When I was a sophomore in college, I asked Jack to join my family on our summer vacation. My parents said I could bring a friend. They were very surprised that I invited my boyfriend, but decided to let me bring him. My brother also brought a friend. We went to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, where my parents rented a house near the water for a week. Jack was a swimmer in college, so a trip to the ocean was a good thing for him.
It was a good week, all in all, with a few memorable moments. Jack got a horrid sunburn and had a painfully itchy back as a result. He thought his Chinese genes protected his skin and he wouldn't get burned. No such luck. My dad and Jack went deep sea fishing together, and both my father and Jack got a bad case of seasickness as the small boat jostled in the waves. My father was called back from vacation to attend a meeting for work. My brother had just graduated from high school and I was in college. This was the only time we could take a family vacation given our schedules. This time was sacred. My father's company had gone through three presidents in a year, and the new one was especially difficult. Being called back for a non-essential meeting was the last straw. My father flew back to Ohio, went to the meeting, quit his job, and flew back to South Carolina for the rest of the week. Now that I think about it, that might have been the last trip my parents, brother and I took together.
In spite of the itch back, seasickness and my father quitting his job, it was a good trip. It was on this trip that I fell in love with Jack. I had always liked him, enjoyed his company and so on. But this was the trip where I knew I needed him. I couldn't sleep at night, knowing he was in another bedroom across the hall. I had liked other guys before, but I never found one who kept me awake at night.
Anyone can fall in love on vacation. It is a cliche. The Go-Go's had a song about it in the 1980's. Grease is about summer love meeting reality. Nevertheless, there I was. This was different because I fell in love with a guy I had been dating for a year, a guy who I would see in the fall when we returned to Chicago for school. This was more than a summer romance, more than a cute boy I met at the beach. Part of the reason it was easier to fall in love there was because we were removed from homework, finals, swimming, friends, laundry and everything else.
In college, Jack swam. He was a walk-on on the varsity team. He had a big heart, lots of passion, but his skinny 5'10'' frame couldn't compete with men who were four to six inches taller. But he tried and never gave up. He perfected his technique on his stroke, showing me at dinner in the air the best way to butterfly. Jack has always been a passionate guy. He never does anything half-baked or half-way. He is all in or not at all.
Jack loves water. Unlike other guys I was attracted to in college, Jack couldn't dance. In the water, though, he had a grace I have never seen him possess on land. He didn't just float, he skimmed the surface, dancing on the water.
On the day before we left vacation, we went to the beach. The water was warm and the waves were high. Jack dove and jumped for about a half an hour. I watched, sitting on the beach. His back was to mine, but I could sense something: joy. I had never seen Jack so happy as when he was jumping and diving into the crashing waves. His hands caressed the crests of the waves as the smaller ones slipped passed as he waited for the bigger ones. The next time I had ever seen him so happy was the day he graduated from medical school. I took the afternoon off from work to join his family for the ceremony and dinner.
I remember thinking at the time that I could not compete with water. It wasn't a sad or tragic thought; rather, that I could never make Jack as happy as he was playing in the water that day. I didn't know what the idea meant at the time. Jack is passionate about ideas, work and play. In some ways, that is what attracted me to him. In high school, I had a few boyfriends who doted on me, which I didn't find appealing. I wanted someone who had strong interests in the outside world. I wanted someone who was independent versus treating me like I was their prized petunia.
And now, all it has fallen out of whack. Jack's interests and independence had taken over such that I was no longer a part of his emotional or intellectual life. We were boiled down to the practical, and I took care of almost all of that. What is left?
This blog is about the little and big thoughts that pop into my head. I once read that when Flannery O'Connor walked into a bookstore, she would want to edit her published works with a red pen. In the digital world, we have the luxury of tweaking things up after we've hit the publish button. I can be a perfectionist/procrastinator, where waiting for the ideal means little gets done. Here I will share what is not--and likely will never be--perfect.
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
Monday, July 28, 2014
Occupation: Divorced
My daughter watched a video in school some time this past year on what democracy meant to people in China. (Spoiler: The people they interviewed had never head of it.) One of the women who was interviewed had her occupation listed as "Divorced."
"How can that be an occupation?" asked The Big E. "You don't make any money. And how can it take up time unless you sit around thinking about it all day?"
How true. I guess later in the video the woman talked about being a lawyer who worked for the government. So, did the people making the video make an honest mistake, or do they believe that for a woman to be divorced is a larger marker than what she might do for a living?
My writing teacher Theo wrote about her divorce. She said the hardest thing was being "fired" from her job as a stay-at-home-mom. When she got divorced, she had to find work. Her old occupation of taking care of the kids--while important--did not pay for rent, food and the electric bill.
Back in the olden days, divorce was frowned upon. Women were shamed and made to feel inadequate because they had failed as wives. Yet, sometimes divorce is a good solution to a bad problem. Some women need to be empowered to leave fruitless situations. They might be abused, neglected or in a situation where the person they are married to has toxic behaviors and won't change. The same holds true for men, too. Some men might stay in hopeless marriages because they don't want to abandon their kids, or they might feel guilty for leaving an unemployed spouse in a precarious position.
My friend Jane wrote to me today and mentioned how difficult all of this back and forth, "should I stay or should I go" would be. It is hard, and I am not sure the outcome. Until I see meaningful and sustained changes, I am keeping the nuclear option of divorce on the table. I really don't have a choice.
But what has changed in the past few weeks? I would say that our lives have settled in a little bit more like a regular tide after the tsunami has passed. The shore is still raw, scraped by the force of the water, and we are still assessing the damage. Do we stay, or find another place on higher ground to live? Life isn't as emotionally turbulent as it was even a few weeks ago, though it still has its moments of anguish, like last week when I was getting checked out for cancer.
