Carmi is my dad's caregiver. She works 24/5. She is patient and appropriate with my dad, has learned when to step in and stop him when he's about to say or do something offensive, and she continues to assume more and more responsibilities around the house. She is both mentally and physically quick and strong. Her two patients prior to my dad both weighed more than 300 pounds. She managed all the care and finances of one. The second one had been mentally reduced to that of a child by the time she was hired to care for him. She does unimaginably dirty tasks tending to such things as bathrooming care and accident clean-up. She has been speaking English for only about 8 or 9 years but figures out the answers to the puzzles on Wheel of Fortune just as quickly as most native speakers. In her homeland, she is a graduate nurse. She cannot get nursing work here unless she goes back to school and then passes the nursing boards. She has been kind, respectful, helpful and generous with us, even buying Laura the new crib she wanted when Laura announced she was expecting. She has an easy way about her, an engaging laugh and and is quick to smile. She joins in conversations and is discreet with secrets. I find myself learning from this woman of strength and character.
Imagine the old Red Skelton Show's Freddy the Freeloader, multiply him times forty, and you have Carmi's family. Yes, I know it's customary for people to work in the U.S. and mail most of their money to family back home. I also know it's customary to skimp on things because the satisfaction of knowing your loved ones are cared for, well-fed, and have roofs over their heads is highly regarded in some cultures. But is it customary for members who lie about why they need money? Is it acceptable for family members to repeatedly badger a person with international calls because they want to buy a television? Here's the other thing: Carmi's older brother and sister inherited all of their parents' money and properties, spent the money, sold the properties, and never worked a day in their lives. Carmi, on the other hand, has worked for over thirty years, bought properties, built houses, established a co-op to lend seed money to farmers and she recently bought a grange. In the meantime she has also put countless siblings, nieces and nephews through school, she has paid for weddings and funerals, cars, motorbikes and trucks, and saved for her retirement. She has no credit card debt and just bought her first new car. She now is expected, by some code of ethics, to support her sister who does nothing more than sit on her rear. Carmi knows some members of her family take advantage of her but she continues to support them. She doesn't mind, she says. She doesn't expect any payment in return but would be happy if her family members were to pay it forward. She says that when she retires and returns home, her family will wait on her. They will clean her house, prepare and serve her food, and let her luxuriate in her old age. In the meantime, she is waiting on us.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Today
Today was rough. I woke at 4:00 a.m. with another nightmare about me and Bill. I wrote it down, took an Ambien 'booster' (about 2 mg), set my alarm for 8:20 and then went back to sleep. I woke before 8:00 feeling groggy yet unable to go back to sleep. I didn't want to be late to meet my first ex. He was always so punctual, reliable, and conscientious. He had been very gracious when I had asked him to clear up the paperwork with his entitlement to my retirement.
I had to meet him at a place where he signed and I notarized a waiver. He was driving a nice car; I was glad he was giving himself nice things. He had had his nose fixed and his teeth capped. His hair was no longer a beautiful auburn but salt and pepper. He was in good shape and looked much better than he had the last time I had seen him. We chatted. I asked him about his family; he asked about mine. Somehow I told him about Laura being pregnant. He thought she was still in high school and doing what a lot of the girls at his high school do: have babies like they're getting a new toy, then leave the babies for their mothers to tend while they finish high school. Nope, I said, she's 22 and Kyle's 24. I told him my dad was difficult to live with how surprising that was for me, and how controlling he is. He reminded me that I had never really lived with my dad, so how could I have known? He said my dad could have been that way all the time. I think he was right. He said his mother was still alive and quite controlling. I said I knew that and was glad he did as well. He said he goes to see his mom for a couple of hours at a time and then he has to get out. I said I bet but then I added that his mom was very loving and generous and thought the world of him. I didn't want to insult him or make it sound like I didn't like his mom.
I told him my divorce was pricey. He said that I would do the same to Bill if the tables were turned. He had a point. He said it seemed that Bill wouldn't be hireable by anyone and would have no means of supporting himself. Wouldn't I do the same if I were in his shoes? I said yes. I left out the part about the gambling addiction. He said his last wife got part of his retirement. I said $10,000? He said, no, $2000. I said try $80,000. I said Bill was crazy. He said he knew. I said no, really crazy, like diagnosed crazy. He said he knew. I said bipolar. He said yea, as soon as your dad told me that I knew your marriage was doomed. UH-OH! Somebody's dad made a huge overshare violation! What in the world was my father thinking when he told my EX-husband that my current husband was bipolar---and how long ago did he do that? Yikes! It's not okay to do that ever. I have a bad feeling. When did my dad tell him? I also have a feeling I didn't need to mention the part about the gambling addiction. I think he already knows about that too.
I didn't get much sympathy from this ex-husband. But I understand. He thought I was having an affair with Bill when I left him. I wasn't. I didn't know Bill. I rented an apartment from Bill when I left and that's how I got to know him. I had met Bill on two previous occasions but hadn't remembered them or him. But I still hurt this man very, very badly. It devastated him when I left. He felt betrayed and telling people I was having an affair probably soothed him. I think it's easier to say your spouse left you for another person than it is to say your spouse left you because you are you.
Next up: Laura. She babysits twins. On Wednesday I dropped her off at the twins' house and within two minutes she was texting me to come back to get her. The twins' mother had the flu and the twins had had it already. I picked her up and we took the twins to our house for the day. Last evening Laura came down with it. She was pale, in a lot of pain with volcanic intestinal activity and possibly having contractions. She threw up her Taco Bell. She and Kyle went to the ER. Arriving at the ER they were ushered straight up to Labor and Delivery. The staff tried to give her an IV but missed her vein. Her hand puffed up and she was even more miserable. They managed to give her some fluids. She was having contractions. I prayed that they could stop the contractions. I guess they did. She and Kyle came home sometime in the night, around midnight I think. I was aware of them coming home but I have had trouble sleeping.
This morning she woke up with a fever. They went back to the ER where they were again sent to Labor and Delivery. Since I had met my ex at a place close to the hospital, I drove on over to see her. I was worried. She was hooked up to all sorts of monitors. She was in a lot of pain and shivering, and they didn't want to give her covers because they said it wasn't good for the baby. She was trying to drink water but it was making her more cold. The nurse had asked her if someone she knew had been sick and she had said no. WHAT???? I mentioned to the nurse that the woman for whom Laura babysits had had the flu. Laura had thought they were asking her if anyone had had measles, rubella, chicken pox or the mumps. She really missed the obvious question there. After the nurse spoke to me, they were less alarmed about Laura's condition and sent her home around noon.
In all of this, I had to cancel going up to Santa Barbara to spend the day with a friend who is renting a house there for the week. It is extremely foggy here anyway and I was a little worried the driving would be treacherous. It's still foggy and this stuff is thick. It's okay not to be driving in it. But I had been looking forward to the day.
I had to meet him at a place where he signed and I notarized a waiver. He was driving a nice car; I was glad he was giving himself nice things. He had had his nose fixed and his teeth capped. His hair was no longer a beautiful auburn but salt and pepper. He was in good shape and looked much better than he had the last time I had seen him. We chatted. I asked him about his family; he asked about mine. Somehow I told him about Laura being pregnant. He thought she was still in high school and doing what a lot of the girls at his high school do: have babies like they're getting a new toy, then leave the babies for their mothers to tend while they finish high school. Nope, I said, she's 22 and Kyle's 24. I told him my dad was difficult to live with how surprising that was for me, and how controlling he is. He reminded me that I had never really lived with my dad, so how could I have known? He said my dad could have been that way all the time. I think he was right. He said his mother was still alive and quite controlling. I said I knew that and was glad he did as well. He said he goes to see his mom for a couple of hours at a time and then he has to get out. I said I bet but then I added that his mom was very loving and generous and thought the world of him. I didn't want to insult him or make it sound like I didn't like his mom.
I told him my divorce was pricey. He said that I would do the same to Bill if the tables were turned. He had a point. He said it seemed that Bill wouldn't be hireable by anyone and would have no means of supporting himself. Wouldn't I do the same if I were in his shoes? I said yes. I left out the part about the gambling addiction. He said his last wife got part of his retirement. I said $10,000? He said, no, $2000. I said try $80,000. I said Bill was crazy. He said he knew. I said no, really crazy, like diagnosed crazy. He said he knew. I said bipolar. He said yea, as soon as your dad told me that I knew your marriage was doomed. UH-OH! Somebody's dad made a huge overshare violation! What in the world was my father thinking when he told my EX-husband that my current husband was bipolar---and how long ago did he do that? Yikes! It's not okay to do that ever. I have a bad feeling. When did my dad tell him? I also have a feeling I didn't need to mention the part about the gambling addiction. I think he already knows about that too.
I didn't get much sympathy from this ex-husband. But I understand. He thought I was having an affair with Bill when I left him. I wasn't. I didn't know Bill. I rented an apartment from Bill when I left and that's how I got to know him. I had met Bill on two previous occasions but hadn't remembered them or him. But I still hurt this man very, very badly. It devastated him when I left. He felt betrayed and telling people I was having an affair probably soothed him. I think it's easier to say your spouse left you for another person than it is to say your spouse left you because you are you.
Next up: Laura. She babysits twins. On Wednesday I dropped her off at the twins' house and within two minutes she was texting me to come back to get her. The twins' mother had the flu and the twins had had it already. I picked her up and we took the twins to our house for the day. Last evening Laura came down with it. She was pale, in a lot of pain with volcanic intestinal activity and possibly having contractions. She threw up her Taco Bell. She and Kyle went to the ER. Arriving at the ER they were ushered straight up to Labor and Delivery. The staff tried to give her an IV but missed her vein. Her hand puffed up and she was even more miserable. They managed to give her some fluids. She was having contractions. I prayed that they could stop the contractions. I guess they did. She and Kyle came home sometime in the night, around midnight I think. I was aware of them coming home but I have had trouble sleeping.
This morning she woke up with a fever. They went back to the ER where they were again sent to Labor and Delivery. Since I had met my ex at a place close to the hospital, I drove on over to see her. I was worried. She was hooked up to all sorts of monitors. She was in a lot of pain and shivering, and they didn't want to give her covers because they said it wasn't good for the baby. She was trying to drink water but it was making her more cold. The nurse had asked her if someone she knew had been sick and she had said no. WHAT???? I mentioned to the nurse that the woman for whom Laura babysits had had the flu. Laura had thought they were asking her if anyone had had measles, rubella, chicken pox or the mumps. She really missed the obvious question there. After the nurse spoke to me, they were less alarmed about Laura's condition and sent her home around noon.
In all of this, I had to cancel going up to Santa Barbara to spend the day with a friend who is renting a house there for the week. It is extremely foggy here anyway and I was a little worried the driving would be treacherous. It's still foggy and this stuff is thick. It's okay not to be driving in it. But I had been looking forward to the day.
Monday, December 26, 2011
The Truth (I Think I Can Handle It)
In 'A Few Good Men' Jack Nicholson says, "You want the truth? You can't HANDLE the truth!" I've always loved that. It's a brutally honest statement. How many times do you want to hear the truth but tremble when you think you might hear something for which you aren't prepared? It's tough to detect your own 'truth' when you're in the midst of it, so hard to analyze and capture who you are, so much easier to pin down someone else's qualities, not because that's a nasty thing to do; it's just easier to define another person because you're not distracted by all the extraneous information. For that reason, another person can bare your truth to you and it can be shocking.
Whatever it takes, my task here is to tell the truth as best I can. I have to combat the lies that try to invade my thinking, skew the logic, rewrite what has happened, and I need to clean up the dirty parts. So here I will put what I think is the truth, and it might be more exposing and painful than writing about the lies.
The truth is that I keep my word, I am loyal and reliable, I take my commitments very seriously, I am naive and I am hopeful. I am fun, funny, very smart, very hardworking, somewhat pretty, have aged well, have a decent body for a 60-year-old, am loving and responsible. I am nurturing and patient, am usually a reliable friend and pretty good with money. OK, that's the good stuff.
The other part of the truth is that I find it difficult to stand up for myself because I don't like conflict, I don't like arguing, I don't like strife, and as a result I have made too many concessions in order to keep the peace. It's also easy for me to feel guilty and I feel horrible and unforgiving of myself when I feel guilty. I withdraw rather than confront. I can end up sacrificing honesty in order to avoid conflict. That can end up looking two-faced. I don't like that quality in others and don't like it in myself. As a subconscious coping mechanism, I can shut down and tune out. One of my sisters says I go into my own little world at times. Not only do I do that when I feel I have no control over a situation, I do it when I am tired of someone--not necessarily angry with them, just needing a break from them. I can be too trusting and optimistic in a way that causes me harm.
Then there are nervous habits, or the things that can be annoying, or unglamorous. I don't like to dust. Piles of paper grow in my surroundings, and I dislike cleaning them up. I also dislike filing. Although I would like a more streamlined environment than I have, it's hard for me to throw things out. It's hard for me to put certain types of things away, and the environmental chaos I cause for myself disturbs me. And at work I think that disturbs others.
When I am thinking about something or even driving in the car, I pick the left side of my lower lip. I will, on occasion, pick my nose. I have been known to talk with food in my mouth. Although I try not to, it's just hard to wait to say things at times. My father will tell you I eat too fast and I am always late. The truth is I'm not ALWAYS late, but I have an intense dislike of waiting for others. And sometimes I eat too fast. Laura tells me my worst quality is when we are going on a trip and I get anxious about leaving on time. There are reasons for that but I have promised her I will work very hard at not getting snippy when I want us to get going. But I've got to say, that if that's what my daughter sees as my worst quality, and we only go on three trips a year, that's not too bad. Laura also says that having my dad in the home is something that would put off men. It certainly put off Bill, but I don't want to put my dad in a 'home'. Next I am going to ask Kyle what he thinks are my poor qualities and I have a feeling I am going to get a very different answer.
Sometimes I can act like a know-it-all. Sometimes I interrupt. Sometimes I'm not grateful when I should be, or reciprocate enough, and I don't think I am astute enough when I'm with my friends and then I have trouble coming up with ideas for gifts for them---but it's not that I don't care about them. When I am worrying about money, I find it hard to be generous.
Bill said I wasn't focusing on him. It was true. I was torn during those last six to eight months with him. This was not because he had cancer; this was because he had taken money from me (again) in the form of buying himself a $3300 camera on my credit card, he had started trying to access more of my dad's money while concurrently being very unkind to him, and he had started insulting me. (I didn't even know about the gambling yet.) I was staying with him because I felt it was my duty. I didn't love him like a wife should because I felt he was betraying me and setting me up again. Therefore, a number of times I was just going through the motions as a wife. I wasn't devastated that my husband was supposed to be dying. I was sad and a little frightened, but honestly---painfully honestly---there was an amount of relief. Ouch, it hurts to write that. It had been a difficult marriage, at times exhausting. I thought I was being given an 'out'. Ouch again.
Whatever it takes, my task here is to tell the truth as best I can. I have to combat the lies that try to invade my thinking, skew the logic, rewrite what has happened, and I need to clean up the dirty parts. So here I will put what I think is the truth, and it might be more exposing and painful than writing about the lies.
The truth is that I keep my word, I am loyal and reliable, I take my commitments very seriously, I am naive and I am hopeful. I am fun, funny, very smart, very hardworking, somewhat pretty, have aged well, have a decent body for a 60-year-old, am loving and responsible. I am nurturing and patient, am usually a reliable friend and pretty good with money. OK, that's the good stuff.
The other part of the truth is that I find it difficult to stand up for myself because I don't like conflict, I don't like arguing, I don't like strife, and as a result I have made too many concessions in order to keep the peace. It's also easy for me to feel guilty and I feel horrible and unforgiving of myself when I feel guilty. I withdraw rather than confront. I can end up sacrificing honesty in order to avoid conflict. That can end up looking two-faced. I don't like that quality in others and don't like it in myself. As a subconscious coping mechanism, I can shut down and tune out. One of my sisters says I go into my own little world at times. Not only do I do that when I feel I have no control over a situation, I do it when I am tired of someone--not necessarily angry with them, just needing a break from them. I can be too trusting and optimistic in a way that causes me harm.
Then there are nervous habits, or the things that can be annoying, or unglamorous. I don't like to dust. Piles of paper grow in my surroundings, and I dislike cleaning them up. I also dislike filing. Although I would like a more streamlined environment than I have, it's hard for me to throw things out. It's hard for me to put certain types of things away, and the environmental chaos I cause for myself disturbs me. And at work I think that disturbs others.
When I am thinking about something or even driving in the car, I pick the left side of my lower lip. I will, on occasion, pick my nose. I have been known to talk with food in my mouth. Although I try not to, it's just hard to wait to say things at times. My father will tell you I eat too fast and I am always late. The truth is I'm not ALWAYS late, but I have an intense dislike of waiting for others. And sometimes I eat too fast. Laura tells me my worst quality is when we are going on a trip and I get anxious about leaving on time. There are reasons for that but I have promised her I will work very hard at not getting snippy when I want us to get going. But I've got to say, that if that's what my daughter sees as my worst quality, and we only go on three trips a year, that's not too bad. Laura also says that having my dad in the home is something that would put off men. It certainly put off Bill, but I don't want to put my dad in a 'home'. Next I am going to ask Kyle what he thinks are my poor qualities and I have a feeling I am going to get a very different answer.
