order to get a good deal in the divorce but it still felt good to connect again.

After a few moments we had nothing else to say to each other. He said what he really came to say – a dollar amount he wanted from me to settle the matter. I nodded and said, “Let me talk to my lawyer.” He tried to get me to agree without her but I resisted. He silently left the room. As I waited for my lawyer to return I was struck by the irony of it all. The most intimate relationship in the world was boiling down to a business decision about money.

As I testified he continued to look at me with that same loving look he had in the conference room. I was frantically searching for some way to get through this time on the witness stand with some dignity. Tears were welling up in my eyes. “STOP,” I wanted to shout. We can make it work. We still love each other. Didn’t our meeting in the small conference room prove that?

“Counsel if you present me with the divorce decree tomorrow I will sign it,” the judge pronounced. “You are excused,” he said to me in the witness box. The pronouncement felt like an execution – at least of the relationship. We gathered up our papers and left the courtroom. The bailiff locked the courtroom door behind us. The closing of the door and the clicking of the lock resonated with me. It was like the door to our relationship was forever closed and locked but unfortunately not forgotten.

He ran ahead and hurriedly got into the elevator alone. He had many important things to get back to or at least that is the impression he wanted to give me. I walked more slowly discussing and dissecting what had happened that day with my lawyer from a legal standpoint. This settlement had come as a complete surprise to both of us. The halls, along with my soul, echoed with emptiness as the bailiffs shooed away the last few occupants of the building. I was alone when I left the courthouse. This was it. This was the end to a beautiful beginning which had been so full of promise and love that even after all the intense animosity of the past years my composure was shattered thinking of it. I kept telling myself how stupid I was to feel this way but that didn’t help me regain my composure or feel less pain. Change is so much our enemy and so much our friend.

I called him on his cell phone after I left the courthouse. He answered. We talked more about his life. He talked of including me in his new life with an offer to play some part in one of his new business ventures. I think we both knew that would never happen but we discussed it anyway. We talked for 30 minutes or so and I hung up only when I reached my friend’s house where I was to have dinner. He called me back about an hour later while I was still at my friend’s house. I didn’t answer the phone. My friends wouldn’t understand. He didn’t leave a message.

My friends wanted to go out and celebrate the granting of the divorce. I couldn’t stop crying. You see he and I had loved each other very much once at least I thought we did. We were happy together for a number of years. In spite of the ordeal of the last few years I was sad over the loss of that love.

I am not bitter. I think you can only be bitter if you blame someone other than yourself for a situation. I have acquired at least enough maturity and experience to realize that I am responsible for the present situation. I made the choices that brought me here. I alone am to blame, not him. He could only be who he is. I could not expect him to be otherwise. Sure he could have changed if he wanted to but he didn’t want to. His number one priority was getting what he wanted and I was a means to that end. When I stopped serving that purpose the relationship was over.

“Maybe we can celebrate another day” I said to my friends. I stayed home that evening and cried. There seems to be something so wrong about celebrating the end of a beautiful beginning. I couldn’t do that. I haven’t spoken to for heard from Warren since the day the divorce was granted. I am thankful for that.

Have you ever been haunted by the what ifs of your life?

2011-06-08T12:20:00.000-07:00

I have been haunted by a nagging compulsion to make sense of my life for the last several years. It became even more intense upon the demise of this, my last marriage. Something is pushing me down this path. I feel agitated every time I put this “project” on hold. I will have no peace until I do. It seems like a silly and useless thing to do. The past can’t be changed. I can’t change myself much at my age. My life shaping decisions were made long ago when I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. I have passed more than the halfway mark in my life. What is the point? I don’t have too many places to go in the future. What could the future possibly have in store for me at this time in my life? Still some irrational force is pushing me to sift through my life.

Venice, Rome, Florence, Piso, Orvieto – great food, great sights, great history, great wine, great company, exhilarating romance. Is there a better place to fall in love than Italy? Romance does not always have to lead to commitment except for me. I hadn’t learned as much as I thought I guess. I was raised that love and sex could not be separated from commitment. This new generation seems to be at the other end of the spectrum – sex without love or commitment. As a therapist said to me, “You don’t have to marry everyone you have sex with.” If only I could have internalized that.

Perhaps my Sister put it best when she so crudely said, about the trip to Italy , “I thought you just wanted to get laid. You didn’t have to turn it into something more”. If only I had listened to my Sisters vulgar words of wisdom. What if I had taken her advice? What would my life look like now? Would I be happier or more content? Did I get anything positive out of my last marriage or was it all just one big terrible mistake? What if I read too much into my chance encounter with Warren? What if “Fate” really had other choices in mind for me other than the one I took?