Perhaps a better metaphor is the dam on the river has broken. The water used to flow, but then the dam came and stopped the river. One day, the dam broke and water flooded the plains. The water used to be there once, but in the meantime, plants, animals and people settled in and around the dry parts. The water coming back was not expected, and it came back in a fury.
"How can that be an occupation?" asked The Big E. "You don't make any money. And how can it take up time unless you sit around thinking about it all day?"
How true. I guess later in the video the woman talked about being a lawyer who worked for the government. So, did the people making the video make an honest mistake, or do they believe that for a woman to be divorced is a larger marker than what she might do for a living?
My writing teacher Theo wrote about her divorce. She said the hardest thing was being "fired" from her job as a stay-at-home-mom. When she got divorced, she had to find work. Her old occupation of taking care of the kids--while important--did not pay for rent, food and the electric bill.
Back in the olden days, divorce was frowned upon. Women were shamed and made to feel inadequate because they had failed as wives. Yet, sometimes divorce is a good solution to a bad problem. Some women need to be empowered to leave fruitless situations. They might be abused, neglected or in a situation where the person they are married to has toxic behaviors and won't change. The same holds true for men, too. Some men might stay in hopeless marriages because they don't want to abandon their kids, or they might feel guilty for leaving an unemployed spouse in a precarious position.
My friend Jane wrote to me today and mentioned how difficult all of this back and forth, "should I stay or should I go" would be. It is hard, and I am not sure the outcome. Until I see meaningful and sustained changes, I am keeping the nuclear option of divorce on the table. I really don't have a choice.
But what has changed in the past few weeks? I would say that our lives have settled in a little bit more like a regular tide after the tsunami has passed. The shore is still raw, scraped by the force of the water, and we are still assessing the damage. Do we stay, or find another place on higher ground to live? Life isn't as emotionally turbulent as it was even a few weeks ago, though it still has its moments of anguish, like last week when I was getting checked out for cancer.
Perhaps a better metaphor is the dam on the river has broken. The water used to flow, but then the dam came and stopped the river. One day, the dam broke and water flooded the plains. The water used to be there once, but in the meantime, plants, animals and people settled in and around the dry parts. The water coming back was not expected, and it came back in a fury.
Saturday, July 26, 2014
Past, Present and Future
Last night I was down at the park and I ran into a neighbor. I told her about the lump in my breast and how I had the rapid evaluation this week. She asked, "When you found the lump, did you question your past?" She was curious, not judgmental.
Interestingly, I didn't wonder about my past. I was worried about the future. I was surprised at my answer. I didn't look back at all -- only forward. My first thoughts were about if I didn't survive. What would I miss about my kids' lives, like weddings, graduations and grandkids? Then I became more practical: What would the next year look like? Would I have another birthday? How sick would I become? Would I have to cancel our upcoming vacations? Would I have to cancel a walk with a friend that I had scheduled for Thursday?
Do I question my past? Very often, I do, which is why I was surprised at my answer. I often look back to my decision to become a stay-at-home mom and not having paid employment. I look back at the factors that lead to that decision, like having a full-term stillbirth followed by a miscarriage. I look at the friends I've made and the work I've done as a volunteer. Being a mom doesn't come with high levels of intellectual fulfillment or a grand sense of accomplishment like the paid work force can provide. Instead, I saw my kids grow up. My decision was for me, not so much them.
I also look at the past few years with Jack, and how difficult at times they have been. In the past two months, I have not really been able to look at the future as I have been too busy trying to figure out what happened in the past. Jack wants to push it behind him and focus on the present: What is he doing today to show that he loves me and the kids? I am moving more into the present, but it hard when the past has been so painful, more than I realized at the time.
Last night, the Boy and I watched Up while Jack was working. My present viewpoint on marriage is skewed from what it was months ago given recent events and how Jack's workaholism nearly destroyed our marriage. I always thought I'd grow old with Jack, just like Carl and Ellie in the movie. Now I am questioning if that will be possible. I feel cynical and angry that my life so much more complicated than it was before. I always thought my dying words to Jack would be "Thank you for being part of my life." Now I am not so sure.
The future is hard for me to see, and a possible brush with cancer forced me to look ahead. The biggest thing I fear about the future -- a cancer free one, thankfully-- is the lack of control I have if I stay with Jack. It is not that I couldn't make decisions about my future: I will still have free will. In order for our marriage to succeed, Jack needs to change. He needs to get his workaholism under control for this marriage to work, and I have very little power to change that. I can support him, but my support will only go so far. I tried to help in the past, and it only made things worse. I told him I needed him to work less, and he resented my intrusion. As far as staying in this marriage goes, right now I am here on faith -- faith that the future will be better than the past. It is hard to faith in someone who let me down so badly in the past. As Jack says, I need to keep looking at his present behavior. Is he trying to change?
Interestingly, I didn't wonder about my past. I was worried about the future. I was surprised at my answer. I didn't look back at all -- only forward. My first thoughts were about if I didn't survive. What would I miss about my kids' lives, like weddings, graduations and grandkids? Then I became more practical: What would the next year look like? Would I have another birthday? How sick would I become? Would I have to cancel our upcoming vacations? Would I have to cancel a walk with a friend that I had scheduled for Thursday?
Do I question my past? Very often, I do, which is why I was surprised at my answer. I often look back to my decision to become a stay-at-home mom and not having paid employment. I look back at the factors that lead to that decision, like having a full-term stillbirth followed by a miscarriage. I look at the friends I've made and the work I've done as a volunteer. Being a mom doesn't come with high levels of intellectual fulfillment or a grand sense of accomplishment like the paid work force can provide. Instead, I saw my kids grow up. My decision was for me, not so much them.