Sometimes I can act like a know-it-all. Sometimes I interrupt. Sometimes I'm not grateful when I should be, or reciprocate enough, and I don't think I am astute enough when I'm with my friends and then I have trouble coming up with ideas for gifts for them---but it's not that I don't care about them. When I am worrying about money, I find it hard to be generous.
Bill said I wasn't focusing on him. It was true. I was torn during those last six to eight months with him. This was not because he had cancer; this was because he had taken money from me (again) in the form of buying himself a $3300 camera on my credit card, he had started trying to access more of my dad's money while concurrently being very unkind to him, and he had started insulting me. (I didn't even know about the gambling yet.) I was staying with him because I felt it was my duty. I didn't love him like a wife should because I felt he was betraying me and setting me up again. Therefore, a number of times I was just going through the motions as a wife. I wasn't devastated that my husband was supposed to be dying. I was sad and a little frightened, but honestly---painfully honestly---there was an amount of relief. Ouch, it hurts to write that. It had been a difficult marriage, at times exhausting. I thought I was being given an 'out'. Ouch again.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Dream #1 and The Lie
My wise little sister helps me think deeply about what's going on with me now. I told her about the dream I had this morning. I woke at 6:20, refused to allow myself to be awake that early on Christmas, rolled over, put a pillow over my head, and went back to sleep. Normally that would have been a very good thing to do. The extra sleep puts me in a state of restedness that readies me for a busy day like today. However, what happened was that I had a dream about Bill. In this dream he was in some care facility, one that looked like a big comfortable home with several bedrooms that were used to care for the ill. He looked as handsome as he did when we first met. He was sweet and vulnerable. He was being released, and I was there to pick him up. But he wasn't going home with me. There was another woman there to get him. I chatted with her while he was being readied. She was prettier than I, she was perkier, she had more energy, and she had a better personality. She took Bill home. I understood. I had had a slight tinge of ambivalence about taking him home anyway. When I woke up at 7:45, I was sad and lonely. I felt rejected, unworthy, unattractive (on many levels), and isolated. Was that other woman a personification of gambling? Was that the one he had always preferred? The pretty, engaging, seductive addiction? The woman I thought he would never choose if I had forced him to make the choice? Was the house in the dream our home? After Bill left with the other woman in the dream, I saw my dad and Carmi there. I was left with them. Did this dream encapsulate those final weeks before he decided he wanted a divorce?
My sister told me to confront the lie this is. "This is not true about you. Tell yourself you are fun, funny, intelligent, pretty, and desirable. Write two entries in your blog. Call one 'The Lie' and the other 'The Truth'. Don't let this live in your mind. This dream is not the truth. This dream is the lie."
The lie of this dream is that I am deficient. The lie of this dream is that I am all of those things I felt when I awoke. They are not true. I cannot allow myself whether consciously or subconsciously to rewrite the end of this marriage as something that was a judgement of my qualities.
I rarely dream about Bill. I told my sister that there were good things about the marriage, and it's the missing them that causes the sadness and dreams like this: he was a great lover, he sought out my company and always wanted to be with me, would come home from gambling (whether or not I knew he was gambling) to be with me when he knew I was arriving home or when he knew I wanted to be with him, he usually valued my opinions, loved my cooking, wanted me to go everywhere with him (unless he was going gambling because I hated that and refused to go there), and when he got diagnosed with cancer he told the doctor he didn't want a support network; he had Cindy, he said. The change in attitude and the decision to get a divorce flew in the face of all of those things. The inconsistency of that is getting to me; I knew that in time it would. It is the basis for the lie. The inconsistency is what is making my mind wonder if there is something wrong with me. It's not about something being wrong with me; the inconsistency is about mental illness abducting someone's sensibility and ruining the marriage.
There ARE things wrong with me, and I will get to those in 'The Truth'.
My sister told me to confront the lie this is. "This is not true about you. Tell yourself you are fun, funny, intelligent, pretty, and desirable. Write two entries in your blog. Call one 'The Lie' and the other 'The Truth'. Don't let this live in your mind. This dream is not the truth. This dream is the lie."
The lie of this dream is that I am deficient. The lie of this dream is that I am all of those things I felt when I awoke. They are not true. I cannot allow myself whether consciously or subconsciously to rewrite the end of this marriage as something that was a judgement of my qualities.
I rarely dream about Bill. I told my sister that there were good things about the marriage, and it's the missing them that causes the sadness and dreams like this: he was a great lover, he sought out my company and always wanted to be with me, would come home from gambling (whether or not I knew he was gambling) to be with me when he knew I was arriving home or when he knew I wanted to be with him, he usually valued my opinions, loved my cooking, wanted me to go everywhere with him (unless he was going gambling because I hated that and refused to go there), and when he got diagnosed with cancer he told the doctor he didn't want a support network; he had Cindy, he said. The change in attitude and the decision to get a divorce flew in the face of all of those things. The inconsistency of that is getting to me; I knew that in time it would. It is the basis for the lie. The inconsistency is what is making my mind wonder if there is something wrong with me. It's not about something being wrong with me; the inconsistency is about mental illness abducting someone's sensibility and ruining the marriage.
There ARE things wrong with me, and I will get to those in 'The Truth'.
Christmas Day
This year was the year my family decided not to go to Idaho for the holidays. The sister who owns the property there went up with her husband and children. The rest of us were left to spend time with our 'other' families.
Kyle's grandmother passed away in May and this was the first Christmas his grandfather and autistic uncle were to spend without her. Kyle asked if we could have them here. He drove out to the desert, picked them up and drove back yesterday. It turns out that the grandfather also has type 2 diabetes. I wish I had known that before I bought food. But he is pleasant about it and is not a complainer. We spent a lot of time fixing up the garage for them. I hope they are comfortable and warm enough out there.
We had a dinner for seven and then had ten people for breakfast this morning. Before breakfast we opened gifts. Laura and Kyle were very generous with the uncle and grandfather. It was a pretty good Christmas that way.
In the afternoon we went out to the same aunt's house who had hosted Thanksgiving. She is cute, energetic and kind. Apparently in Jack's (Kyle's) family, everyone gives everybody a Christmas gift. That was rather daunting. We gave each of the 'families' a gift. We went with an 'alcohol' theme for everyone. It went okay. I hope to be more specific next year. The food was good, as always, and they were kind and warm to me. I appreciated it. It was a different and a bit of a strange Christmas for me. I missed my family so much I didn't even allow myself to think about it but I must find a way to spend my Christmases with them from now on. It means too much to me to be away from them.
The aunt's house was too crowded to have brought Dad. But he will meet all of them soon. It looks like there's going to be some kind of a wedding within the next couple of months.
Kyle's grandmother passed away in May and this was the first Christmas his grandfather and autistic uncle were to spend without her. Kyle asked if we could have them here. He drove out to the desert, picked them up and drove back yesterday. It turns out that the grandfather also has type 2 diabetes. I wish I had known that before I bought food. But he is pleasant about it and is not a complainer. We spent a lot of time fixing up the garage for them. I hope they are comfortable and warm enough out there.
We had a dinner for seven and then had ten people for breakfast this morning. Before breakfast we opened gifts. Laura and Kyle were very generous with the uncle and grandfather. It was a pretty good Christmas that way.
In the afternoon we went out to the same aunt's house who had hosted Thanksgiving. She is cute, energetic and kind. Apparently in Jack's (Kyle's) family, everyone gives everybody a Christmas gift. That was rather daunting. We gave each of the 'families' a gift. We went with an 'alcohol' theme for everyone. It went okay. I hope to be more specific next year. The food was good, as always, and they were kind and warm to me. I appreciated it. It was a different and a bit of a strange Christmas for me. I missed my family so much I didn't even allow myself to think about it but I must find a way to spend my Christmases with them from now on. It means too much to me to be away from them.
The aunt's house was too crowded to have brought Dad. But he will meet all of them soon. It looks like there's going to be some kind of a wedding within the next couple of months.
Retirement News
Since I am on vacation, I have used some of the time to make phone calls I generally find difficult to make while I'm working. One such call was to the retirement system's legal office. The woman with whom I spoke was very patient with me and explained some things that had been unclear. She said there are two options for giving my retirement to Bill. In one, the system pays him monthly in accord with the percentage of my pension to which he's entitled. In the other, I pay him a lump sum of that percentage. Then his access to my retirement is over and all I have to worry about is paying him his monthly spousal support. I know what the lump sum is, and it has seemed like an amount I can't access. For that reason, I had been thinking I would go with the monthly payment, and then when Bill dies, that payment would revert back to me. In fact, I had read that in the retirement handbook. Not so. The woman at the legal office explained that since Bill is entitled to a percentage of my total retirement, when he dies whoever his beneficiary is would receive Bill's portion until my death. In other words, if I don't buy Bill out of my retirement, I will end up paying his awful friend, David, for the rest of my life. What a horrible thought that is. I will somehow find a way to buy him out; I think that's what he wants anyway. DANG!
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
A Discovery on the Witness Stand
My court testimony, or cross-examination rather, lasted a very long time. I was on the stand for at least an hour. What was good was that I wasn't shaking and I didn't have a knot in my stomach. I want so much for this all to end, I was willing to do whatever I could that day to bring closure to any part of this divorce proceeding.
At one point we were discussing the cell phone fiasco of last summer. Bill's attorney asked me if I had called Bill when he ran up the cell phone bill. I said no, Kyle had, that at the time Kyle was acting as a liaison between us. He asked why I hadn't called Bill myself. I replied that we had restraining orders. He still asked why I hadn't called Bill about the cell phone problems. I said because I couldn't call him because of the restraining orders. Then he said that I wasn't restrained from calling Bill. I said the orders were mutual. He said they weren't. It was at this moment I looked down at my attorney and saw he was shaking his head 'no' to me. You're kidding, I thought. They aren't mutual? I could have called him? If Bill wasn't allowed to come near me, it doesn't make sense that I would be allowed to approach him. But I guess another type of logic is used here. It also makes sense. I'm not dangerous and pose no threat to Bill. So, for that reason, I can approach and contact him. But here's the practical part: it's not a good idea for Bill and me to be in touch at all. If I initiate a phone call, or an email, it would put me in a situation where I could get sucked back in to what I lived with for so long. It would seem that Bill could possibly start 'working' me, or just trying to lay guilt trips on me. He was always relentless in the pursuit of getting his way. And he was really good at breaking down my resolve. He sister says he thinks several steps ahead of the rest of us, and sets people up when they don't even realize what's going on. He has things planned so far in advance, you don't see it coming until it's too late and you're trapped. I don't want to open myself up to that again. It's best we leave things the way they are. The good news is that if I do inadvertently drive by him, or arrive at a place where he is, I won't be in any trouble. I'd probably leave the place anyway, but at least I wouldn't be violating any court orders. If I get fed up with taking care of his dog, I can just pick up the phone and tell him to come and get the dog NOW. I can if I want----and I am REAL tired of taking care of his dog-----but I don't want. It's better I just go ahead and treat these as mutual restraining orders.
Speaking of restraining orders, I might have to call my ex-husband. The other one. I'll know more after I talk to the retirement system's legal office. He said he was going to relinquish his entitlement to my retirement for the years we were married but I don't think he actually went through with it. It might be good to break the ice with him. But I don't want to see him again......
At one point we were discussing the cell phone fiasco of last summer. Bill's attorney asked me if I had called Bill when he ran up the cell phone bill. I said no, Kyle had, that at the time Kyle was acting as a liaison between us. He asked why I hadn't called Bill myself. I replied that we had restraining orders. He still asked why I hadn't called Bill about the cell phone problems. I said because I couldn't call him because of the restraining orders. Then he said that I wasn't restrained from calling Bill. I said the orders were mutual. He said they weren't. It was at this moment I looked down at my attorney and saw he was shaking his head 'no' to me. You're kidding, I thought. They aren't mutual? I could have called him? If Bill wasn't allowed to come near me, it doesn't make sense that I would be allowed to approach him. But I guess another type of logic is used here. It also makes sense. I'm not dangerous and pose no threat to Bill. So, for that reason, I can approach and contact him. But here's the practical part: it's not a good idea for Bill and me to be in touch at all. If I initiate a phone call, or an email, it would put me in a situation where I could get sucked back in to what I lived with for so long. It would seem that Bill could possibly start 'working' me, or just trying to lay guilt trips on me. He was always relentless in the pursuit of getting his way. And he was really good at breaking down my resolve. He sister says he thinks several steps ahead of the rest of us, and sets people up when they don't even realize what's going on. He has things planned so far in advance, you don't see it coming until it's too late and you're trapped. I don't want to open myself up to that again. It's best we leave things the way they are. The good news is that if I do inadvertently drive by him, or arrive at a place where he is, I won't be in any trouble. I'd probably leave the place anyway, but at least I wouldn't be violating any court orders. If I get fed up with taking care of his dog, I can just pick up the phone and tell him to come and get the dog NOW. I can if I want----and I am REAL tired of taking care of his dog-----but I don't want. It's better I just go ahead and treat these as mutual restraining orders.
Speaking of restraining orders, I might have to call my ex-husband. The other one. I'll know more after I talk to the retirement system's legal office. He said he was going to relinquish his entitlement to my retirement for the years we were married but I don't think he actually went through with it. It might be good to break the ice with him. But I don't want to see him again......
Sunday, December 18, 2011
The Trust Network
Last week my counselor starting talking about the 'trust network'. The 'trust network' is her description of the complex role trust plays in a union. This trust network goes very deep and spans all kinds of areas of a relationship. Once the trust gets broken, or the network is violated by one or more parties, it is damaged. It's like an electrical circuit with a kink in one of the wires. If it is not repaired, the circuit isn't able to function correctly. Left unrepaired that kink, however tiny it might be, is likely to turn into a break,and will destroy the system. And, as I learned when I was buying a car stereo, a system is only as good as its weakest link. When I think about it, I marvel at how complex this trust network is, and if one part of it isn't right, other parts won't work correctly either. In a relationship, the large issues are the more obvious: lying, stealing, cheating. They almost go without saying. They can put the 'trust network' completely out of order. It's the other, more subtle areas that can be harder to detect. In particular, I think about insults and criticisms. They damage the system; in time they can break down the network. I am just going to explore a couple of small things I can see eroded my relationship to Bill.
In our early years, Bill used to tell me I wasn't supportive. He was in law school, under a lot of academic pressure and studied non-stop. At that time I had a very poor self-image. I was so closely out of my first marriage and bewildered by what had made me want to end that, that in my very confused state I would believe anything Bill told me. Bill had been a shoulder to lean on, he was a good listener, a great conversationalist and he had won my confidence. He could get inside my head and, when he felt his own insecurities pop up, he would project those on me. Of course, I didn't know it at the time. I figured that out much later on. But in the beginning I trusted him. Since I trusted him, I felt he was being honest with me and I strove to improve myself based on what he said. If he said I wasn't supportive enough of him in his studying, I would feel bad and try to do more to 'be supportive'. If he told me I didn't take care of business, I would believe him and try to become more efficient. If he told me something I did annoyed him, I would try to stop doing that. But the point here is that the criticisms cut into what would become our trust network. In time I found myself being a little skittish, afraid of being criticized. Subconsciously I tried too hard to please. I didn't want the criticism so I avoided the behavior that might elicit it. As I look back, I see how that damaged the circuit. To shield myself from it, I was at times evasive, at times reluctant to share my vulnerabilities. I didn't share as openly with him as before because I couldn't trust I would be supported and I couldn't trust the information wouldn't be thrown in my face at some future point in time.
Years ago I heard someone refer to these small behaviors as 'little murders'. How powerful that description is! They are so small, so subtle, they go underground and into the subconscious so fast, that over a period of years, they slowly erode the network. They are insidious, so insidious, in fact, that I wonder what I would need to do in the future to stop them if I saw them coming in another relationship.
In our early years, Bill used to tell me I wasn't supportive. He was in law school, under a lot of academic pressure and studied non-stop. At that time I had a very poor self-image. I was so closely out of my first marriage and bewildered by what had made me want to end that, that in my very confused state I would believe anything Bill told me. Bill had been a shoulder to lean on, he was a good listener, a great conversationalist and he had won my confidence. He could get inside my head and, when he felt his own insecurities pop up, he would project those on me. Of course, I didn't know it at the time. I figured that out much later on. But in the beginning I trusted him. Since I trusted him, I felt he was being honest with me and I strove to improve myself based on what he said. If he said I wasn't supportive enough of him in his studying, I would feel bad and try to do more to 'be supportive'. If he told me I didn't take care of business, I would believe him and try to become more efficient. If he told me something I did annoyed him, I would try to stop doing that. But the point here is that the criticisms cut into what would become our trust network. In time I found myself being a little skittish, afraid of being criticized. Subconsciously I tried too hard to please. I didn't want the criticism so I avoided the behavior that might elicit it. As I look back, I see how that damaged the circuit. To shield myself from it, I was at times evasive, at times reluctant to share my vulnerabilities. I didn't share as openly with him as before because I couldn't trust I would be supported and I couldn't trust the information wouldn't be thrown in my face at some future point in time.
