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.
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