I also look at the past few years with Jack, and how difficult at times they have been. In the past two months, I have not really been able to look at the future as I have been too busy trying to figure out what happened in the past. Jack wants to push it behind him and focus on the present: What is he doing today to show that he loves me and the kids? I am moving more into the present, but it hard when the past has been so painful, more than I realized at the time.
Last night, the Boy and I watched Up while Jack was working. My present viewpoint on marriage is skewed from what it was months ago given recent events and how Jack's workaholism nearly destroyed our marriage. I always thought I'd grow old with Jack, just like Carl and Ellie in the movie. Now I am questioning if that will be possible. I feel cynical and angry that my life so much more complicated than it was before. I always thought my dying words to Jack would be "Thank you for being part of my life." Now I am not so sure.
The future is hard for me to see, and a possible brush with cancer forced me to look ahead. The biggest thing I fear about the future -- a cancer free one, thankfully-- is the lack of control I have if I stay with Jack. It is not that I couldn't make decisions about my future: I will still have free will. In order for our marriage to succeed, Jack needs to change. He needs to get his workaholism under control for this marriage to work, and I have very little power to change that. I can support him, but my support will only go so far. I tried to help in the past, and it only made things worse. I told him I needed him to work less, and he resented my intrusion. As far as staying in this marriage goes, right now I am here on faith -- faith that the future will be better than the past. It is hard to faith in someone who let me down so badly in the past. As Jack says, I need to keep looking at his present behavior. Is he trying to change?
Friday, July 25, 2014
The Smallest Woman in the World
Wednesday, Jack insisted he accompany me to the Fred Hutchison Cancer Center where they were going to examine a lump in my breast. I really didn't think I needed him there. He never gave a reason why, until this morning.
Back when he was a medical student, he did a rotation with a surgical oncologist. The surgeon had just finished a biopsy of a lump on a woman's breast. She had cancer. Jack was in the room when she was told the news. She was alone, sitting my herself.
"She didn't break out into sobs or anything, but she shrank," he said. "He shoulders hunched forward and her head bent down. She became the smallest person in the world."
"I couldn't let you be there alone if they had to tell you the news," he said. "You've gotten some bad news before, but I have delivered more. There was no way you could have been alone."
He didn't want me to become the smallest woman in the world.
Back when he was a medical student, he did a rotation with a surgical oncologist. The surgeon had just finished a biopsy of a lump on a woman's breast. She had cancer. Jack was in the room when she was told the news. She was alone, sitting my herself.
"She didn't break out into sobs or anything, but she shrank," he said. "He shoulders hunched forward and her head bent down. She became the smallest person in the world."
"I couldn't let you be there alone if they had to tell you the news," he said. "You've gotten some bad news before, but I have delivered more. There was no way you could have been alone."
He didn't want me to become the smallest woman in the world.
Thursday, July 24, 2014
Clean Anger
Jack and I have been talking a lot lately about the situation of our marriage since it fell into crisis two months ago. In many of these conversations, I have been calm, thoughtful and articulate. In others, I have not. I have yelled, cried, screamed, and called him a fucking asshole. I am angry that I was betrayed. I am angry that I was neglected. I am angry that I was ignored and not listened to. I tried to tell him in a rational, calm voice many times that I was lonely, that I needed more from him. When I told him, he turned away, making the insult even worse. I was heartbroken and crushed to discover that I had been lied to for a year. I was also really pissed off.
Jack has been reading Love Busters by Willard Harley, Jr. which was recommended to us by a friend. There are several love busters, including dishonesty, being critical, and leading an independent life. Another love buster is anger. Anger can destroy love. We had reached an impasse, where he wasn't listening to me, and I would get angry. The more he wouldn't listen, the more angry I would get. The more angry I got, the less he would listen. It was a riptide we couldn't escape.
Jack and I talked to our therapist about my anger and how it made him feel. He said he felt anxious and clammy when I got angry. He wanted to curl up in a ball like a pill bug. I said I got angry after being trampled by a rhino. A rhino with very thick skin, ignoring me.
The therapist said my anger is clean anger, anger that is a result of protest or protecting boundaries, versus abusive anger. Protest is saying I am hurt or this isn't working. My anger is not abusive with intent to hurt or destroy him. My anger is my heart trying to protect itself.
Small as it is, this is progress.
Jack has been reading Love Busters by Willard Harley, Jr. which was recommended to us by a friend. There are several love busters, including dishonesty, being critical, and leading an independent life. Another love buster is anger. Anger can destroy love. We had reached an impasse, where he wasn't listening to me, and I would get angry. The more he wouldn't listen, the more angry I would get. The more angry I got, the less he would listen. It was a riptide we couldn't escape.
Jack and I talked to our therapist about my anger and how it made him feel. He said he felt anxious and clammy when I got angry. He wanted to curl up in a ball like a pill bug. I said I got angry after being trampled by a rhino. A rhino with very thick skin, ignoring me.
The therapist said my anger is clean anger, anger that is a result of protest or protecting boundaries, versus abusive anger. Protest is saying I am hurt or this isn't working. My anger is not abusive with intent to hurt or destroy him. My anger is my heart trying to protect itself.
Small as it is, this is progress.
Wednesday, July 23, 2014
Lump
If things couldn't get worse in my otherwise dreary life, Sunday night I found a small lump in my breast right above my heart, right where the center of my hand lands when I say the Pledge of Allegiance. I was putting my my pajamas when my hand passed over a lump. I spent the next ten minutes rooting around trying to find it again. (Spoiler: Everything is fine. Nerves are a bit shot, but otherwise okay.) I was at a health fair years ago where I acquired a little sample of silicon with a plastic lump inside. It is suppose to help woman learn what to look for during a self-examination. My lump was like the sample. I was not pleased.