Years ago I heard someone refer to these small behaviors as 'little murders'. How powerful that description is! They are so small, so subtle, they go underground and into the subconscious so fast, that over a period of years, they slowly erode the network. They are insidious, so insidious, in fact, that I wonder what I would need to do in the future to stop them if I saw them coming in another relationship.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
What's Going Well
Today I woke up to a revelation: I have fallen into an undesirable pattern in these writings. In making this egregious mistake, I have put myself in a 'glass is half empty' position, and it doesn't sit well with me. Not only in my faith, but in secular life, not recognizing what's going well,--- no, not FOCUSING on what's going well, the blessings, the gifts, the great things that are there every day, those things I take for granted,--- can plop me into a malcontent state. So here I sit, with eroded gratitude and plummeted emotions. Time for a paradigm shift.
Yes, my interminable divorce is lousy. My finances are where I never planned them to be, I have tennis elbow I am continually icing and stuff in my bronchia for which I take a very slow-working inhaler twice a day, Kyle didn't breeze through EMT school and my dad is a pain. There is plenty of that in this blog. As I read through, it falls just short of being a diatribe. But enough of that already. Let's start looking closely at the good stuff.
I have been at my job since February 3, 1975, same district, same school, with a two-year break in the later 70's to move to NYC where I had the priceless opportunity to work in the private education sector and see a completely different side of teaching. Back at my school after NYC, I brought higher standards and greater expectations of what children can do in school as well as what parents can contribute to learning. I struggled my first several years as a teacher. But I worked incredibly hard. I have a tenacity for my job that has rarely allowed me to feel defeated in its continual challenges.
This year, maybe my 37th or so, has been as remarkably different on some levels than I could have ever imagined. As usual, I have some very needy students who require more than their share of attention, but no one is mean. Some are egocentric, but they all can be exceedingly kind. They get to work as a group far better than most classes I've had. They show effort, and some of them show caring and helpfulness that warm my heart. One little girl has a capacity to be sympathetic that is both appropriate and sincere. She also mimics my voice while we're singing, but adds in a vibrato that verges more on a wobble/tremulo you throw a cat through, delighting in her experience and her love for vocal music. Another little girl notices nuance like few kindergarteners I know and, although pretty wiggly, she has a burgeoning talent for art that will grow into something remarkable. She also likes to yell out, "Show us your bat wings!" when I'm wearing short sleeves. P is one of the brightest young men I have ever known, and possesses a maturity that is forever causing me to marvel. He's the go-to guy in whole-group lessons I know I can finally ask when no one else can answer a question. A quiet, sweet girl is the fourth I have had of a family of five. On the first day of school, her mother embraced me and remarked in Spanish how happy she was that all of her children have been in my class (there is still one at home). This little girl is hard-working, honest and conscientious in a way that tells me that no matter how hard it is for her to learn subject matter, she will work at it as diligently as any person possibly can, and she will persevere until she has met whatever standards we have for her. Another child, S, is simply an angel. When I think of 'still waters run deep', he is exactly that. Yesterday we were painting wood birdhouses with acrylic paint for holiday gifts. Kindergarteners and paint must always be done with great care but kindergarteners and ACRYLIC paint is not too unlike handling nuclear waste. There is garb to don and very distinct procedures you must follow. He had painted his birdhouse the day before, but came up to me yesterday and quietly said, "I want my mother and father to be proud of me. I want to do a better job. I want to paint my birdhouse again." I looked to the ledge where I had put the drying projects from the previous day. As I spotted his, it didn't seem to look poorly done. It looked like the typical work of a five-year-old, something a parent would rejoice in receiving and knew his parents would be thrilled with it. But apparently, he wasn't satisfied. I took it down and set him up again; he re-painted it with more care, this time following the grain of the wood in his brushstrokes and covering each little bit of wood with paint. I asked him if he was happier with it now and he said yes. Em's family works with a local Christian charitable organization and I can tell she has been taught to love all people. I doubt she would ever harm a friend let alone a bug. She has a sweetness that says 'I will accept you as you are'. A new student comes from a battered women's shelter. He is withdrawn, quiet. He has seen things done to his mother no child should ever have to see, not even in a horror flick. I know that as soon as he understands our room is a safe environment, he will come out of his shell, relaxing and maybe going to the other behavioral extreme. As annoying as that might be for the person who has to run the classroom, it will be a healthy sign. It will signal the beginning of him discovering who he really is and the departure from his past. I don't know how long he will be with us but the children immediately embraced him, shepherded him around the class, our yard, and the school, introducing him to new teachers when we first entered their rooms, and engaging him in activities. This is a good place for him, and his mother and I have conversations about the need to keep him here and not cause any huge school-related transitions for him as she reaches the end of her time in the shelter. I could spend weeks writing character profiles on my students. Looking closely at who they are is a very pleasant and satisfying experience.
One thing that is off-the-charts this year is the parents in my room. Cal it 'rising to the occasion' or 'stepping up to the plate', whatever it is has been a shocking delight. At Back to School Night two mothers approached me and said they wanted to share the job of room parent. They have worked hard. One of them meets with me once a month, I tell her what's going on in the room, what I need help with, anything I want parents to know, and then she goes home, writes it all up, and sends it out in a newsletter she emails to all the parents. I can then follow-up on a website another mother helped me design on Shutterfly, complete with calendar, announcements, homework assignments and sign-up sheets. The other room parent and the woman who set up the webpage post photos of all our class events. Two of them set up a 'co-op' in our school's parent room where parents agree to watch younger siblings for each other to free-up parents to help in their children's classrooms. I now have parents helping for at least one portion of every day. This means that some parents have seen the holiday cards and gifts we're making, so when they enter the room, I say, "You never saw this." They say, "OK," and we laugh. They have given gift cards I never dreamed I'd get, not for myself but to buy classroom supplies, from the local teacher's supply store, Staples, craft stores, and the supermarket. It is a teacher's dream.
I also have a cadre of 'legacy' students. These are children whose parents I had as kindergarteners. It is common to have siblings of former students, but not so common to have their progeny. One probably lives out of the district but uses his parents' address to get his son in the school. He seems to have wonderful memories of his year with me, which I think was about the time Laura was born, and begged to have his child in my class. He signs up to volunteer, paid the portion of our Adopt-A-Class that was not met by other parents, and donated all the food and supplies for our holiday gingerbread house party. He's also a plumber and when our annual Friendship Feast ended with the annual clogging up of my workroom sink, he went to his truck, got whatever was needed, and cleared the clog. He picks his child up at the boy's mother's every morning, feeds him breakfast (because apparently the mother doesn't), and brings his lunch back to eat with him almost every day. My 'legacy students' all come from a section of town that's nestled between the cemetery and the south end of the local freeway. In a town that's known usually for its celebrities and high-end lifestyle, few know there is poverty as well. When I started working here, this neighborhood had tremendous transiency. Children would be in school for mere weeks, possibly months, and then they would be gone. Their families lived in crowded substandard housing and even took shifts sleeping in the beds. During the two short years I lived in NYC, the city enacted a powerful, pro-tenant rent control program and the transiency came to a grinding halt. For this reason, generations of families now live in apartments and attend the same schools as their parents and grandparents did. Rents are fabulously low but so is upkeep and landlord maintenance. Selling buildings in that neighborhood is tantamount to 'unloading'. But for the families there, it ensures a security and sense of community for which they long and is reminiscent of their lives in Mexico and Central America. In many cases, the younger generations have succeeded, gone to college, gone into better professions than their parents and their own bought homes. In others, the children have not risen much beyond the levels of their parents.
All these children and their parents bless me, even the former students whose family lives are dysfunctional. I rejoice in seeing their faces after the intervening decades and feel a strong bond with them and their children. Sometimes I can look in a child's face and see their parents' faces when they were in my class and I get an inward smile. There is a joy in this connectedness I feel. They are blessings. These children and their parents, they bless me and enhance my life. The recent changes in my life has opened me up to an increased appreciation for the other lives that I touch and who in turn touch me, and I am extremely satisfied.
Yes, my interminable divorce is lousy. My finances are where I never planned them to be, I have tennis elbow I am continually icing and stuff in my bronchia for which I take a very slow-working inhaler twice a day, Kyle didn't breeze through EMT school and my dad is a pain. There is plenty of that in this blog. As I read through, it falls just short of being a diatribe. But enough of that already. Let's start looking closely at the good stuff.
I have been at my job since February 3, 1975, same district, same school, with a two-year break in the later 70's to move to NYC where I had the priceless opportunity to work in the private education sector and see a completely different side of teaching. Back at my school after NYC, I brought higher standards and greater expectations of what children can do in school as well as what parents can contribute to learning. I struggled my first several years as a teacher. But I worked incredibly hard. I have a tenacity for my job that has rarely allowed me to feel defeated in its continual challenges.
This year, maybe my 37th or so, has been as remarkably different on some levels than I could have ever imagined. As usual, I have some very needy students who require more than their share of attention, but no one is mean. Some are egocentric, but they all can be exceedingly kind. They get to work as a group far better than most classes I've had. They show effort, and some of them show caring and helpfulness that warm my heart. One little girl has a capacity to be sympathetic that is both appropriate and sincere. She also mimics my voice while we're singing, but adds in a vibrato that verges more on a wobble/tremulo you throw a cat through, delighting in her experience and her love for vocal music. Another little girl notices nuance like few kindergarteners I know and, although pretty wiggly, she has a burgeoning talent for art that will grow into something remarkable. She also likes to yell out, "Show us your bat wings!" when I'm wearing short sleeves. P is one of the brightest young men I have ever known, and possesses a maturity that is forever causing me to marvel. He's the go-to guy in whole-group lessons I know I can finally ask when no one else can answer a question. A quiet, sweet girl is the fourth I have had of a family of five. On the first day of school, her mother embraced me and remarked in Spanish how happy she was that all of her children have been in my class (there is still one at home). This little girl is hard-working, honest and conscientious in a way that tells me that no matter how hard it is for her to learn subject matter, she will work at it as diligently as any person possibly can, and she will persevere until she has met whatever standards we have for her. Another child, S, is simply an angel. When I think of 'still waters run deep', he is exactly that. Yesterday we were painting wood birdhouses with acrylic paint for holiday gifts. Kindergarteners and paint must always be done with great care but kindergarteners and ACRYLIC paint is not too unlike handling nuclear waste. There is garb to don and very distinct procedures you must follow. He had painted his birdhouse the day before, but came up to me yesterday and quietly said, "I want my mother and father to be proud of me. I want to do a better job. I want to paint my birdhouse again." I looked to the ledge where I had put the drying projects from the previous day. As I spotted his, it didn't seem to look poorly done. It looked like the typical work of a five-year-old, something a parent would rejoice in receiving and knew his parents would be thrilled with it. But apparently, he wasn't satisfied. I took it down and set him up again; he re-painted it with more care, this time following the grain of the wood in his brushstrokes and covering each little bit of wood with paint. I asked him if he was happier with it now and he said yes. Em's family works with a local Christian charitable organization and I can tell she has been taught to love all people. I doubt she would ever harm a friend let alone a bug. She has a sweetness that says 'I will accept you as you are'. A new student comes from a battered women's shelter. He is withdrawn, quiet. He has seen things done to his mother no child should ever have to see, not even in a horror flick. I know that as soon as he understands our room is a safe environment, he will come out of his shell, relaxing and maybe going to the other behavioral extreme. As annoying as that might be for the person who has to run the classroom, it will be a healthy sign. It will signal the beginning of him discovering who he really is and the departure from his past. I don't know how long he will be with us but the children immediately embraced him, shepherded him around the class, our yard, and the school, introducing him to new teachers when we first entered their rooms, and engaging him in activities. This is a good place for him, and his mother and I have conversations about the need to keep him here and not cause any huge school-related transitions for him as she reaches the end of her time in the shelter. I could spend weeks writing character profiles on my students. Looking closely at who they are is a very pleasant and satisfying experience.
One thing that is off-the-charts this year is the parents in my room. Cal it 'rising to the occasion' or 'stepping up to the plate', whatever it is has been a shocking delight. At Back to School Night two mothers approached me and said they wanted to share the job of room parent. They have worked hard. One of them meets with me once a month, I tell her what's going on in the room, what I need help with, anything I want parents to know, and then she goes home, writes it all up, and sends it out in a newsletter she emails to all the parents. I can then follow-up on a website another mother helped me design on Shutterfly, complete with calendar, announcements, homework assignments and sign-up sheets. The other room parent and the woman who set up the webpage post photos of all our class events. Two of them set up a 'co-op' in our school's parent room where parents agree to watch younger siblings for each other to free-up parents to help in their children's classrooms. I now have parents helping for at least one portion of every day. This means that some parents have seen the holiday cards and gifts we're making, so when they enter the room, I say, "You never saw this." They say, "OK," and we laugh. They have given gift cards I never dreamed I'd get, not for myself but to buy classroom supplies, from the local teacher's supply store, Staples, craft stores, and the supermarket. It is a teacher's dream.
I also have a cadre of 'legacy' students. These are children whose parents I had as kindergarteners. It is common to have siblings of former students, but not so common to have their progeny. One probably lives out of the district but uses his parents' address to get his son in the school. He seems to have wonderful memories of his year with me, which I think was about the time Laura was born, and begged to have his child in my class. He signs up to volunteer, paid the portion of our Adopt-A-Class that was not met by other parents, and donated all the food and supplies for our holiday gingerbread house party. He's also a plumber and when our annual Friendship Feast ended with the annual clogging up of my workroom sink, he went to his truck, got whatever was needed, and cleared the clog. He picks his child up at the boy's mother's every morning, feeds him breakfast (because apparently the mother doesn't), and brings his lunch back to eat with him almost every day. My 'legacy students' all come from a section of town that's nestled between the cemetery and the south end of the local freeway. In a town that's known usually for its celebrities and high-end lifestyle, few know there is poverty as well. When I started working here, this neighborhood had tremendous transiency. Children would be in school for mere weeks, possibly months, and then they would be gone. Their families lived in crowded substandard housing and even took shifts sleeping in the beds. During the two short years I lived in NYC, the city enacted a powerful, pro-tenant rent control program and the transiency came to a grinding halt. For this reason, generations of families now live in apartments and attend the same schools as their parents and grandparents did. Rents are fabulously low but so is upkeep and landlord maintenance. Selling buildings in that neighborhood is tantamount to 'unloading'. But for the families there, it ensures a security and sense of community for which they long and is reminiscent of their lives in Mexico and Central America. In many cases, the younger generations have succeeded, gone to college, gone into better professions than their parents and their own bought homes. In others, the children have not risen much beyond the levels of their parents.
All these children and their parents bless me, even the former students whose family lives are dysfunctional. I rejoice in seeing their faces after the intervening decades and feel a strong bond with them and their children. Sometimes I can look in a child's face and see their parents' faces when they were in my class and I get an inward smile. There is a joy in this connectedness I feel. They are blessings. These children and their parents, they bless me and enhance my life. The recent changes in my life has opened me up to an increased appreciation for the other lives that I touch and who in turn touch me, and I am extremely satisfied.
Friday, December 16, 2011
Towards a Future
Although they had my ring dipped in white gold several weeks ago, Kyle and Laura seemed to be stalled in moving forward with an engagement. He was in EMT school, she was working and trying to help him study. We hit a snag in the schooling. It turns out he is slightly dyslexic and the reading, studying and written work were overwhelming to him. He was going to class early every night and working with a study group, meeting with his teachers, etc. We made flash cards and I was helping him outline his textbook chapters but he was getting very low scores on his tests. As a 'family' project I thought the studying was great but he soon lost heart and, in time, became almost paralyzed. I know the feeling: you reach a point where you're so far behind, you're doing so poorly, you just stop. Why bother? Despite his great personality, his ability to talk to just about anybody, and his talents for what some might call 'B.S.', I could see he was defeated. I remember I had felt that way in algebra, and then again in geometry. When you don't get it, you don't get it. And when you feel that way, you give up. Laura, on the other hand, understood his predicament but didn't see how it connected to his proposal----or non-proposal, let's say. She started 'mentioning' it. She became sullen. He got annoyed and couldn't understand why she was being so bitchy, and he didn't want to propose to someone who was being so unpleasant, which made her more difficult. And so the cycle went. They were at an impasse and there was a point where I wondered if their relationship was going to splinter. Or, was this situation going to gnaw at the foundation of their trust network, maybe ruining the marriage before it even got started? I had begun to be concerned this was going on too long. After all, he had initially told me he wanted to propose on their trip to Yosemite in August.
Then there was an evening when they hashed it out. I'm not a big fan of the way they argue, but who am I to tell someone how to manage a relationship? Thankfully, they took care of it in their room. I think they both shared some very vulnerable parts of themselves and developed a new respect for one another's own struggles, and in the morning they were their old selves again. Whatever they did, they cleared the air.
The next two weeks went by and I could tell Laura was still hurt he still hadn't popped the question. Then he had a terrible absess and had to visit the emergency room a few times. She tended to him, changed the bandages, cleaned the injured site, and he was miserable with the accompanying infection. He was laid up for at least a week.
When he was well, he took her to dinner, then down to the beach with blankets, and did the deed. In the moonlight. On a clear and beautiful December evening.
We were all relieved.
