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."
Saturday, December 10, 2011
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)