Monday, I called my regular doctor to take a look. I had an appointment for Tuesday. He felt the lump too, and then I was on the fast track to the Seattle Cancer Care Alliance at the Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center for a diagnostic mammogram and ultrasound. I called the Hutch this morning and was seen in the afternoon. The good news is that this moved so fast that I didn't have to spend a lot of time worrying. I feel bad for women who live in remote areas who might have to wait a while to get treatment. For a woman with a lump in her breast, I am fortunate.
When I was told this lump needed further review, my first thoughts were that I might not see the Boy go to college and see The Big E get married. When we were shopping for a new dishwasher a few weeks ago, The Big E had fun looking at fancy refrigerators. She got such a kick out of these giant appliances that can hold 28 bags of groceries, have three doors and an installed Soda Stream. I told her I'd get her one for her wedding or when she bought her first place, whichever came first. Here I am imagining my own death, and I am thinking of appliances. I would miss buying her a fridge. I thought about telling my dad. Or not telling him. That would be the last thing he needed after a son with schizophrenia and a wife with Alzheimer's.
While I didn't know if I had cancer, I was for a short while in the "need to rule cancer out" category. I was at was at a picnic on Tuesday night for my husband's job, which was surprisingly a pleasant distraction. I thought I would burst into tears at any moment, but I was able to put on a smiley face and socialize.* I didn't want to tell anyone, as I had no idea what to expect. I couldn't keep my mind totally off the topic. I kept looking at other women's breasts and thinking "She is lucky her breasts are healthy and don't have cancer," and "Her breasts won't kill her." I had never thoughts like like that before. Aside from the stillbirth and a miscarriage--which are not minor events -- my body had never failed me before.
In the past two days, I had several medical professionals and techs manhandle my breasts, which is a small price to pay if you don't want an untimely death. The first doc seemed a bit nervous, worried that I would be uncomfortable exposing myself. Little did he know that half of the people in North America have seen my tits years ago while I was nursing The Big E and The Boy. I was one of those open breast feeders who would feed my baby anywhere, anytime: airplanes, restaurants, parks, etc. (I've read on the internet that recently there have been a few incidents where nursing mothers have been abused in public, which, of course, is wrong. I was fortunate enough never to have been harassed, but then I was probably intimidating like a mother lion. I am shocked that people would have the gall to say something rude to a mother who is tending to an infant. Aren't mother of babies sacred? What are these people going to do when they are done harassing moms? Go yell at an old lady that she isn't crossing the street fast enough?)
Back to me and my cancer scare. The breast cancer is the main killer of women between the ages of 35 and 55. After that, heart disease and lung cancer start to take over. (At one point in college I had considered becoming an actuary.) The good news is that 80% of women with breast cancer in this age range survive. The bad news is that the cure is brutal. Months of chemotherapy sounds like a nightmare. While the chances of survival are high, I still wouldn't put a gun to my head that had five chambers and one bullet. Not many people would.
I had tried calling the Hutch yesterday afternoon for an appointment, but I was put on hold. I set my alarm clock for seven a.m. to call this morning, figuring the caller queue would be short. I was right. The scheduler asked if I had ever had a mammogram before, anywhere.
"No," I said. I was embarrassed and ashamed. I have several friends who have had breast cancer. I know better.
"I wanted to check for a baseline scan," he said. I had never thought of that: baseline. The docs would not have a normal mammogram of mine to compare to today's. Note to self: that is reason alone to get an annual check-up.
In my normal way of reacting to things, I intellectualized the situation. In shower, I was thinking that if I were to undergo chemotherapy and my hair fell out, then I wouldn't need to shave my armpits. That line of bullshit thinking listed three minutes. The intellectual side of my brain wasn't holding up too well against my heart. Prior to having the mammogram scheduled, I was afraid to touch the lump again, check it out, see if it was still there. I was afraid to agitate it, make it angry. I wanted to leave it alone, perhaps so it could sleep. I didn't want to waken the dragon. This morning, though, I went to the Pledge of Allegiance zone and found it. I was hoping it was gone or I had imagined it. No.
Given the complexity of Jack and my relationship over the past two months, I had decided I didn't want him to go with me for the diagnosis. He insisted he would join me. I wanted to go alone. I told him I'd text him the results. He said that was unacceptable and insisted I not go alone. This was not a quiet conversation. It was me crying and yelling for thirty minutes, telling him that he had failed me. If I only had six months to live, I did not want to spend them with him. It will take time to repair this relationship. I didn't want to invest my last six months trying to get him to learn to listen to me or take the time to explain to him how to meet my needs. No. But Jack didn't budge. He worked from home in the morning and then we went to lunch before going to the Hutch.
The situation of going to the Hutch was horrible, but the experience was fine. The situation felt like I was walking into the lobby of a coffin, if coffins had lobbies. Or perhaps walking into the undertaker's office for your own funeral, but you aren't dead yet. The experience was fine. Everyone I met who worked there was friendly and kind. They know it sucks to be a patient there. They know no one wants to be there. The woman at the check in desk told me she liked my wallet, and I obediently jabbered on about where I got it. Jack thought that was a nice way of distracting a new patient from the upcoming events. At the Hutch, appointments move on time, creating less time to ruminate. The Breast Imaging waiting room looked out over Lake Union and had copies of... Sports Illustrated? What? Until I looked around and saw lots of men, waiting. One man was sitting in a chair with his head on his knees. While I was being examined, Jack said the man pulled his hoodie over his head, possibly sliding further into despair. I barely sat when they called my name.