Once he had made the commitment, he was happy. He was thinking of weddings and who would be the best man, where to have a ceremony, and whether or not to just go down to city hall or do the whole church thing. Life was normal again. EMT school didn't work out the way he had hoped, but they're still young. He was introduced to the staff at an office where some friends work, the owner took an immediate liking to him, and there is a possibility that for the time being, he will get to use his talents in another field. It has been hard for him not to work. It's been almost a year now. He's not the kind of guy who can sit around the house. He doesn't like not working. He has been restless and has spoken often of getting a job, but Laura has talked him out of it because his EMT school tuition wouldn't have been taken care of if he had been working. There is a baby on the way, there is a possibility of work, they are at peace. We are replacing the drop ceiling in the garage with drywall so they're staying in the house here for a while. In a couple of weeks, they'll move back out there and Laura will be able to continue her nesting. I think we might be calming down around here. It would be nice.
Then there was an evening when they hashed it out. I'm not a big fan of the way they argue, but who am I to tell someone how to manage a relationship? Thankfully, they took care of it in their room. I think they both shared some very vulnerable parts of themselves and developed a new respect for one another's own struggles, and in the morning they were their old selves again. Whatever they did, they cleared the air.
The next two weeks went by and I could tell Laura was still hurt he still hadn't popped the question. Then he had a terrible absess and had to visit the emergency room a few times. She tended to him, changed the bandages, cleaned the injured site, and he was miserable with the accompanying infection. He was laid up for at least a week.
When he was well, he took her to dinner, then down to the beach with blankets, and did the deed. In the moonlight. On a clear and beautiful December evening.
We were all relieved.
Once he had made the commitment, he was happy. He was thinking of weddings and who would be the best man, where to have a ceremony, and whether or not to just go down to city hall or do the whole church thing. Life was normal again. EMT school didn't work out the way he had hoped, but they're still young. He was introduced to the staff at an office where some friends work, the owner took an immediate liking to him, and there is a possibility that for the time being, he will get to use his talents in another field. It has been hard for him not to work. It's been almost a year now. He's not the kind of guy who can sit around the house. He doesn't like not working. He has been restless and has spoken often of getting a job, but Laura has talked him out of it because his EMT school tuition wouldn't have been taken care of if he had been working. There is a baby on the way, there is a possibility of work, they are at peace. We are replacing the drop ceiling in the garage with drywall so they're staying in the house here for a while. In a couple of weeks, they'll move back out there and Laura will be able to continue her nesting. I think we might be calming down around here. It would be nice.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Reinventing History
My counselor says Dad has a form of dementia. It's a subtle form and she says it explains a lot of the things I tell her about Dad. But here's the latest: he is reinventing some of the major events of our lives. And they usually are created in a way that makes him look good and others look bad. With his short-term memory shot, I find myself in a situation where I have to listen to the new versions of history getting repeated. There are two very recent (and by recent, I mean he's just started saying these in the last month or two)'recreations' that I am finding particularly hurtful:
1) He says my mother was pregnant with her second husband's child when they got divorced. This is not true. My mother divorced him because he was the one who wanted a divorce and 'let' her divorce him. This was apparently a good thing for her back in 1959. She remarried in 1961, and rumor has it she was pregnant. She told me she and my stepfather got married in Mexico in June but didn't tell anyone until Labor Day. My brother was born the following March. I think they really got married on Labor Day because I remember going to lunch with her on the June date she said wad the day they went to Mexico for his 'quickie' divorce from his first wife and their so-caled Mexican wedding. It sucks to have a kid with a great memory for stupid details; it can make your parenting lies blow up in your face. Whatever the case, she wasn't pregnant in early 1959 when Dad asked for a divorce. And let's not forget the elephant in the living room! My dad was gay! He had fallen in love with another man and he wanted to somehow pursue that relationship. Homosexuality was illegal back then, and if my mother had exposed him, he would have been put in jail, lost his livelihood, and then we all would have ended up on the streets. Letting her 'ask' for a divorce was part of the charade. Even after a divorce, he would have been our meal ticket. She needed to cover for him and agreed to do it. And for years she fiercely hid his secret. I gained so much admiration for her when I finally discovered what had really happened between her and Dad. After all she endured, he doesn't need to throw her under the bus.
2) He says that on my wedding day, we waited and waited for Bill, that we didn't know where he was, and finally had to drag him out of a poker game. Now it's completely true that Bill is addicted to gambling, and specifically poker. Poker is the mistress that ruined our relationship, the woman to whom he would run off time after time. He didn't gamble continually; his gambling was episodic. He would go for long periods of time without visiting a casino, and then one day,"Bam!" He'd come home unusually late. Or I would call him and he wouldn't answer his cell phone for hours. Or he'd make excuses for being away in the middle of the day. He'd say he was at the movies. He'd be late to pick up Laura from school when he supposedly didn't have anything he was going to do that day. Each episode would catch me by surprise because the time between these episodes be quite long, sometimes over a year and I would have been lulled into our routine, would not be suspicious, and my guard would be down. But on our wedding day, Bill and I stayed upstairs at my aunt and uncle's house, we dressed for our wedding together, drove to the ceremony together, and we weren't late. In fact, we were early. When Dad told me his latest version of my wedding day, I said, "Dad, the marriage was bad enough without you having to tell lies about our wedding day!" He said, "Well, then, what WERE we waiting all that time for?" "We didn't wait for anything, Dad! Bill and I drove to the wedding together. Nobody was late."
1) He says my mother was pregnant with her second husband's child when they got divorced. This is not true. My mother divorced him because he was the one who wanted a divorce and 'let' her divorce him. This was apparently a good thing for her back in 1959. She remarried in 1961, and rumor has it she was pregnant. She told me she and my stepfather got married in Mexico in June but didn't tell anyone until Labor Day. My brother was born the following March. I think they really got married on Labor Day because I remember going to lunch with her on the June date she said wad the day they went to Mexico for his 'quickie' divorce from his first wife and their so-caled Mexican wedding. It sucks to have a kid with a great memory for stupid details; it can make your parenting lies blow up in your face. Whatever the case, she wasn't pregnant in early 1959 when Dad asked for a divorce. And let's not forget the elephant in the living room! My dad was gay! He had fallen in love with another man and he wanted to somehow pursue that relationship. Homosexuality was illegal back then, and if my mother had exposed him, he would have been put in jail, lost his livelihood, and then we all would have ended up on the streets. Letting her 'ask' for a divorce was part of the charade. Even after a divorce, he would have been our meal ticket. She needed to cover for him and agreed to do it. And for years she fiercely hid his secret. I gained so much admiration for her when I finally discovered what had really happened between her and Dad. After all she endured, he doesn't need to throw her under the bus.
2) He says that on my wedding day, we waited and waited for Bill, that we didn't know where he was, and finally had to drag him out of a poker game. Now it's completely true that Bill is addicted to gambling, and specifically poker. Poker is the mistress that ruined our relationship, the woman to whom he would run off time after time. He didn't gamble continually; his gambling was episodic. He would go for long periods of time without visiting a casino, and then one day,"Bam!" He'd come home unusually late. Or I would call him and he wouldn't answer his cell phone for hours. Or he'd make excuses for being away in the middle of the day. He'd say he was at the movies. He'd be late to pick up Laura from school when he supposedly didn't have anything he was going to do that day. Each episode would catch me by surprise because the time between these episodes be quite long, sometimes over a year and I would have been lulled into our routine, would not be suspicious, and my guard would be down. But on our wedding day, Bill and I stayed upstairs at my aunt and uncle's house, we dressed for our wedding together, drove to the ceremony together, and we weren't late. In fact, we were early. When Dad told me his latest version of my wedding day, I said, "Dad, the marriage was bad enough without you having to tell lies about our wedding day!" He said, "Well, then, what WERE we waiting all that time for?" "We didn't wait for anything, Dad! Bill and I drove to the wedding together. Nobody was late."
Friday, December 9, 2011
More Dad
Life with Dad continues to deteriorate on some levels. His short-term memory is shot and he recognizes that fairly well. What baffles me is his critical slant. It rears its ugly head on almost a daily basis. He'll snipe at one of us. Why? We frequently don't know but, knowing his mindset as well as I do, I understand where it comes from. In his earlier years, a critical thought was usually his first thought about a person or a situation, and blame could easily be cast thus putting the other person on the defense. But back then he had what I call a 'social filter' and would tuck away that first thought and what would come out of his mouth would be something socially acceptable. And when negative thoughts were verbalized, they were usually done so to family members and, being the patriarch in a patriarchal family, family members were quick to kowtow in order to be readmitted into his good graces. (This is also common of people who hold a family's purse strings but not something Dad practiced, and for that I am thankful.) Now Dad feels that because he is 91, he should not be confronted and his behavior should not be questioned. This attitude is so internalized and automatic, that he seems stunned when one of us reacts to his unkind comments. The other night he told me he didn't put in his hearing aids because he didn't think we would be having dinner together. It was Sunday. If there's one night of the week when we dine together, it's Sunday. I called him a liar. This isn't something I do. In fact, I have never called my father a liar before. I did it a bit lightheartedly. But it was true, and he was stunned. He hates being called on his fibs, but he is fibbing more often. He hates being called on his bad, critical behavior. Again, he was the patriarch of a patriarchal family. When his father died in 1969, Dad took on the patriarchal mantel and in time grew quite comfortable with it. In that family, no one questioned the patriarch. He could say, act, or do anything he felt appropriate and be beyond reproach. Times have changed. Not everyone agrees with that. Respect is something that has to be earned and re-earned. It isn't automatic. Bad behavior is bad behavior, and Dad isn't coming to grips with that very gracefully.
The saga goes on. He makes a nasty, critical comment, expects it to be heard, taken in, and left without question. We respond honestly, and he looks shocked. If Kyle confronts him on it, he tries to pull the age card. "How can a 24-year-old talk that way to a 91-year-old?" Remnants of a time gone by, Dad isn't able to play the respect-your-elders game his forefathers played. On a few levels, that's bad for him. On most levels, I (we) think a person should be accountable for their behavior. Just because you're the eldest doesn't make any behavior excusable. You can't snipe and expect no reaction. Our world doesn't run that way. A century ago it did. Was it better then? I doubt it. But here's where it gets sticky. And I will admit I am torn about where I should fall on this: as one gets older and loses not only one's ability to function physically, many lose their social filters. Instead of tucking away his first, critical thoughts, Dad now says them. How much of Dad's snarky comments should be credited to that? And, if he truly has lost his social filter, why does he continue to defend his comments? Is that part of the gradual dementia he's experiencing? How much should I confront him? How much should I defend him? I find myself frequently unsure of how I should respond to his criticisms and to the kids' reactions to those criticisms. Dad fully defends himself. He evens retells things to paint himself as blameless even when I heard those incidents and know exactly what he did. Here's a further concern: If my dad was my biggest supporter, from let's say the time I was sixteen until the present, how much do I honor him as he deteriorates? Seriously, this is a big thought in my head. Is he only as good as his most recent behavior? If he is now a grumpy old man, does that negate the years of support and generosity? I don't think so. And I have tried to embark on new conversations with Laura about the role my dad played in making me the person I am, the one thing that separated me from being the professional I am today from being a clerk at Rite Aid, and one of the few consistently reliable elements in my life. Does three years of being difficult erase four decades of being my rock? When I look at him that way, I have to give an unequivocal no. When I look at the challenge of living with him in the moment, the answer becomes more difficult. There's a part of me that avoids him. It's the same part of me that doesn't want to hear the nasty remarks. Or have to answer the same questions over and over again. It's the part of me that clenches her teeth when he wants to talk to me alone because I know that no matter how positive the conversation starts out, there will be the inevitable dig at some other household member. It is another version of 'waiting for the other shoe to drop'. He can't be just sweet. We can't have just a nice, comfortable, mutually-supportive time alone. There is always the inevitable cutting remark. It can exhaust me.
But I feel there has got to be a way for us to go on. There has to be a way I can keep him in this home to honor what he was for me. I have often thought that he spent the time after he divorced my mother trying to make up for the damage that caused. He had hoped my and my sister's lives would be happy after our mother remarried and had other children. I know he wanted to think our stepfather had provided us with a good, secure existence. When it became apparent that that new life was rife with insecurity and financial woes, he stepped in to fill in the gaps. My sister and I always knew he would provide. I had a continual sense of him trying to say 'I'm here for you. I may have left your mother, and I may have thought you were doing okay, but I am here for you now and always.'
My thoughts about my father are equally as disjunct as this blog entry.
The saga goes on. He makes a nasty, critical comment, expects it to be heard, taken in, and left without question. We respond honestly, and he looks shocked. If Kyle confronts him on it, he tries to pull the age card. "How can a 24-year-old talk that way to a 91-year-old?" Remnants of a time gone by, Dad isn't able to play the respect-your-elders game his forefathers played. On a few levels, that's bad for him. On most levels, I (we) think a person should be accountable for their behavior. Just because you're the eldest doesn't make any behavior excusable. You can't snipe and expect no reaction. Our world doesn't run that way. A century ago it did. Was it better then? I doubt it. But here's where it gets sticky. And I will admit I am torn about where I should fall on this: as one gets older and loses not only one's ability to function physically, many lose their social filters. Instead of tucking away his first, critical thoughts, Dad now says them. How much of Dad's snarky comments should be credited to that? And, if he truly has lost his social filter, why does he continue to defend his comments? Is that part of the gradual dementia he's experiencing? How much should I confront him? How much should I defend him? I find myself frequently unsure of how I should respond to his criticisms and to the kids' reactions to those criticisms. Dad fully defends himself. He evens retells things to paint himself as blameless even when I heard those incidents and know exactly what he did. Here's a further concern: If my dad was my biggest supporter, from let's say the time I was sixteen until the present, how much do I honor him as he deteriorates? Seriously, this is a big thought in my head. Is he only as good as his most recent behavior? If he is now a grumpy old man, does that negate the years of support and generosity? I don't think so. And I have tried to embark on new conversations with Laura about the role my dad played in making me the person I am, the one thing that separated me from being the professional I am today from being a clerk at Rite Aid, and one of the few consistently reliable elements in my life. Does three years of being difficult erase four decades of being my rock? When I look at him that way, I have to give an unequivocal no. When I look at the challenge of living with him in the moment, the answer becomes more difficult. There's a part of me that avoids him. It's the same part of me that doesn't want to hear the nasty remarks. Or have to answer the same questions over and over again. It's the part of me that clenches her teeth when he wants to talk to me alone because I know that no matter how positive the conversation starts out, there will be the inevitable dig at some other household member. It is another version of 'waiting for the other shoe to drop'. He can't be just sweet. We can't have just a nice, comfortable, mutually-supportive time alone. There is always the inevitable cutting remark. It can exhaust me.
But I feel there has got to be a way for us to go on. There has to be a way I can keep him in this home to honor what he was for me. I have often thought that he spent the time after he divorced my mother trying to make up for the damage that caused. He had hoped my and my sister's lives would be happy after our mother remarried and had other children. I know he wanted to think our stepfather had provided us with a good, secure existence. When it became apparent that that new life was rife with insecurity and financial woes, he stepped in to fill in the gaps. My sister and I always knew he would provide. I had a continual sense of him trying to say 'I'm here for you. I may have left your mother, and I may have thought you were doing okay, but I am here for you now and always.'
My thoughts about my father are equally as disjunct as this blog entry.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
In Court
When I was a child there was a TV show called 'Day in Court". At the beginning of each day's episode they would announce it saying each word loudly and clearly as if there were a period between each one: DAY. IN. COURT! And then there would be a loud percussive sound like a gavel banging. I think of that every time I sit in the courtroom waiting for it all to start. As a kid I would watch the show when I stayed home ill from school. We had a big two-story house and our guestroom was where Mom would put us when we were sick. It was a really dark and somber place and for some reason, it had a TV. 'Day in Court' was usually followed by 'Divorce Court'. My mother would never let me watch 'Divorce Court'. Of course, she later spent quite a bit of time in divorce court. Divorces were long, arduous, days-long hearings back then. It was before no-fault divorce and much of the arguments centered around why people were getting divorced. Affairs were the titillating precipitating events that piqued people's interests. Now there is no real interest in why people get divorces, at least not in the courtroom. 'Day in Court' was more of a potpourri of civil cases. I don't think they had criminal cases, but maybe they did. Was it rehearsed? Was it live? I don't know.
I was glad I only had to be in court for a half day this time. There was a more palatable beginning and end time for me. And, (joy oh joy!), Bill's attorney actually showed up and did his job.
As we waited outside for the bailiff to unlock the courtroom, I asked Laura to forward to my attorney a 'rental agreement' Bill had sent her. She said, "Oh, I forgot about that. I never read it. It was an attachment to an email." As she started to read it, it became clear that this wasn't a rental agreement for a new place Bill was going to rent, but a promise to her from him. He said that whatever the court demanded she pay in rent, he would send her that amount in a check. My attorney told her he wanted her to testify and read that on the witness stand. And she did. I guess it was just to show how slippery Bill can be. It would, I guess, also show that he really didn't need the extra money, that maybe it was just an attempt to squeeze me some more.