The good news is that the lump I have -- it is a lump -- is just plain regular breast tissue, indistinguishable on the mammogram and ultrasound. I was very relieved. I had imagined not having another birthday. I had imagined canceling vacation. I had imagined dropping out of volunteer activities, and my immediate life taking a different direction. I was hoping to apply for a job this fall, but that would be out of the question. I imagined asking other people to buy groceries for my kids. I wondered how I would be able to eat, or if I would. The lunch at Tom Douglas's Cuoco was sort of a last supper, in case they decided to start chemo on Thursday.
But no. I was a lucky one. Today. And I am thankful for that. They told me the lump was just regular breast tissue or fat, not a tumor. The resident though it looked fine, and brought the doctor in. He thought it was good, too. At best, I thought this lump might be a cyst. This outcome was even better. They poked around for another minute, scanning and rescanning. When they were done, I almost ran out of the room, light as a balloon. I saw Jack, and said, "Let's go."
"What happened?" he asked.
"I'm good. I'll tell you later." I didn't want to tell him in the waiting room that I was fine. I did not want to jump for joy and cry while then man in the cove was further slumped with his head on his knees. Having been on the other side of medical misery with a stillbirth, I know it is hard to watch happy people in a hospital when you are at the bottom of the emotional tank. He did not need to see my relief.
* I have a friend who was born and raised in another country. She recently sent me an email saying she had cancel our plans. She said wasn't Americanized enough to suck it up, smile and socialize after she heard some difficult news from home. I think the problem is with Americans, not her.
Monday, I called my regular doctor to take a look. I had an appointment for Tuesday. He felt the lump too, and then I was on the fast track to the Seattle Cancer Care Alliance at the Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center for a diagnostic mammogram and ultrasound. I called the Hutch this morning and was seen in the afternoon. The good news is that this moved so fast that I didn't have to spend a lot of time worrying. I feel bad for women who live in remote areas who might have to wait a while to get treatment. For a woman with a lump in her breast, I am fortunate.
When I was told this lump needed further review, my first thoughts were that I might not see the Boy go to college and see The Big E get married. When we were shopping for a new dishwasher a few weeks ago, The Big E had fun looking at fancy refrigerators. She got such a kick out of these giant appliances that can hold 28 bags of groceries, have three doors and an installed Soda Stream. I told her I'd get her one for her wedding or when she bought her first place, whichever came first. Here I am imagining my own death, and I am thinking of appliances. I would miss buying her a fridge. I thought about telling my dad. Or not telling him. That would be the last thing he needed after a son with schizophrenia and a wife with Alzheimer's.
While I didn't know if I had cancer, I was for a short while in the "need to rule cancer out" category. I was at was at a picnic on Tuesday night for my husband's job, which was surprisingly a pleasant distraction. I thought I would burst into tears at any moment, but I was able to put on a smiley face and socialize.* I didn't want to tell anyone, as I had no idea what to expect. I couldn't keep my mind totally off the topic. I kept looking at other women's breasts and thinking "She is lucky her breasts are healthy and don't have cancer," and "Her breasts won't kill her." I had never thoughts like like that before. Aside from the stillbirth and a miscarriage--which are not minor events -- my body had never failed me before.
In the past two days, I had several medical professionals and techs manhandle my breasts, which is a small price to pay if you don't want an untimely death. The first doc seemed a bit nervous, worried that I would be uncomfortable exposing myself. Little did he know that half of the people in North America have seen my tits years ago while I was nursing The Big E and The Boy. I was one of those open breast feeders who would feed my baby anywhere, anytime: airplanes, restaurants, parks, etc. (I've read on the internet that recently there have been a few incidents where nursing mothers have been abused in public, which, of course, is wrong. I was fortunate enough never to have been harassed, but then I was probably intimidating like a mother lion. I am shocked that people would have the gall to say something rude to a mother who is tending to an infant. Aren't mother of babies sacred? What are these people going to do when they are done harassing moms? Go yell at an old lady that she isn't crossing the street fast enough?)
Back to me and my cancer scare. The breast cancer is the main killer of women between the ages of 35 and 55. After that, heart disease and lung cancer start to take over. (At one point in college I had considered becoming an actuary.) The good news is that 80% of women with breast cancer in this age range survive. The bad news is that the cure is brutal. Months of chemotherapy sounds like a nightmare. While the chances of survival are high, I still wouldn't put a gun to my head that had five chambers and one bullet. Not many people would.
I had tried calling the Hutch yesterday afternoon for an appointment, but I was put on hold. I set my alarm clock for seven a.m. to call this morning, figuring the caller queue would be short. I was right. The scheduler asked if I had ever had a mammogram before, anywhere.
"No," I said. I was embarrassed and ashamed. I have several friends who have had breast cancer. I know better.
"I wanted to check for a baseline scan," he said. I had never thought of that: baseline. The docs would not have a normal mammogram of mine to compare to today's. Note to self: that is reason alone to get an annual check-up.
In my normal way of reacting to things, I intellectualized the situation. In shower, I was thinking that if I were to undergo chemotherapy and my hair fell out, then I wouldn't need to shave my armpits. That line of bullshit thinking listed three minutes. The intellectual side of my brain wasn't holding up too well against my heart. Prior to having the mammogram scheduled, I was afraid to touch the lump again, check it out, see if it was still there. I was afraid to agitate it, make it angry. I wanted to leave it alone, perhaps so it could sleep. I didn't want to waken the dragon. This morning, though, I went to the Pledge of Allegiance zone and found it. I was hoping it was gone or I had imagined it. No.