I was the only other person to testify that day. I was on the stand for a long time. Bill's attorney was trying to figure out why I say I am $3K in the hole every month. He was trying to find it in my records. In cross, my attorney helped me testify that it doesn't come in regular $3,000 intervals, and that some months are more costly than others, such as summer and when things like property taxes are due. I got a little flustered with that one. But I think I had my day in court. Not my DAY. IN. COURT! but I got to have my say. I got to mention gambling several times. I got to explain why I didn't make Bill the beneficiary on my life insurance policy back in 2002, why he was removed from my health benefits, why he was removed from the cell phone plan, why I shouldn't be ordered to pay his attorney's fees. It went almost as well as it could have. I chastised Bill and his attorney from the stand for sitting in that courtroom in September with full knowledge that my auto insurance was expired and never mentioning it to me. I told them if Bill needed money for legal costs, he could use some of his share of my tax shelter to pay them himself. We'll see how that works; they're already asking for it.
But once again we didn't get finished. We lost about a half an hour because the judge spent the time rereading our past hearing out loud. Wasn't he supposed to go over that stuff in his chambers before we started? If we have to do that again, it will take him an hour to go through previous testimony. The clerk was absent that day, that courtroom was going to be 'dark' the next day, and the attorneys were going to have to call in to set a date for our continuance. The judge thought that we could finish it sometime this month. Bill's attorney said he wasn't available. The clerk only offered one date in January, and someone couldn't make it. That left February, and he only offered us the 28th. So there you have it. I seem to be having a very long, arduous, days-long hearing. Just like in the 1950's.
I was glad I only had to be in court for a half day this time. There was a more palatable beginning and end time for me. And, (joy oh joy!), Bill's attorney actually showed up and did his job.
As we waited outside for the bailiff to unlock the courtroom, I asked Laura to forward to my attorney a 'rental agreement' Bill had sent her. She said, "Oh, I forgot about that. I never read it. It was an attachment to an email." As she started to read it, it became clear that this wasn't a rental agreement for a new place Bill was going to rent, but a promise to her from him. He said that whatever the court demanded she pay in rent, he would send her that amount in a check. My attorney told her he wanted her to testify and read that on the witness stand. And she did. I guess it was just to show how slippery Bill can be. It would, I guess, also show that he really didn't need the extra money, that maybe it was just an attempt to squeeze me some more.
I was the only other person to testify that day. I was on the stand for a long time. Bill's attorney was trying to figure out why I say I am $3K in the hole every month. He was trying to find it in my records. In cross, my attorney helped me testify that it doesn't come in regular $3,000 intervals, and that some months are more costly than others, such as summer and when things like property taxes are due. I got a little flustered with that one. But I think I had my day in court. Not my DAY. IN. COURT! but I got to have my say. I got to mention gambling several times. I got to explain why I didn't make Bill the beneficiary on my life insurance policy back in 2002, why he was removed from my health benefits, why he was removed from the cell phone plan, why I shouldn't be ordered to pay his attorney's fees. It went almost as well as it could have. I chastised Bill and his attorney from the stand for sitting in that courtroom in September with full knowledge that my auto insurance was expired and never mentioning it to me. I told them if Bill needed money for legal costs, he could use some of his share of my tax shelter to pay them himself. We'll see how that works; they're already asking for it.
But once again we didn't get finished. We lost about a half an hour because the judge spent the time rereading our past hearing out loud. Wasn't he supposed to go over that stuff in his chambers before we started? If we have to do that again, it will take him an hour to go through previous testimony. The clerk was absent that day, that courtroom was going to be 'dark' the next day, and the attorneys were going to have to call in to set a date for our continuance. The judge thought that we could finish it sometime this month. Bill's attorney said he wasn't available. The clerk only offered one date in January, and someone couldn't make it. That left February, and he only offered us the 28th. So there you have it. I seem to be having a very long, arduous, days-long hearing. Just like in the 1950's.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Red Tadpoles
I didn't know that I didn't know what a stretch mark really was. My mother had two babies when I was in my early teens but she never got a stretch mark. I never had a stretch mark and neither did either of my sisters, who together have given birth to 8 children. Laura said she was getting stretch marks and I wanted to see them because I THOUGHT I knew what they looked like. I THOUGHT they were raised whitish lines on certain places of your belly. In fact I was CERTAIN I knew what they looked like. So Laura lifted her shirt to show me. What I saw looked like a small school of red tadpoles swimming up her belly. These things were something I've never seen before. They are long red dips on the surface of her skin. They are quite unattractive. Are all stretch marks red? Are they all cylindrical and do they all look like vertical blisterlines but are in fact indentations? Is there a way to get rid of them? Do they go away after the baby is born? If so, when? Do the same stretch marks come back in the same spots during subsequent pregnancies? Do those stretch mark creams and oils work?
My poor kid, she scans her belly and backside every day to see if the invasion has increased and almost every day it has. I feel sorry for her. We were in a maternity store a couple of weeks ago and the clerk showed her her own stretch marks----which no longer had anyone gestating under them-----and announced that her child was already over 18 months old. Laura said it looked like someone was playing tic tac toe on her stomach and she was horrified. I feel so sorry for her but I don't have any wise words to say.
Today she and Kyle took my ring to a jeweler. After much discussion and going back and forth on things, they decided to have it dipped in white gold. It was cleaned as well. It always was a sparkler and now it's a dazzler. It looks different but the same. Does this mean we're getting closer to being engaged?
My poor kid, she scans her belly and backside every day to see if the invasion has increased and almost every day it has. I feel sorry for her. We were in a maternity store a couple of weeks ago and the clerk showed her her own stretch marks----which no longer had anyone gestating under them-----and announced that her child was already over 18 months old. Laura said it looked like someone was playing tic tac toe on her stomach and she was horrified. I feel so sorry for her but I don't have any wise words to say.
Today she and Kyle took my ring to a jeweler. After much discussion and going back and forth on things, they decided to have it dipped in white gold. It was cleaned as well. It always was a sparkler and now it's a dazzler. It looks different but the same. Does this mean we're getting closer to being engaged?
Friday, November 25, 2011
Phone Calls
My mental state was starting to worry me. I had never felt this down in my life. When we left court I felt like a villain. I had not been able to present my response to Bill's charges. The judge had given the attorneys some tasks that were going to be harmful to me and a waste of legal time. I felt a series of emotional events start to emerge and felt I didn't have the fortitude to change their course. Bill's attorney was a dolt but he was cunning. He couldn't argue his point, but he could disappear from the courtroom and cost me some big bucks. There was an unpredictability to his behavior that also made me feel out of control. I felt there were more tricks to come. Two days after court I caught a cold that morphed into bronchitis and stayed for .....well, so long that I still have it in a way. I wheezed and coughed for over three weeks without the telltale signs I had learned to look for: yellow or greenish mucous. After over three weeks, a friend said that if you have something like this for over ten days, you need to be on an antibiotic. I understood. I had been told that mucous is the perfect medium in which bacteria can grow. It would only be a matter of time before an infection cropped up. But on the other hand I had also been told antibiotics were useless unless you have an infection. Which advice should I follow? Deciding I had nothing to lose, I went home and started taking an antibiotic Dad had been given but never started because he had been hospitalized immediately after their purchase. After the first course I felt somewhat better but not entirely well. I took another course. After that I felt even better but was not convinced it was completely out of my system. However, I waited until my annual physical this past week. I was experiencing tightness in my chest. I thought it could have been one of three things: I was having heart problems (I do have slightly elevated cholesterol), my acid reflux was reemerging, or I still had some bronchitis. The doctor confirmed the third. He said it was no wonder I hadn't felt like exercising during the past couple of months. I was wheezing and there was still congestion in there. That was the tightness.
Tightness aside, there was another issue. The lack of exercise and the length of this illness had taken a toll on my emotional well-being. My moods had become so dark that I was reluctant to share my thoughts or feelings with anyone in my immediate physical surroundings. On a friend's suggestion I selected two people who were spiritually, emotionally and psychologically insightful and also knew me extremely well. One was my youngest sister and the other was one of my oldest friends, a friend I made right after I started working at my school but who had moved to Ohio about 20 years ago. Both of these women are strong, insightful, caring and generous to a fault. And more importantly, I knew they loved me and was reasonably sure they wouldn't judge me. That we share the same faith was a critical piece in this choice. It wasn't about who was my 'best' friend, who was my favorite sister, or who would keep confidentiality. This was unique. I wanted people who were strong enough to handle the burden of the darkness I was feeling, someone who lived far away from me, and someone who could help me spiritually walk out of this place. There are others I could have asked but some were grappling with major issues, others were very busy and there was a small element of shame because the strength I had felt for so long was abandoning me. I needed women who had faced similar circumstances and who could make a regular time to speak with me on the phone. It turned out well.
I called each of them. Right away I told them I wanted to ask a big favor, get a commitment from them, and told them this was going to be a burden. I told them I would understand completely if they were not in a position to help me with this. I knew their lives were demanding, they had responsibilities, and they have their own problems. I also knew them well enough that I could present this to them and feel I could be very good at ensuring them it was okay not to participate. They both agreed. They were honored. They were happy to help me with this. I was relieved and started to believe that I was going to find recovery in these conversations. I speak with one of them on Tuesday afternoons and the other on Friday evenings. Sometimes the conversations last only 20 minutes, sometimes they last an hour. These phone calls, and the medications I take for the bronchitis, are helping climb out of the hole I've been in for the past 8 weeks.
I return to court on Thursday. My attorney and I have worked hard at preparing for it, and I have become more assertive in setting the course to finish this divorce. I feel things are looking up. I am going to be fine.
Tightness aside, there was another issue. The lack of exercise and the length of this illness had taken a toll on my emotional well-being. My moods had become so dark that I was reluctant to share my thoughts or feelings with anyone in my immediate physical surroundings. On a friend's suggestion I selected two people who were spiritually, emotionally and psychologically insightful and also knew me extremely well. One was my youngest sister and the other was one of my oldest friends, a friend I made right after I started working at my school but who had moved to Ohio about 20 years ago. Both of these women are strong, insightful, caring and generous to a fault. And more importantly, I knew they loved me and was reasonably sure they wouldn't judge me. That we share the same faith was a critical piece in this choice. It wasn't about who was my 'best' friend, who was my favorite sister, or who would keep confidentiality. This was unique. I wanted people who were strong enough to handle the burden of the darkness I was feeling, someone who lived far away from me, and someone who could help me spiritually walk out of this place. There are others I could have asked but some were grappling with major issues, others were very busy and there was a small element of shame because the strength I had felt for so long was abandoning me. I needed women who had faced similar circumstances and who could make a regular time to speak with me on the phone. It turned out well.
I called each of them. Right away I told them I wanted to ask a big favor, get a commitment from them, and told them this was going to be a burden. I told them I would understand completely if they were not in a position to help me with this. I knew their lives were demanding, they had responsibilities, and they have their own problems. I also knew them well enough that I could present this to them and feel I could be very good at ensuring them it was okay not to participate. They both agreed. They were honored. They were happy to help me with this. I was relieved and started to believe that I was going to find recovery in these conversations. I speak with one of them on Tuesday afternoons and the other on Friday evenings. Sometimes the conversations last only 20 minutes, sometimes they last an hour. These phone calls, and the medications I take for the bronchitis, are helping climb out of the hole I've been in for the past 8 weeks.
I return to court on Thursday. My attorney and I have worked hard at preparing for it, and I have become more assertive in setting the course to finish this divorce. I feel things are looking up. I am going to be fine.
Going Back
Time distorts memories. At least for me. It's important that I be acutely aware of my propensity to remember certain things while forgetting others. In that regard, I find myself thinking of some things that happened near the end of my time with Bill.
I remember getting a 1099 from a casino in late January. I remember confronting Bill about it. At that point he was three months past his pancreatic cancer diagnosis and two months into his chemo. It angered me that this horrible addiction, this intruder into our marriage, this thing that felt like a mistress----that had made our marriage feel like an awkward threesome with me the only party who wasn't really aware that there were not just two of us---had been reintroduced into our lives when there was already too much to handle. And I remember the welling-up of feeling how unfair it was. How much audacity did Bill have? I confronted him. I asked him hard end-of-life questions about his gambling. He responded in such a way that, at the moment, I sensed but couldn't put words to. It wasn't too hard though. He was powerless over the addiction. It was straight out of the twelve-step book. He was powerless. It was as authentic an admission as I could ever have gotten. The addiction had control when it popped up. He could not control it. He had been in a twelve-step program for it years ago. He could never conquer it. That moment, that afternoon in the van waiting for the left turn arrow at Lincoln, that was the moment of truth. He was never going to have the upper hand on his gambling. That was the hard truth, and it wasn't going to change. My harsh realization. His harsh realization. Right there. A cancer death sentence. A reemergence of gambling. These two things were not going to change. Neither one of them was about love. Neither one was about a union that had lasted a quarter of a century. Both were in control and I was going to have to step aside to let them run their course. But there, on that afternoon, looking at the man who had been both my best friend and my worst enemy, the paradox of what our lives had become, was a series of events that were colliding in my brain. Cancer. Gambling. Death. Life. Future. Betrayal. Loyalty. Love. Crashing against each other. Their coexistence made no sense. Yet there they were.
This is my part. This is where I tried to handle but not handle the situation. I felt trapped. I couldn't change these things, but I couldn't get out of them either. I felt it was wrong to kick him out. After all, he had cancer. And not just your garden variety cancer (not that any cancer is good), but a kind of cancer known to be quite lethal. On top of that, he hated my dad. He not only wanted no part of my dad but wanted him to either pay $6,000 a month or move out. I had already decided that I wasn't going to throw my dad out; my dad had been there for me through my adult years and had supported me, encouraged me and helped me out whenever I had asked. No, Dad wasn't going. Cancer was here to stay. Gambling was also back.
What did I do? I withdrew. I started a blog about ending my time with him, thinking that end was going to be the result of the cancer. I reached out to friends and family. Yes, I joined the cancer support group. Yes, I dropped out of several other obligations. I even attended yoga classes and other cancer-related events with him. I sat with him at his chemo appointments. But I withdrew. Was it because he was supposed to be dying and I was getting ready to be without him? Or was it the betrayal of the gambling? Was it the anger at how he had turned on my dad after we had moved him in? Was I worried he was after my dad's money and blackmailing me to access more of it because he now saw my dad as an annoyance? The answer is yes yes yes and yes. Yes. Yes. Withdrawal was how I dealt with what I saw as a no-win situation.
I recognize it. I acknowledge it. I confess it. I forgive myself. It was what it was and that was how I handled it. I don't know what another person would have done. But that was what I saw as my only way of coping with the situation. I withdrew. He recognized it. It hurt him, I know.
I suppose a person could ask him what he would have done if he had been in my shoes. I would be quite interested to hear his answer. I hear that he tells people I filed for divorce. I hear he says I filed because he has cancer, and that there are those who believe him. He also says I was having an affair. And I say I wish I had been. Maybe this all would have been less painful and I would have had a concrete sense of direction in all of this. But that is addiction and mental illness talking. It still offers no solution to the gambling/cancer/betrayal/22-year marriage dilemma I was in.
I caught him gambling. We had the realization he would never control it. I withdrew.
I remember getting a 1099 from a casino in late January. I remember confronting Bill about it. At that point he was three months past his pancreatic cancer diagnosis and two months into his chemo. It angered me that this horrible addiction, this intruder into our marriage, this thing that felt like a mistress----that had made our marriage feel like an awkward threesome with me the only party who wasn't really aware that there were not just two of us---had been reintroduced into our lives when there was already too much to handle. And I remember the welling-up of feeling how unfair it was. How much audacity did Bill have? I confronted him. I asked him hard end-of-life questions about his gambling. He responded in such a way that, at the moment, I sensed but couldn't put words to. It wasn't too hard though. He was powerless over the addiction. It was straight out of the twelve-step book. He was powerless. It was as authentic an admission as I could ever have gotten. The addiction had control when it popped up. He could not control it. He had been in a twelve-step program for it years ago. He could never conquer it. That moment, that afternoon in the van waiting for the left turn arrow at Lincoln, that was the moment of truth. He was never going to have the upper hand on his gambling. That was the hard truth, and it wasn't going to change. My harsh realization. His harsh realization. Right there. A cancer death sentence. A reemergence of gambling. These two things were not going to change. Neither one of them was about love. Neither one was about a union that had lasted a quarter of a century. Both were in control and I was going to have to step aside to let them run their course. But there, on that afternoon, looking at the man who had been both my best friend and my worst enemy, the paradox of what our lives had become, was a series of events that were colliding in my brain. Cancer. Gambling. Death. Life. Future. Betrayal. Loyalty. Love. Crashing against each other. Their coexistence made no sense. Yet there they were.
This is my part. This is where I tried to handle but not handle the situation. I felt trapped. I couldn't change these things, but I couldn't get out of them either. I felt it was wrong to kick him out. After all, he had cancer. And not just your garden variety cancer (not that any cancer is good), but a kind of cancer known to be quite lethal. On top of that, he hated my dad. He not only wanted no part of my dad but wanted him to either pay $6,000 a month or move out. I had already decided that I wasn't going to throw my dad out; my dad had been there for me through my adult years and had supported me, encouraged me and helped me out whenever I had asked. No, Dad wasn't going. Cancer was here to stay. Gambling was also back.
What did I do? I withdrew. I started a blog about ending my time with him, thinking that end was going to be the result of the cancer. I reached out to friends and family. Yes, I joined the cancer support group. Yes, I dropped out of several other obligations. I even attended yoga classes and other cancer-related events with him. I sat with him at his chemo appointments. But I withdrew. Was it because he was supposed to be dying and I was getting ready to be without him? Or was it the betrayal of the gambling? Was it the anger at how he had turned on my dad after we had moved him in? Was I worried he was after my dad's money and blackmailing me to access more of it because he now saw my dad as an annoyance? The answer is yes yes yes and yes. Yes. Yes. Withdrawal was how I dealt with what I saw as a no-win situation.
I recognize it. I acknowledge it. I confess it. I forgive myself. It was what it was and that was how I handled it. I don't know what another person would have done. But that was what I saw as my only way of coping with the situation. I withdrew. He recognized it. It hurt him, I know.
I suppose a person could ask him what he would have done if he had been in my shoes. I would be quite interested to hear his answer. I hear that he tells people I filed for divorce. I hear he says I filed because he has cancer, and that there are those who believe him. He also says I was having an affair. And I say I wish I had been. Maybe this all would have been less painful and I would have had a concrete sense of direction in all of this. But that is addiction and mental illness talking. It still offers no solution to the gambling/cancer/betrayal/22-year marriage dilemma I was in.
I caught him gambling. We had the realization he would never control it. I withdrew.
Turkey Day
Yesterday was my second Thanksgiving without Bill. Last year I hosted dinner at the house and felt an enormous amount of joy. One of my sisters and her family came down to visit specifically to be supportive of me. Kyle's family came over. We had eighteen people and I felt it was the way I wanted to spend Thanksgiving for the rest of my life. I was free and finally spreading my wings.
But over the past year the shine of my new freedom has worn off. This divorce has morphed into a strange burden. I have come to understand a form of loneliness at a level I never knew possible. It's not a loneliness of feeling rejected. It's not a loneliness of feeling unwanted. It doesn't make me cry. Instead it makes me stop and look at myself and think, 'I need to find myself. I absolutely cannot lose myself again. I may never have another union as I knew in my marriages, but I have to find the woman inside me.' There are times when I know I am closing myself off from others. There are times when I move through masses of people and feel as if I am both connected and disconnected. I examine the depth of my friendships and wonder how much of myself I reveal. I wonder if I glide through life as a semi-human. I wonder how much I am willing to give of myself. I wonder if I have created enough definition and enough boundaries in my life and in my relationships, and if this presence or absence of boundaries has interfered with intimacies for me. Will I ever know? And, in tandem, if I don't have clear boundaries, is that a product of me not really knowing myself? How can you define your relationships with others if you don't really know who you are and what you will and will not accept?
As Thanksgiving approached again, we accepted an invitation to Kyle's aunt's in the valley. All of Kyle's family was slated to be there, including the one aunt I had not yet met. There were 25 of us. Aunts, uncles, cousins, all sets of grandparents from Jack's side of the family. It was a good-sized group. I had a chance to talk with Kyle's younger sister, a girl who had attended Thanksgiving at my house last year but who hadn't uttered a word that I could remember. I kind of got to know her. She and Laura had been friendly in high school. And this is my favorite story about her: She and Laura had a Spanish class together. One day she and Laura were talking. Laura was talking about her new boyfriend. The sister said, "What's your boyfriend's name?" Laura said, "Kyle." (Kyle actually attended another high school in our district.) The sister said, "Kyle who?" Laura told her the last name. The sister said, "Oh, God! That's my brother. He's an asshole. Don't date him!" And all will agree that she was right. At the time. As I looked at her this time, I saw Jack in a skirt. It was remarkable how much this young woman looked like her father. Jack in drag. But she was talking this time. Kyle's other brothers were also there. Again, they had their silent rebellion against Jack's girlfriend, Becky. They apparently hate her. They refused to be photographed when she was in the picture. Kyle says they just need someone to hate. And with their mother absent, Becky gets to be the object of their disdain. Lucky Becky. Since I never really knew Becky when she was a drinker, I don't know how she used to behave. Perhaps I should say 'Lucky me'. I don't know.
Bernie and his wife were there again as was Jack's mom and her husband. Jack's mom's second husband's (Freddy ---who passed away almost three years ago) children were there and all cousins from all three of Bernie and Mary's children, Jack, Michelle and Suzanne. Altogether we filled the giant collection of tables in Suzanne's living room, we were packed in. There was also a man Suzanne had called her Uncle Don. Gee, I had two of those when I was a kid. But it turned out that Uncle Don wasn't really an uncle. He was one of Bernie's friends from as far back as junior high. He and I chatted for a while. He had a wedding ring on and spoke of his grown children and mentioned he hadn't married until he was 37. I thought maybe he was there because his wife was ill. It didn't occur to me until late in the afternoon that this was a guy they were trying to fix me up with. I most certainly blew this set up. I never realized he had been invited to meet me. He seemed so old. Not that I'm looking for someone who's young. But when a man tells me that in 1957 (when I was 6 years old), he was already out of the service and working, I don't think this is a person of my generation. This is someone who is more a member of my parents' crowd. I have not yet thought that this is an age of someone I should even consider dating. I don't think he was impressed with me either. Not at all.
I enjoyed myself and preferred talking to Bernie's wife and the aunts. It must be a phase I'm going through. The thought of embarking on another relationship, the thought of dating, the thought of trying to impress a man, seems like a nuisance. But you know what? I think it's a good thing. I think it's necessary, it's a necessary step for me now. I don't know why; it just seems right. And I feel comfortable with it.
But over the past year the shine of my new freedom has worn off. This divorce has morphed into a strange burden. I have come to understand a form of loneliness at a level I never knew possible. It's not a loneliness of feeling rejected. It's not a loneliness of feeling unwanted. It doesn't make me cry. Instead it makes me stop and look at myself and think, 'I need to find myself. I absolutely cannot lose myself again. I may never have another union as I knew in my marriages, but I have to find the woman inside me.' There are times when I know I am closing myself off from others. There are times when I move through masses of people and feel as if I am both connected and disconnected. I examine the depth of my friendships and wonder how much of myself I reveal. I wonder if I glide through life as a semi-human. I wonder how much I am willing to give of myself. I wonder if I have created enough definition and enough boundaries in my life and in my relationships, and if this presence or absence of boundaries has interfered with intimacies for me. Will I ever know? And, in tandem, if I don't have clear boundaries, is that a product of me not really knowing myself? How can you define your relationships with others if you don't really know who you are and what you will and will not accept?
As Thanksgiving approached again, we accepted an invitation to Kyle's aunt's in the valley. All of Kyle's family was slated to be there, including the one aunt I had not yet met. There were 25 of us. Aunts, uncles, cousins, all sets of grandparents from Jack's side of the family. It was a good-sized group. I had a chance to talk with Kyle's younger sister, a girl who had attended Thanksgiving at my house last year but who hadn't uttered a word that I could remember. I kind of got to know her. She and Laura had been friendly in high school. And this is my favorite story about her: She and Laura had a Spanish class together. One day she and Laura were talking. Laura was talking about her new boyfriend. The sister said, "What's your boyfriend's name?" Laura said, "Kyle." (Kyle actually attended another high school in our district.) The sister said, "Kyle who?" Laura told her the last name. The sister said, "Oh, God! That's my brother. He's an asshole. Don't date him!" And all will agree that she was right. At the time. As I looked at her this time, I saw Jack in a skirt. It was remarkable how much this young woman looked like her father. Jack in drag. But she was talking this time. Kyle's other brothers were also there. Again, they had their silent rebellion against Jack's girlfriend, Becky. They apparently hate her. They refused to be photographed when she was in the picture. Kyle says they just need someone to hate. And with their mother absent, Becky gets to be the object of their disdain. Lucky Becky. Since I never really knew Becky when she was a drinker, I don't know how she used to behave. Perhaps I should say 'Lucky me'. I don't know.
Bernie and his wife were there again as was Jack's mom and her husband. Jack's mom's second husband's (Freddy ---who passed away almost three years ago) children were there and all cousins from all three of Bernie and Mary's children, Jack, Michelle and Suzanne. Altogether we filled the giant collection of tables in Suzanne's living room, we were packed in. There was also a man Suzanne had called her Uncle Don. Gee, I had two of those when I was a kid. But it turned out that Uncle Don wasn't really an uncle. He was one of Bernie's friends from as far back as junior high. He and I chatted for a while. He had a wedding ring on and spoke of his grown children and mentioned he hadn't married until he was 37. I thought maybe he was there because his wife was ill. It didn't occur to me until late in the afternoon that this was a guy they were trying to fix me up with. I most certainly blew this set up. I never realized he had been invited to meet me. He seemed so old. Not that I'm looking for someone who's young. But when a man tells me that in 1957 (when I was 6 years old), he was already out of the service and working, I don't think this is a person of my generation. This is someone who is more a member of my parents' crowd. I have not yet thought that this is an age of someone I should even consider dating. I don't think he was impressed with me either. Not at all.
I enjoyed myself and preferred talking to Bernie's wife and the aunts. It must be a phase I'm going through. The thought of embarking on another relationship, the thought of dating, the thought of trying to impress a man, seems like a nuisance. But you know what? I think it's a good thing. I think it's necessary, it's a necessary step for me now. I don't know why; it just seems right. And I feel comfortable with it.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
How Strange the Sound
Anyone who lived through the sixties, any past or present primal-heavy-rock-loving person from back in my day, can identify a classic piece from that era within the first two bars of the introduction. Such is the case with 'House of the Rising Sun'. So on Sunday when the choir got up to sing the 'anthem', I knew within two notes that it was 'House of the Rising Sun'. Hold on, I thought! Did that song have a huge underlying religious message I never recognized? I couldn't WAIT until they started the actual singing. Hmmmm....there is a house in New Orleans..... Finally, when the choir came in, the words were 'Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me!'
REALLY? The words all seemed to fit; I just couldn't help thinking that the next words would possibly be 'and it's been the ruin of many a poor boy, and God I know I'm one', which would definitely fly in the face of any Christian message they would be trying to deliver. Fortunately, they weren't, and the choir continued on with the lyrics to Amazing Grace. But I still wondered, "Were those of us who had 'experienced' the sixties supposed to overlay the lyrics of House of the Rising Sun with those of Amazing Grace?"
After church I saw the choir director, a sweet and generous twentysomething. I asked him how the words to Amazing Grace were meshed with House. Was that a brainstorm on his part? Oh, no, they weren't. He'd never heard of House of the Rising Sun and had chosen the anthem after he heard the Blind Boys of Alabama sing it on one of their albums.
How disgustingly old I felt.
But our conversation went on. He wanted to know if there was anything he could do for me. Is there something he could do at the house? He's in this part of town a lot and would love to help out in anyway he could. Did I have his number? Did I need anything?
Then he told me about his mother. I knew his stepfather had been diagnosed with some form of cancer. I remember when he went to wherever they live for his stepfather's surgery. But what he told me next both surprised and didn't surprise me. He said that shortly after his stepfather was diagnosed with cancer, his mother was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. At that point his stepfather emptied all of their savings and bank accounts and took off. His mother is now virtually penniless. How long had they been married? I asked. Since he was a little boy he said. About as long as Bill and I were married. But as awful as that sounds, I somehow 'get it'. Sometimes when you know your life is ending, you don't want to have to deal with anyone else's "stuff". You don't want to make any compromises, any concessions. You want to spend your remaining days doing what you want to do and that's it.
I think that's a big part of what happened with Bill. He had been told his life was ending. He didn't like my dad. He wanted to play poker whenever and wherever he wanted, and he wanted to have the money to do it without having to work. Looked perfect. Could happen. It was a slight gamble but then, hey, that's his game. Take what you can get your hands on and get out. Go live your life the way you want to. No critical father-in-law, no disapproving wife. No responsibilities. The rest is collateral damage and that isn't important. Probably sounded good, especially considering the mental state of mind he was in at the time.
REALLY? The words all seemed to fit; I just couldn't help thinking that the next words would possibly be 'and it's been the ruin of many a poor boy, and God I know I'm one', which would definitely fly in the face of any Christian message they would be trying to deliver. Fortunately, they weren't, and the choir continued on with the lyrics to Amazing Grace. But I still wondered, "Were those of us who had 'experienced' the sixties supposed to overlay the lyrics of House of the Rising Sun with those of Amazing Grace?"
After church I saw the choir director, a sweet and generous twentysomething. I asked him how the words to Amazing Grace were meshed with House. Was that a brainstorm on his part? Oh, no, they weren't. He'd never heard of House of the Rising Sun and had chosen the anthem after he heard the Blind Boys of Alabama sing it on one of their albums.
How disgustingly old I felt.
But our conversation went on. He wanted to know if there was anything he could do for me. Is there something he could do at the house? He's in this part of town a lot and would love to help out in anyway he could. Did I have his number? Did I need anything?
Then he told me about his mother. I knew his stepfather had been diagnosed with some form of cancer. I remember when he went to wherever they live for his stepfather's surgery. But what he told me next both surprised and didn't surprise me. He said that shortly after his stepfather was diagnosed with cancer, his mother was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. At that point his stepfather emptied all of their savings and bank accounts and took off. His mother is now virtually penniless. How long had they been married? I asked. Since he was a little boy he said. About as long as Bill and I were married. But as awful as that sounds, I somehow 'get it'. Sometimes when you know your life is ending, you don't want to have to deal with anyone else's "stuff". You don't want to make any compromises, any concessions. You want to spend your remaining days doing what you want to do and that's it.
I think that's a big part of what happened with Bill. He had been told his life was ending. He didn't like my dad. He wanted to play poker whenever and wherever he wanted, and he wanted to have the money to do it without having to work. Looked perfect. Could happen. It was a slight gamble but then, hey, that's his game. Take what you can get your hands on and get out. Go live your life the way you want to. No critical father-in-law, no disapproving wife. No responsibilities. The rest is collateral damage and that isn't important. Probably sounded good, especially considering the mental state of mind he was in at the time.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Internet Wisdom
I have been spending a lot of time thinking about marriage and the long-term effects two of them have had on me. And I have had some big 'aha's'.
As I have said before, my mother and the other females in my family sent very strong messages about the necessity of marriage. In their minds marriage completed a woman. There was no place in this world for an unmarried woman. Her life was beyond tragic; it was pointless. In their minds all I needed was to be loved. Everything else would fall into place. I just needed to find a man who would love me. Then he would take care of me. I had no other purpose in life. First, however, I had to finish my education. That was the only caveat: get the college degree. But it was a little tricky because I was also supposed to meet my husband in college. Leaving college without being engaged was tantamount to being a sailor in the 15th century and sailing straight west. If I left college without having found 'the one', I would fall off the edge of the earth. The timing had to be just right. I had to find someone, get engaged, graduate, and then get married. There was an unbreakable sequence. I have spent much of the past several months combating those messages.
A friend of mine suggested marriage is a necessity for two purposes only: home ownership and children. The other stuff doesn't make marriage a necessity. I agree but with one additional purpose: end-of-life affairs. If you aren't married and your significant other dies, then their family members make all 'arrangements'; you have no say. That would be a reason supporting late-in-life marriages. The down side, in case no one has thought of that, would be your new spouse's children feeling you were going to steal their inheritance. I think if I ever married again (and for the past year I have been pretty sure there's not much of a chance of that), I would have to work hard to assure my new stepchildren and step-grandchildren I wasn't going to take all the money and goods they were expecting upon my spouse's death.
But that is by no means my big 'aha'. Nope. My big 'aha' was much bigger than that. In fact, it led me to my revelation. And this is it: I have discovered, to my amazement, that in both my marriages, I ended up feeling both trapped and taken advantage of. In fact, although both instances were vastly different unions, these were their end-products and they were remarkably similar. What was the common denominator? ME. Geeez, back to me. Again.
On the heels of this work came a little article on the internet this morning. It was about marriage. I liked much of what it said. It wasn't full of the commonplace jargon about how to make marriage work. It had a pragmatic style that captured my attention so I copied some of it here. But one thing jumped out at me, one thing that had been a huge realization for me. Can you find it? Here are the 'facts' according to this article:
Sixty-nine percent of all arguments between you and your partner will never be resolved. So don’t try so hard.
A couple that doesn’t fight is in trouble.
Having a “good enough” marriage is the most couples can expect and is actually quite an accomplishment.
Letting go is sometimes better than discussing everything to death.
Respect, not sex or money, is the most important factor in a happy marriage.
There are marital breaches worse than an affair.
A therapist cannot teach, train, or guide you to “be happy.” That is not a reasonable outcome to expect from therapy.
Did you think it was the one about having a 'good enough' marriage? It wasn't. Although that was eye-opening. Or that there are marital breaches worse than an affair? That was a surprise, too, but I have had other betrayals, so that wasn't such a surprise. In some conversations and thoughts I've had over the past year or so, it has become increasing obvious that the one thing that doomed both of my marriages was when I lost respect for my husbands. That is irreparable. I stayed both times in hopes that each would do something to redeem himself in my eyes. I waited for some new avenue to pop up where they could each show me how they could do the right thing, or succeed, or get their lives on a great track, but it never happened. Respect. You've got to respect your spouse. Or at least, I've got to respect my spouse. Lose respect and eventually the marriage will die. And in my case, lose respect and if you don't regain it, you will feel trapped and taken advantage of.