Given the complexity of Jack and my relationship over the past two months, I had decided I didn't want him to go with me for the diagnosis. He insisted he would join me. I wanted to go alone. I told him I'd text him the results. He said that was unacceptable and insisted I not go alone. This was not a quiet conversation. It was me crying and yelling for thirty minutes, telling him that he had failed me. If I only had six months to live, I did not want to spend them with him. It will take time to repair this relationship. I didn't want to invest my last six months trying to get him to learn to listen to me or take the time to explain to him how to meet my needs. No. But Jack didn't budge. He worked from home in the morning and then we went to lunch before going to the Hutch.
The situation of going to the Hutch was horrible, but the experience was fine. The situation felt like I was walking into the lobby of a coffin, if coffins had lobbies. Or perhaps walking into the undertaker's office for your own funeral, but you aren't dead yet. The experience was fine. Everyone I met who worked there was friendly and kind. They know it sucks to be a patient there. They know no one wants to be there. The woman at the check in desk told me she liked my wallet, and I obediently jabbered on about where I got it. Jack thought that was a nice way of distracting a new patient from the upcoming events. At the Hutch, appointments move on time, creating less time to ruminate. The Breast Imaging waiting room looked out over Lake Union and had copies of... Sports Illustrated? What? Until I looked around and saw lots of men, waiting. One man was sitting in a chair with his head on his knees. While I was being examined, Jack said the man pulled his hoodie over his head, possibly sliding further into despair. I barely sat when they called my name.
The good news is that the lump I have -- it is a lump -- is just plain regular breast tissue, indistinguishable on the mammogram and ultrasound. I was very relieved. I had imagined not having another birthday. I had imagined canceling vacation. I had imagined dropping out of volunteer activities, and my immediate life taking a different direction. I was hoping to apply for a job this fall, but that would be out of the question. I imagined asking other people to buy groceries for my kids. I wondered how I would be able to eat, or if I would. The lunch at Tom Douglas's Cuoco was sort of a last supper, in case they decided to start chemo on Thursday.
But no. I was a lucky one. Today. And I am thankful for that. They told me the lump was just regular breast tissue or fat, not a tumor. The resident though it looked fine, and brought the doctor in. He thought it was good, too. At best, I thought this lump might be a cyst. This outcome was even better. They poked around for another minute, scanning and rescanning. When they were done, I almost ran out of the room, light as a balloon. I saw Jack, and said, "Let's go."
"What happened?" he asked.
"I'm good. I'll tell you later." I didn't want to tell him in the waiting room that I was fine. I did not want to jump for joy and cry while then man in the cove was further slumped with his head on his knees. Having been on the other side of medical misery with a stillbirth, I know it is hard to watch happy people in a hospital when you are at the bottom of the emotional tank. He did not need to see my relief.
 |
| I didn't say hello to the slumped man, but here is a picture of some flowers for him. |
* I have a friend who was born and raised in another country. She recently sent me an email saying she had cancel our plans. She said wasn't Americanized enough to suck it up, smile and socialize after she heard some difficult news from home. I think the problem is with Americans, not her.
Sunday, July 20, 2014
Getting to Know You, Middle Talk and Shrimp de Jonghe
I love the movie The King and I. (My favorite scene is "Shall We Dance," which is now on YouTube thanks to Rodgers & Hammerstein making their work publicly available on the internet.) As Jack and I are working to come back together, I am reminded of the song "Getting to Know You" from the musical.
I think this "getting to know you" is going to be harder than I thought. I thought we could just pick up where we left off, but I am learning that is not the case. We can be kind and civil to each other. We can spend the day peacefully playing miniature golf with the boy or going to dinner with the kids. Small talk isn't a problem. The large conversation about how this disaster in our marriage occurred happens regularly. Sometimes peacefully. Sometimes not.
But what about the middle talk, the conversations that for the past three or more years I have been saving for my girlfriends? The ones where I try to figure out what to do with the rest of my life, or sort through a challenging problem. I don't feel safe yet to talk about these things.
Jack and I made Shrimp de Jonghe last night for dinner, which is shrimp baked in butter, garlic, wine and creed crumbs. I had this for dinner on our third (or so) date. The second date we went to the Davis Street Fish Market in Evanston. It was a double date. My roommate joined Jack's roommate. The Davis Street Fish Market was a fancy place for kids on a college budget, and I was looking forward to the evening. My roommate didn't like seafood. She didn't want to seem high maintenance to this guy, so she asked me to tell Jack I didn't like seafood. Jack and I were on reasonable footing, so I agreed. A week or so later, we were at The Keg, an Evanston steakhouse. I had been there before, so I ordered the Shrimp de Jonghe again. Jack was surprised.
"This is my favorite dish!" I said.
"I thought you didn't like seafood," he asked delicately.
"Oh, that," I said. I explained that my roommate didn't want to have to tell her date she didn't like seafood, but I was cool with it. I knew my roommate really liked this guy, so I was willing to take it for the team. Jack and I then had a little secret. He knew I was good friend to help my roommate get in the good graces of this guy.
Will we get back to those days of easy, free-flowing open conversation, where I am not afraid to tell him what I think? Back then, I didn't have any secrets or worries or fears that I was afraid to share with the world. Now, life is so much more complicated.
I think this "getting to know you" is going to be harder than I thought. I thought we could just pick up where we left off, but I am learning that is not the case. We can be kind and civil to each other. We can spend the day peacefully playing miniature golf with the boy or going to dinner with the kids. Small talk isn't a problem. The large conversation about how this disaster in our marriage occurred happens regularly. Sometimes peacefully. Sometimes not.
But what about the middle talk, the conversations that for the past three or more years I have been saving for my girlfriends? The ones where I try to figure out what to do with the rest of my life, or sort through a challenging problem. I don't feel safe yet to talk about these things.
Jack and I made Shrimp de Jonghe last night for dinner, which is shrimp baked in butter, garlic, wine and creed crumbs. I had this for dinner on our third (or so) date. The second date we went to the Davis Street Fish Market in Evanston. It was a double date. My roommate joined Jack's roommate. The Davis Street Fish Market was a fancy place for kids on a college budget, and I was looking forward to the evening. My roommate didn't like seafood. She didn't want to seem high maintenance to this guy, so she asked me to tell Jack I didn't like seafood. Jack and I were on reasonable footing, so I agreed. A week or so later, we were at The Keg, an Evanston steakhouse. I had been there before, so I ordered the Shrimp de Jonghe again. Jack was surprised.
"This is my favorite dish!" I said.
"I thought you didn't like seafood," he asked delicately.
"Oh, that," I said. I explained that my roommate didn't want to have to tell her date she didn't like seafood, but I was cool with it. I knew my roommate really liked this guy, so I was willing to take it for the team. Jack and I then had a little secret. He knew I was good friend to help my roommate get in the good graces of this guy.
Will we get back to those days of easy, free-flowing open conversation, where I am not afraid to tell him what I think? Back then, I didn't have any secrets or worries or fears that I was afraid to share with the world. Now, life is so much more complicated.
Saturday, July 19, 2014
Good Things
The other night, Jack was working overnight at the hospital. The kids and I were eating sandwiches from QFC outside on the deck in the backyard. Given my lack of enthusiasm for cooking dinner lately, we have been having a fair amount of angel hair with homemade red sauce. I open a can of crushed tomatoes, onions, seasoning and cook for a little bit. It is not much more effort that opening a jar of store bought sauce, minus the high salt content.
The kids are tired of eating spaghetti and red sauce. I asked them what they would like to eat instead.
"We like noodles, but how about a different sauce?"
Like what?
"Pesto. P-E-S-T-O. Pesssstttooooo!"
For ten minutes, they riffed and rapped out pesto songs for ten minutes, creating little mini-advertisements for pesto. It was lots of fun.
Jack called me from work. Instead of complaining about who they dragged getting into bed or picked at each other, I told him this story. How often do I complain about my kids or other things? Thought I'd share something sweet for a change.
Thursday, July 17, 2014
Birds of Feather
I now understand why doctors marry doctors. Before I explain, here is my unscientific study of who doctors marry:
a. Other doctors
b. Nurses
c. Women's whose beauty and cheerfulness are several standard deviations above the mean
d. Other
I wonder what the real data is, or if anyone has collected it. I do know that doctors have one of the higher divorce rates when analyzed by profession. Politicians, firefighters and taxi cab drivers were on one list, the reason being is they spend too much time away from home to sustain a marriage.
I digress. In the medical marriage that I am in, I fall into category d) Other. I am not a doctor, nurse, or beauty queen. I am Other.
(Warning: I do not know where this blog post is going to go. It might not have a neat or tidy ending. Likely, it will end in confusion.)
What does that mean? Jack has a colleague who is a lesbian. The wife is non-medical, had a good job, supported her spouse through medical school and training, and is now a stay-at-home mom. I am most like the woman who is a lesbian's wife.
Jack and I met in college, before he started medical school. He was in an honors program where he was accepted into medical school right out of high school. This is a big deal. It is a super competitive program. Why did Jack like me? I was the first person who could tell him like it is and he loved me for it. I was able to see him as just a guy instead of a guy with an impressive C.V.. He said he liked me because I wasn't a jock. What would happen if I was just his training buddy and then one of us got hurt? We both liked to bike, but that was not the glue that held us together. He liked that I wasn't in medicine because he wanted to talk about something other than shop.
The other thing I think he liked about me was that I was in a selective major in college. While I wasn't a doc, I had something else going on. Which is fine and good.
So, what happens when years later, he become obsessed with work, a workaholic who has no interests, friends or activities outside of work? When almost all of his waking hours are spent on work? I can see why doctors marry other doctors or nurses. Birds of a feather flock together. The workplace is full of other like-minded individuals who are also working too many hours. I not part of his work environment. He was stressed and challenged, and thought he could manage it all by himself. He couldn't. He thought he could fix it by working even harder. He thought working harder would mean he would have more time in the future and my loneliness would be abated. It wasn't. He just turned further away.
a. Other doctors
b. Nurses
c. Women's whose beauty and cheerfulness are several standard deviations above the mean
d. Other
I wonder what the real data is, or if anyone has collected it. I do know that doctors have one of the higher divorce rates when analyzed by profession. Politicians, firefighters and taxi cab drivers were on one list, the reason being is they spend too much time away from home to sustain a marriage.
I digress. In the medical marriage that I am in, I fall into category d) Other. I am not a doctor, nurse, or beauty queen. I am Other.
(Warning: I do not know where this blog post is going to go. It might not have a neat or tidy ending. Likely, it will end in confusion.)
What does that mean? Jack has a colleague who is a lesbian. The wife is non-medical, had a good job, supported her spouse through medical school and training, and is now a stay-at-home mom. I am most like the woman who is a lesbian's wife.
Jack and I met in college, before he started medical school. He was in an honors program where he was accepted into medical school right out of high school. This is a big deal. It is a super competitive program. Why did Jack like me? I was the first person who could tell him like it is and he loved me for it. I was able to see him as just a guy instead of a guy with an impressive C.V.. He said he liked me because I wasn't a jock. What would happen if I was just his training buddy and then one of us got hurt? We both liked to bike, but that was not the glue that held us together. He liked that I wasn't in medicine because he wanted to talk about something other than shop.