As I have said before, my mother and the other females in my family sent very strong messages about the necessity of marriage. In their minds marriage completed a woman. There was no place in this world for an unmarried woman. Her life was beyond tragic; it was pointless. In their minds all I needed was to be loved. Everything else would fall into place. I just needed to find a man who would love me. Then he would take care of me. I had no other purpose in life. First, however, I had to finish my education. That was the only caveat: get the college degree. But it was a little tricky because I was also supposed to meet my husband in college. Leaving college without being engaged was tantamount to being a sailor in the 15th century and sailing straight west. If I left college without having found 'the one', I would fall off the edge of the earth. The timing had to be just right. I had to find someone, get engaged, graduate, and then get married. There was an unbreakable sequence. I have spent much of the past several months combating those messages.
A friend of mine suggested marriage is a necessity for two purposes only: home ownership and children. The other stuff doesn't make marriage a necessity. I agree but with one additional purpose: end-of-life affairs. If you aren't married and your significant other dies, then their family members make all 'arrangements'; you have no say. That would be a reason supporting late-in-life marriages. The down side, in case no one has thought of that, would be your new spouse's children feeling you were going to steal their inheritance. I think if I ever married again (and for the past year I have been pretty sure there's not much of a chance of that), I would have to work hard to assure my new stepchildren and step-grandchildren I wasn't going to take all the money and goods they were expecting upon my spouse's death.
But that is by no means my big 'aha'. Nope. My big 'aha' was much bigger than that. In fact, it led me to my revelation. And this is it: I have discovered, to my amazement, that in both my marriages, I ended up feeling both trapped and taken advantage of. In fact, although both instances were vastly different unions, these were their end-products and they were remarkably similar. What was the common denominator? ME. Geeez, back to me. Again.
On the heels of this work came a little article on the internet this morning. It was about marriage. I liked much of what it said. It wasn't full of the commonplace jargon about how to make marriage work. It had a pragmatic style that captured my attention so I copied some of it here. But one thing jumped out at me, one thing that had been a huge realization for me. Can you find it? Here are the 'facts' according to this article:
Sixty-nine percent of all arguments between you and your partner will never be resolved. So don’t try so hard.
A couple that doesn’t fight is in trouble.
Having a “good enough” marriage is the most couples can expect and is actually quite an accomplishment.
Letting go is sometimes better than discussing everything to death.
Respect, not sex or money, is the most important factor in a happy marriage.
There are marital breaches worse than an affair.
A therapist cannot teach, train, or guide you to “be happy.” That is not a reasonable outcome to expect from therapy.
Did you think it was the one about having a 'good enough' marriage? It wasn't. Although that was eye-opening. Or that there are marital breaches worse than an affair? That was a surprise, too, but I have had other betrayals, so that wasn't such a surprise. In some conversations and thoughts I've had over the past year or so, it has become increasing obvious that the one thing that doomed both of my marriages was when I lost respect for my husbands. That is irreparable. I stayed both times in hopes that each would do something to redeem himself in my eyes. I waited for some new avenue to pop up where they could each show me how they could do the right thing, or succeed, or get their lives on a great track, but it never happened. Respect. You've got to respect your spouse. Or at least, I've got to respect my spouse. Lose respect and eventually the marriage will die. And in my case, lose respect and if you don't regain it, you will feel trapped and taken advantage of.
Finally Started
Back to the day we were in court.
We didn't get started until 2:30. Bill's attorney alleged that I had retaliated against Bill when I took him off the medical coverage and when I removed him from the life insurance. He said I earn $10,000 a month twelve months of the year and that my dad should be paying $1750 a month to live in the house. He also said I retaliated when I put Bill's cell phone line on hold. That's when I realized why it was that this attorney's 'short matters' in another courtroom had turned into 'long matters'. Bill's attorney can't get to the point. He talks around and around. He slurs his words together a little and is the unfortunate recipient of the gift of poor oratory skills. I have no idea why Bill hired him. He charges $425 an hour and now wants $30,000 in attorney's fees. He used the word 'clearly' a lot, but what I saw was that whenever he said that word, he was about to stretch the truth. It became a 'marker' word. He'd say, "Clearly," and I'd think, "Here comes a lie." It never failed.
Then the judge said we needed to take a break for the court reporter. I was worried the little squirt would disappear again.
My attorney had Bill on the stand and reminded him that he had been removed from the house on a domestic violence charge. Bill was quick to say he had never laid a hand on me. The rest was a blur.
How did the day go by so quickly? I don't know. But soon it was 4:30 and time for court to close for the day. We had not even begun to present our case. As if that weren't bad enough, the judge asked the attorneys to run the Dissomaster program (a program that's used statewide to calculate spousal support) on $10,000 a month and additional $750, $1750 and $1300. We tried to tell the judge that I didn't make $10,000 a month but he wouldn't allow any additional comments. I felt like a victim. I felt myself sinking into a depression.
Two days later I came down with a cold that moved into my chest and I've been ill ever since.
We didn't get started until 2:30. Bill's attorney alleged that I had retaliated against Bill when I took him off the medical coverage and when I removed him from the life insurance. He said I earn $10,000 a month twelve months of the year and that my dad should be paying $1750 a month to live in the house. He also said I retaliated when I put Bill's cell phone line on hold. That's when I realized why it was that this attorney's 'short matters' in another courtroom had turned into 'long matters'. Bill's attorney can't get to the point. He talks around and around. He slurs his words together a little and is the unfortunate recipient of the gift of poor oratory skills. I have no idea why Bill hired him. He charges $425 an hour and now wants $30,000 in attorney's fees. He used the word 'clearly' a lot, but what I saw was that whenever he said that word, he was about to stretch the truth. It became a 'marker' word. He'd say, "Clearly," and I'd think, "Here comes a lie." It never failed.
Then the judge said we needed to take a break for the court reporter. I was worried the little squirt would disappear again.
My attorney had Bill on the stand and reminded him that he had been removed from the house on a domestic violence charge. Bill was quick to say he had never laid a hand on me. The rest was a blur.
How did the day go by so quickly? I don't know. But soon it was 4:30 and time for court to close for the day. We had not even begun to present our case. As if that weren't bad enough, the judge asked the attorneys to run the Dissomaster program (a program that's used statewide to calculate spousal support) on $10,000 a month and additional $750, $1750 and $1300. We tried to tell the judge that I didn't make $10,000 a month but he wouldn't allow any additional comments. I felt like a victim. I felt myself sinking into a depression.
Two days later I came down with a cold that moved into my chest and I've been ill ever since.
My Very Own Auto Policy
I had caught the auto policy expiring at least twice since the separation. I had called the insurance 'mother ship' wherever they are. They told me that since the policy was in my husband's name, the bills would be sent to him. Even though they had our home address, the premium letters were being forwarded to wherever it is Bill lives by the post office. The mother office was neither going to add my name to the mailing envelope nor put the policy in my name.
Catching the premiums by 'intuition', or by what I thought might be a time they were due, became quite a trick. And so I discovered on Wednesday evening that the policy had expired two days before our last court visit. Game over! I sent my attorney a quick email and he called me at 7:30 the next morning. He said to go ahead and get my own auto policy.
You may ask why I had continued to keep my charming ex covered all this time? No, it's not because I am too kind. There is something called an ATRO, it's a type of temporary restraining order that goes into effect as soon as your separate. The ATRO restrains you from changing or discontinuing many things during the course of the divorce. One of the elements of the ATRO prohibited me from making any changes in any insurance policies. (Bill's attorney had claimed I had violated the ATRO by changing the beneficiary on my life insurance policy. Even after presented with the evidence that I had taken out the insurance policy in 2002. But that's another story.)
I could take off any car that did not have me listed as the owner. That was just the Acura. I only saved $10 but at least I'll get my premiums and won't be putting myself, my child, and my grandchild in the precarious position of driving around without insurance.
My attorney sent Bill's a letter notifying him that since Bill had put me in peril, the ATRO was no longer applicable and Bill would now need to get his own policy for the Acura. Bill's attorney will probably say he never received the letter. That would come as no surprise.
Catching the premiums by 'intuition', or by what I thought might be a time they were due, became quite a trick. And so I discovered on Wednesday evening that the policy had expired two days before our last court visit. Game over! I sent my attorney a quick email and he called me at 7:30 the next morning. He said to go ahead and get my own auto policy.
You may ask why I had continued to keep my charming ex covered all this time? No, it's not because I am too kind. There is something called an ATRO, it's a type of temporary restraining order that goes into effect as soon as your separate. The ATRO restrains you from changing or discontinuing many things during the course of the divorce. One of the elements of the ATRO prohibited me from making any changes in any insurance policies. (Bill's attorney had claimed I had violated the ATRO by changing the beneficiary on my life insurance policy. Even after presented with the evidence that I had taken out the insurance policy in 2002. But that's another story.)
I could take off any car that did not have me listed as the owner. That was just the Acura. I only saved $10 but at least I'll get my premiums and won't be putting myself, my child, and my grandchild in the precarious position of driving around without insurance.
My attorney sent Bill's a letter notifying him that since Bill had put me in peril, the ATRO was no longer applicable and Bill would now need to get his own policy for the Acura. Bill's attorney will probably say he never received the letter. That would come as no surprise.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Two Months????
Has it really been two months since I've written? So much has happened.
School started on August 30 and was its usual whirlwind, there were many bumps in that road, Laura's pregnancy has progressed with continuing difficulties, I've been dragged back into court in a living nightmare followed by weeks of emotional and physical fatigue, depression and a respiratory ailment that knocked me off my feet.
I will briefly describe my return to the county courthouse. Bill filed another OSC (Order to Show Cause). What IS an Order to Show Cause? Does it mean I have to show cause as to why I shouldn't have to pay him more spousal support or does he have to show cause as to why he needs more spousal support? I don't know which one applies here. The order was filed in May while Bill's attorney was going through physical therapy in a rehabilitation facility for back surgery he had as a result of getting rear-ended on the freeway. The guy already had a back problem and walked with a cane. Bill got the man's associate to file the paperwork. We were ordered to show up to respond to it on a date in June. However, my attorney was doing a trial in the Criminal Courts building on the same date and had to get a postponement. The new date was set for September 28. I had to fill out another Income and Expenses Report (takes a looonnngg time) and had to pay my attorney to appear. I had to be there as well. But first we needed to finish the deposition nightmare. The former attorney had taken my deposition in March but my attorney had not deposed Bill. By September, Bill had a new attorney.
Here's where it gets creepy. I showed up for Bill's deposition at the appointed time. I sat alone in the waiting room at my attorney's office for forty minutes. The entire time I worried about Bill showing up and the two of us having to sit in the waiting area alone together. Forty minutes can be an extremely long time when you're dreading something. My attorney called from the road. He was going to be late and said that both Bill and his attorney were going to be late too. When he walked in he looked at me and said, "What's wrong? Why do you look like a deer in the headlights?"
"I was sitting here alone and I was afraid Bill would come in before you."
"I'm so sorry. I promise I'll never do that to you again."
Bill and his attorney showed up shortly after that.
It was hard for me to sit through the depo and not say anything. Bill claimed 'chemo brain' and misremembered many, many things. He said he thought he was still in law school when we got married. He wasn't. He had been out of law school for almost a year when we married. But the reason why this is important is that if he were still in law school when we married then I would be responsible for many of the student loans he never repaid. He also said the Acura was purchased with funds from his inheritance. Another bit of misinformation. If he had bought the car with his inheritance, then the car would not be part of community property, and it was worth almost $20,000 at the time we separated. So, here in his deposition, these two pieces of misinformation could be costly for me. But they won't be because I have the paperwork to prove the truth on both of those issues.
Both in the depo and in court, he claimed his last job was owner/general contractor on the remodel of our house. There is no denying the sweat equity he put into the house. He worked alongside the construction crew and supervised everything. But the 'job' only lasted seven months from start to finish, and I have had to spend money 'fixing' a lot of things since then.
The worst thing was the court date on September 28. I was supposed to meet my attorney at 7:30 a.m. but traffic was bad and I got there a bit late. Of course it was the first time I ever had been late and the first time my attorney had shown up on time. I think he was very careful to show up on time because Bill's friend, David, had been talking loudly about my attorney bleeding me and that he, David, was going to check the court records to see if my attorney was really in court on the June date he canceled. David had also said Bill's attorney had made a 'settlement offer' and I had turned it down. The truth was, there was no settlement offer. Here's what it was: the little squirt had said they wouldn't take me to court if I would give them EVERYTHING they asked for in the OSC and if I would pay the little squirt $25,000. That's not a settlement offer. That's a 'deal' not to make me show up in court.
Then we had our strategy meeting and headed up to the courtroom. Bill came in shortly after the courtroom opened and his attorney showed up right after that. So here's where it gets dicey. Our case looked to be coming up at about 11:00. At 10:30, Bill's attorney came over to my attorney and said he'd been called up to another courtroom on another matter which wouldn't take long. At noon, he still wasn't back. Our case had already been called more than once and the judge just had to slip others in. The court took its lunch recess. At 1:30, the little squirt was out in the hall with Bill and I thought 'yippee, we're on next'. At 1:31 the sleazeball came over to my attorney and said he'd just be recalled up to the other courtroom for about ten to fifteen minutes. We didn't see him again until 2:30.
I was pissed.
School started on August 30 and was its usual whirlwind, there were many bumps in that road, Laura's pregnancy has progressed with continuing difficulties, I've been dragged back into court in a living nightmare followed by weeks of emotional and physical fatigue, depression and a respiratory ailment that knocked me off my feet.
I will briefly describe my return to the county courthouse. Bill filed another OSC (Order to Show Cause). What IS an Order to Show Cause? Does it mean I have to show cause as to why I shouldn't have to pay him more spousal support or does he have to show cause as to why he needs more spousal support? I don't know which one applies here. The order was filed in May while Bill's attorney was going through physical therapy in a rehabilitation facility for back surgery he had as a result of getting rear-ended on the freeway. The guy already had a back problem and walked with a cane. Bill got the man's associate to file the paperwork. We were ordered to show up to respond to it on a date in June. However, my attorney was doing a trial in the Criminal Courts building on the same date and had to get a postponement. The new date was set for September 28. I had to fill out another Income and Expenses Report (takes a looonnngg time) and had to pay my attorney to appear. I had to be there as well. But first we needed to finish the deposition nightmare. The former attorney had taken my deposition in March but my attorney had not deposed Bill. By September, Bill had a new attorney.
Here's where it gets creepy. I showed up for Bill's deposition at the appointed time. I sat alone in the waiting room at my attorney's office for forty minutes. The entire time I worried about Bill showing up and the two of us having to sit in the waiting area alone together. Forty minutes can be an extremely long time when you're dreading something. My attorney called from the road. He was going to be late and said that both Bill and his attorney were going to be late too. When he walked in he looked at me and said, "What's wrong? Why do you look like a deer in the headlights?"
"I was sitting here alone and I was afraid Bill would come in before you."
"I'm so sorry. I promise I'll never do that to you again."
Bill and his attorney showed up shortly after that.
It was hard for me to sit through the depo and not say anything. Bill claimed 'chemo brain' and misremembered many, many things. He said he thought he was still in law school when we got married. He wasn't. He had been out of law school for almost a year when we married. But the reason why this is important is that if he were still in law school when we married then I would be responsible for many of the student loans he never repaid. He also said the Acura was purchased with funds from his inheritance. Another bit of misinformation. If he had bought the car with his inheritance, then the car would not be part of community property, and it was worth almost $20,000 at the time we separated. So, here in his deposition, these two pieces of misinformation could be costly for me. But they won't be because I have the paperwork to prove the truth on both of those issues.
Both in the depo and in court, he claimed his last job was owner/general contractor on the remodel of our house. There is no denying the sweat equity he put into the house. He worked alongside the construction crew and supervised everything. But the 'job' only lasted seven months from start to finish, and I have had to spend money 'fixing' a lot of things since then.
The worst thing was the court date on September 28. I was supposed to meet my attorney at 7:30 a.m. but traffic was bad and I got there a bit late. Of course it was the first time I ever had been late and the first time my attorney had shown up on time. I think he was very careful to show up on time because Bill's friend, David, had been talking loudly about my attorney bleeding me and that he, David, was going to check the court records to see if my attorney was really in court on the June date he canceled. David had also said Bill's attorney had made a 'settlement offer' and I had turned it down. The truth was, there was no settlement offer. Here's what it was: the little squirt had said they wouldn't take me to court if I would give them EVERYTHING they asked for in the OSC and if I would pay the little squirt $25,000. That's not a settlement offer. That's a 'deal' not to make me show up in court.
Then we had our strategy meeting and headed up to the courtroom. Bill came in shortly after the courtroom opened and his attorney showed up right after that. So here's where it gets dicey. Our case looked to be coming up at about 11:00. At 10:30, Bill's attorney came over to my attorney and said he'd been called up to another courtroom on another matter which wouldn't take long. At noon, he still wasn't back. Our case had already been called more than once and the judge just had to slip others in. The court took its lunch recess. At 1:30, the little squirt was out in the hall with Bill and I thought 'yippee, we're on next'. At 1:31 the sleazeball came over to my attorney and said he'd just be recalled up to the other courtroom for about ten to fifteen minutes. We didn't see him again until 2:30.
I was pissed.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Goodbye Julie
This isn't about divorce. This is about losing (yet another) friend. This one was extremely hard because Julie knew everyone. Julie was not a fading violet. Julie made herself, her feelings and her opinions known. Without hesitation. She was born with the brutally honest gene. She believed in unflinching realism and practiced it with aplomb. At first, I couldn't stand it. My feeling was: if you're my friend, be nice to me and make me feel good about myself; if you're not my friend, then you can tell me I have trouble paying attention and I'm disorganized. I was still 'young' then. I met her when I was pregnant. She would give me a hug and a kiss but would tell me when I sucked at something. Her behavior confused me. Plus, she looked and acted like the one person I could not stand in high school. Same look. Same 'my-sh#&-doesn't-stink attitude. Same I'm-God's-gift ego. Same over-sized breasts on a pint-sized body. Yep, we were NOT going to get along. But, joy oh joy! she was assigned to my grade level and my partner teacher was her mentor. I couldn't wait to go out on maternity leave.
We butted heads for years. I felt she could dish it out abundantly, but she couldn't take it. Once I scolded her for making my class line up before the lunch bell rang. She was so upset, she had her husband help her write a letter to me, and she wanted to 'meet' with me to discuss it. I blew her off. She brought her husband to the 'meeting'. I didn't care and I didn't cave. She ticked me off like only that one other person could. I wasn't going to give her any credence. Her letter meant nothing to me.
She didn't understand why I stayed with Bill. I didn't understand why she thought everybody should have to listen to her drivel. She thought I was scatter-brained. I thought she was opinionated. She thought I was disorganized. I thought she was rigid. She thought I had no class discipline plan. I thought she was mean and bossy to her students.
Then she had babies and experienced postpartum dementia. I realized how poorly I used my planning time. Her marriage faltered, they separated, and she reconciled so her children could be raised in a household with both parents. My husband continued with an addiction. She got cancer. My daughter rebelled. Life took its toll on both of us and we mellowed. We started looking at each other through different eyes. Somewhere along the way we began to accept each other, respect each other and tolerate our differences. We respectfully, even lovingly, agreed to disagree on some issues, but in the end it turned out that we held similar philosophies about children, education and home life. She was always more structured and strong-willed than I, but I had discovered that she cared about me. I saw that this strong-willed and opinionated woman was fiercely loyal and supportive of her friends. She loved her job. She loved a party and a good time. She loved beer. She loved her alma mater. She loved her colleagues and when someone was suffering, she was there to help. She helped one friend fill out divorce papers, she helped another while her husband died of cancer, she invited several of us to be in a pilates test group at a local upscale studio for free, she got a yoga teacher to do classes at school for us, she got a pilates teacher to give us classes, and invited us all to go to Vegas while she and her husband renewed their wedding vows then got the casino to open a private $5 blackjack table for us. She was self-confident and fearless.
She had a determination to live every day of her life with gusto. She was her brutally honest self about her cancer and her prognosis. Once she posted on Facebook that she had melanoma of the liver, a pretty dire form of cancer, and one of our colleagues responded, "Yeah, but does that cancer know what it's up against in that host?" Julie was a fighter. She fought that cancer like nobody I've ever heard of. She fought and fought and fought.
On June 13, I spent a couple of hours at her house. From her chair, she was running the show. She was checking her son's homework and his grades online. She scolded her daughter for coming home late from a babysitting job. She told her daughter she would not be able to attend both the bat mitzvahs on August 27, that she could RSVP to one invitation and not attend the other while the daughter was planning on attending the ceremony for one and the reception for the other. Her father was replacing the front threshold, her mother was working in the kitchen, her cousin from Australia was cooking. On July 11 she died. The memorial service was yesterday. The bat mitzvahs are next weekend.
Her service was at a church that was far too small to hold the crowd that came to honor her. She was eulogized. Songs were sung. Memories were shared. And as in many instances, I learned more about her at the service, and that made me hold her in higher esteem.
I will look across the yard at her room and, for my remaining one or two years at this school, I will see her face, I will hear her voice, I will miss her energy. And one thing I will really, really miss is that fierce little fun-sized spitfire who could look an administrator in the face and not buy any of the crap they were trying to sell. I will miss the little woman who would not be cowed by someone's bullying. I will miss the elfin kindergarten teacher who loved SCNKIDS and drove a cardinal and gold Mustang V8 every day I knew her. Her kids will grow up without a mother and I hope ---- I really hope ---she made some video messages to play to them on the various momentous events in their lives. Because nobody, I mean NOBODY, can replace her. Especially for them.
We butted heads for years. I felt she could dish it out abundantly, but she couldn't take it. Once I scolded her for making my class line up before the lunch bell rang. She was so upset, she had her husband help her write a letter to me, and she wanted to 'meet' with me to discuss it. I blew her off. She brought her husband to the 'meeting'. I didn't care and I didn't cave. She ticked me off like only that one other person could. I wasn't going to give her any credence. Her letter meant nothing to me.
She didn't understand why I stayed with Bill. I didn't understand why she thought everybody should have to listen to her drivel. She thought I was scatter-brained. I thought she was opinionated. She thought I was disorganized. I thought she was rigid. She thought I had no class discipline plan. I thought she was mean and bossy to her students.
Then she had babies and experienced postpartum dementia. I realized how poorly I used my planning time. Her marriage faltered, they separated, and she reconciled so her children could be raised in a household with both parents. My husband continued with an addiction. She got cancer. My daughter rebelled. Life took its toll on both of us and we mellowed. We started looking at each other through different eyes. Somewhere along the way we began to accept each other, respect each other and tolerate our differences. We respectfully, even lovingly, agreed to disagree on some issues, but in the end it turned out that we held similar philosophies about children, education and home life. She was always more structured and strong-willed than I, but I had discovered that she cared about me. I saw that this strong-willed and opinionated woman was fiercely loyal and supportive of her friends. She loved her job. She loved a party and a good time. She loved beer. She loved her alma mater. She loved her colleagues and when someone was suffering, she was there to help. She helped one friend fill out divorce papers, she helped another while her husband died of cancer, she invited several of us to be in a pilates test group at a local upscale studio for free, she got a yoga teacher to do classes at school for us, she got a pilates teacher to give us classes, and invited us all to go to Vegas while she and her husband renewed their wedding vows then got the casino to open a private $5 blackjack table for us. She was self-confident and fearless.
She had a determination to live every day of her life with gusto. She was her brutally honest self about her cancer and her prognosis. Once she posted on Facebook that she had melanoma of the liver, a pretty dire form of cancer, and one of our colleagues responded, "Yeah, but does that cancer know what it's up against in that host?" Julie was a fighter. She fought that cancer like nobody I've ever heard of. She fought and fought and fought.
On June 13, I spent a couple of hours at her house. From her chair, she was running the show. She was checking her son's homework and his grades online. She scolded her daughter for coming home late from a babysitting job. She told her daughter she would not be able to attend both the bat mitzvahs on August 27, that she could RSVP to one invitation and not attend the other while the daughter was planning on attending the ceremony for one and the reception for the other. Her father was replacing the front threshold, her mother was working in the kitchen, her cousin from Australia was cooking. On July 11 she died. The memorial service was yesterday. The bat mitzvahs are next weekend.
Her service was at a church that was far too small to hold the crowd that came to honor her. She was eulogized. Songs were sung. Memories were shared. And as in many instances, I learned more about her at the service, and that made me hold her in higher esteem.
I will look across the yard at her room and, for my remaining one or two years at this school, I will see her face, I will hear her voice, I will miss her energy. And one thing I will really, really miss is that fierce little fun-sized spitfire who could look an administrator in the face and not buy any of the crap they were trying to sell. I will miss the little woman who would not be cowed by someone's bullying. I will miss the elfin kindergarten teacher who loved SCNKIDS and drove a cardinal and gold Mustang V8 every day I knew her. Her kids will grow up without a mother and I hope ---- I really hope ---she made some video messages to play to them on the various momentous events in their lives. Because nobody, I mean NOBODY, can replace her. Especially for them.
Conversations About Marriage
This evening I went to a barbecue with Kyle's father's family. It was the first time I met several of them. I met the grandfather and his wife while the grandmother and her new husband were also there. I met an aunt and uncle, and Jack was there with his girlfriend as well. (Jack has had this girlfriend for fourteen years. Why do people want ME to date him? I see an obstacle.....) I met two cousins and several friends.
It was interesting to sit with the sets of grandparents. They get along quite well. Alone with me, the grandfather spoke candidly about his three marriages. His first was the one that produced his three children. (I thought that was tidy.) He said he didn't know what happened to that marriage. He had a midlife crisis, moved to the Marina and started dating younger women. It was just, well, a crisis. He left his wife with a nice house, a Jaguar and three teenagers. I don't know if she got the short end of the stick. His second wife was borne out of this midlife crisis: she was thirteen years younger than he. When I mentioned this to Kyle at home, he said, "Oh, Sandy. That crazy bitch! I'd forgotten about her. She used to carry a Derringer in her purse. She was nuts." That fits in with what the grandfather said, but he was very diplomatic about it. He said you should never be married to someone that much younger than you. You're from different generations and you just can't really understand each other. She got very involved in working with Vietnam vets and, while moving his hands away from one another, he said they just grew apart. His reflection was that he went into his first marriage when he was 23 and his first wife was 20. He said he didn't know who he was, or who he was going to become, and he felt the same about her. He said, "How could I have known what I was going to grow up to be? How did she know? I didn't do anything wrong. There was nothing I could have foreseen that would have told me my marriages weren't going to work." Then he said, "But if I had met Marge," his third and current wife, "when I was 23, I would have only had one marriage." I have serious doubts about that last statement, but Marge is definitely a special and lovely woman. Her first marriage had lasted twenty eight years. She gave no reason for its demise. She was just glad it ended. At a few points during the evening, she compared her first marriage to her current one. She said in her first marriage, she did all the driving. In this marriage, her husband does. In her first marriage she did a lot of boating and traveling. In this one they hang around home and take a trip or two every now and then. She had been a flight attendant, a special needs teacher, and an esthetitcian. Her first wedding had been formal, in a church, with all the trimmings. Her second one was in a living room. When the pastor asked if the Grandpa Bernie would take her to be his lawful wedded wife, he said, "I don't know. I'd like to phone a friend." She was shocked. So when the pastor asked her if she would take him to be her lawful wedded husband she said, "I don't know. I'd like to poll the audience." "Good comeback. And quick," I said. She's a good match for him. Her skin was flawless and wrinkle-free. Must be tricks of the esthetician trade. The two wives at the party, Bernie's first and third, really like each other and they understand their common 'husband'. The husbands like each other, too, sat next to each other, and chatted amiably. These people have let go and have moved on.
I think back on my first ex. We had a tumultuous divorce. He didn't want to let me go and followed me day and night. It was before O.J. Simpson, before there was a name for it. He stalked me. I was frightened. I spent a lot of time looking over my shoulder, and when I did, he was usually there. He waited for me outside my apartment building on my birthday and when I returned from buying a new pair of sandals, he refused to let me go in my apartment unless I let him in with me. Since there was no way that was going to happen, I spent the whole day walking around town with him. In my new sandals. I called the police. They said to humor him, try to calm him down, spend some time with him so he'd go away. By the end of the day I had terrible blisters on my feet. After ten weeks of that type of behavior, I fled to Europe. Eighteen years later I threw those sandals away in a trash can in Chicago and, oddly enough, that same month I had my first civil encounter with him at a reunion of a group we had sung in, a group that had toured Europe and the United States extensively. It was a little awkward at first, but I broke the ice with something I said, and we relaxed. Time had healed our wounds. We could be in the same room and talk politely. He looked exactly the same as he had when we had been married. He was married to his third wife who he had met online. She had moved down from Seattle to marry him, and brought her teenage son in tow. I saw him again five years later, at another reunion for the same group. This time I didn't even recognize him. He had changed dramatically. He wore glasses, his facial features had shifted, he looked like his father, and his third marriage had ended. He said, "You're wondering who I am, aren't you?" Yes, I was, but knew it was he when he had brushed his hand on my bottom while I was posing for a picture with some others. Yep, he was becoming just like his father, too.
But back to Grandpa Bernie. How do you know if your marriage, a union that looks so beautiful, is going to work? Should you NOT be too young? Should you NOT marry someone too much younger or older? Should you marry someone whose wit is as sharp as yours? What's the magic formula? At times it seems easier to spot what not to do than what to do, what not to look for than what to look for. It's a strange animal this business of going about choosing a spouse. Will I ever sift through the layers of meshing personalities and creating unions? Will it ever make sense to me?
One thing I know: I can't just 'settle'.
It was interesting to sit with the sets of grandparents. They get along quite well. Alone with me, the grandfather spoke candidly about his three marriages. His first was the one that produced his three children. (I thought that was tidy.) He said he didn't know what happened to that marriage. He had a midlife crisis, moved to the Marina and started dating younger women. It was just, well, a crisis. He left his wife with a nice house, a Jaguar and three teenagers. I don't know if she got the short end of the stick. His second wife was borne out of this midlife crisis: she was thirteen years younger than he. When I mentioned this to Kyle at home, he said, "Oh, Sandy. That crazy bitch! I'd forgotten about her. She used to carry a Derringer in her purse. She was nuts." That fits in with what the grandfather said, but he was very diplomatic about it. He said you should never be married to someone that much younger than you. You're from different generations and you just can't really understand each other. She got very involved in working with Vietnam vets and, while moving his hands away from one another, he said they just grew apart. His reflection was that he went into his first marriage when he was 23 and his first wife was 20. He said he didn't know who he was, or who he was going to become, and he felt the same about her. He said, "How could I have known what I was going to grow up to be? How did she know? I didn't do anything wrong. There was nothing I could have foreseen that would have told me my marriages weren't going to work." Then he said, "But if I had met Marge," his third and current wife, "when I was 23, I would have only had one marriage." I have serious doubts about that last statement, but Marge is definitely a special and lovely woman. Her first marriage had lasted twenty eight years. She gave no reason for its demise. She was just glad it ended. At a few points during the evening, she compared her first marriage to her current one. She said in her first marriage, she did all the driving. In this marriage, her husband does. In her first marriage she did a lot of boating and traveling. In this one they hang around home and take a trip or two every now and then. She had been a flight attendant, a special needs teacher, and an esthetitcian. Her first wedding had been formal, in a church, with all the trimmings. Her second one was in a living room. When the pastor asked if the Grandpa Bernie would take her to be his lawful wedded wife, he said, "I don't know. I'd like to phone a friend." She was shocked. So when the pastor asked her if she would take him to be her lawful wedded husband she said, "I don't know. I'd like to poll the audience." "Good comeback. And quick," I said. She's a good match for him. Her skin was flawless and wrinkle-free. Must be tricks of the esthetician trade. The two wives at the party, Bernie's first and third, really like each other and they understand their common 'husband'. The husbands like each other, too, sat next to each other, and chatted amiably. These people have let go and have moved on.
I think back on my first ex. We had a tumultuous divorce. He didn't want to let me go and followed me day and night. It was before O.J. Simpson, before there was a name for it. He stalked me. I was frightened. I spent a lot of time looking over my shoulder, and when I did, he was usually there. He waited for me outside my apartment building on my birthday and when I returned from buying a new pair of sandals, he refused to let me go in my apartment unless I let him in with me. Since there was no way that was going to happen, I spent the whole day walking around town with him. In my new sandals. I called the police. They said to humor him, try to calm him down, spend some time with him so he'd go away. By the end of the day I had terrible blisters on my feet. After ten weeks of that type of behavior, I fled to Europe. Eighteen years later I threw those sandals away in a trash can in Chicago and, oddly enough, that same month I had my first civil encounter with him at a reunion of a group we had sung in, a group that had toured Europe and the United States extensively. It was a little awkward at first, but I broke the ice with something I said, and we relaxed. Time had healed our wounds. We could be in the same room and talk politely. He looked exactly the same as he had when we had been married. He was married to his third wife who he had met online. She had moved down from Seattle to marry him, and brought her teenage son in tow. I saw him again five years later, at another reunion for the same group. This time I didn't even recognize him. He had changed dramatically. He wore glasses, his facial features had shifted, he looked like his father, and his third marriage had ended. He said, "You're wondering who I am, aren't you?" Yes, I was, but knew it was he when he had brushed his hand on my bottom while I was posing for a picture with some others. Yep, he was becoming just like his father, too.
But back to Grandpa Bernie. How do you know if your marriage, a union that looks so beautiful, is going to work? Should you NOT be too young? Should you NOT marry someone too much younger or older? Should you marry someone whose wit is as sharp as yours? What's the magic formula? At times it seems easier to spot what not to do than what to do, what not to look for than what to look for. It's a strange animal this business of going about choosing a spouse. Will I ever sift through the layers of meshing personalities and creating unions? Will it ever make sense to me?
One thing I know: I can't just 'settle'.
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