The other thing I think he liked about me was that I was in a selective major in college. While I wasn't a doc, I had something else going on. Which is fine and good.
So, what happens when years later, he become obsessed with work, a workaholic who has no interests, friends or activities outside of work? When almost all of his waking hours are spent on work? I can see why doctors marry other doctors or nurses. Birds of a feather flock together. The workplace is full of other like-minded individuals who are also working too many hours. I not part of his work environment. He was stressed and challenged, and thought he could manage it all by himself. He couldn't. He thought he could fix it by working even harder. He thought working harder would mean he would have more time in the future and my loneliness would be abated. It wasn't. He just turned further away.
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
Second Chances versus Cutting Losses
I was out biking and ran into a friend. She does not know the story of Jack, or how my marriage has come to crisis.
We were talking about writing, and I referred to a teacher who wrote extensively about her divorce from a man with gambling problems. They tried working it out. It seemed the problem was resolved until she found out he had not stopped gambling, and became better at hiding the debt.
"Why not cut your losses?" she said, implying she would not have given this man a second chance.
This got me thinking. People talk about second chances, but they don't talk about third or fourth chances. Right now, Jack is on his second chance. What makes me sad and frightened is that this is it. This is the end of the line. Either things change for the better or they don't. If they don't, time to move on. And even if they do get better, I have to wonder what will happen if things fall apart again in the future, if he continues to withhold information about his job and internal life. I barely have room to give him a second chance. I can't imagine a third.
We were talking about writing, and I referred to a teacher who wrote extensively about her divorce from a man with gambling problems. They tried working it out. It seemed the problem was resolved until she found out he had not stopped gambling, and became better at hiding the debt.
"Why not cut your losses?" she said, implying she would not have given this man a second chance.
This got me thinking. People talk about second chances, but they don't talk about third or fourth chances. Right now, Jack is on his second chance. What makes me sad and frightened is that this is it. This is the end of the line. Either things change for the better or they don't. If they don't, time to move on. And even if they do get better, I have to wonder what will happen if things fall apart again in the future, if he continues to withhold information about his job and internal life. I barely have room to give him a second chance. I can't imagine a third.
Summer Feet
The other day I went outside to get the newspaper in my bare feet. I had to walk on the wooden porch down to the sidewalk. My feet ached at the touch of the concrete.
I remember when I was a kid I'd get summer feet. On the first days for roaming around outside, my bare feet would be so soft from wearing socks and shoes all winter and spring that the grass tickled and the driveway burned. The first few days, it would hurt, but after that, I could walk on anything.
Do kids today get summer feet, from running around outside with no shoes?
I remember when I was a kid I'd get summer feet. On the first days for roaming around outside, my bare feet would be so soft from wearing socks and shoes all winter and spring that the grass tickled and the driveway burned. The first few days, it would hurt, but after that, I could walk on anything.
Do kids today get summer feet, from running around outside with no shoes?
Monday, July 14, 2014
Live Poor and Hamburger Buns
I was looking up an article on the Wall Street Journal and I saw this video in the list of other articles: "Five Things Rich People Know that You Don't." I was curious. I have been fairly reasonable at managing money, especially when Jack and I didn't have much except for his massive student loan debt. My Uncle Bob once said, "Money doesn't come with instructions." I always thought that was interesting. A few years after my first job, I decided to look for instructions. I've read a fair number of money management books, my favorite is The Only Investment Guide You'll Ever Need by Andrew Tobias. I have read pop books like The Millionaire Next Door and The Wealthy Barber. I have read half of Benjamin Graham's classic The Intelligent Investor, one of the more academic books on money management.
I had a great Aunt and Uncle who, later in life, made more money off their investments than they earned from their day jobs. When my Uncle Tom lost his job as a manager at some manufacturing company, he had the freedom to look for other things. He thought he'd try his hand at selling cars. He didn't want to sell any car, so he got a job selling Mercedes at a downtown Chicago dealer. Anyhow, I learned having your money work for you = freedom. I also learned that I had to figure out how to make that happen; hence, my independent study of managing money.
So I was curious. Did this two minute video contain something not covered in Jane Bryant Quinn's 1,066* page Making the Most of Your Money? Did this contain the secrets to becoming the next Bill Gates, Warren Buffet or the guy who owns Ikea? When I worked at E&Y, the partner I worked for said being a partner was a good gig, but the best way to make money was have something that would sell while you slept, like Coca-Cola. Did this video tell how to become part of the ownership class where you start your own business that refines or creates its own industry? How to recognize which companies are worth investing in? Lessons on how to get that CEO gig with an obscene amount of stock options**?
No. But it wasn't all that bad, either mostly common sense ideas. (Didn't someone say that comment sense isn't all that common?) The first four points of the video were simple:
1. Start early
2. Automate your savings
3. Maximize your retirement savings
4. Don't carry credit card debt
I have checked off the first four, no problem. The fifth was interesting, and the hardest.
5. Live Poor
My good friend Carla is the master of living poor. She used to work in international finance, so has she has a clue. She makes her own hamburger buns. She could very easily afford to buy hamburger buns, but she doesn't. She bakes them herself. I've had them before. They are really good, and she makes them small, like the size of reasonable hamburger that a middle aged woman should eat, not some monstrous 3/4 burger that would give you a heart attack three minutes after you ate it. Her family has prioritized traveling, so all of the money they don't spend on hamburger buns gives her the choice of going to New York City or Istanbul for Spring Break.
It isn't just the hamburger buns by themselves that create the savings to travel: it is the whole philosophy surrounding it. A woman who makes her own hamburger buns also paints her own house, does her own home improvements, and saves more money than I do at the grocery store. She drives used cars. Granted, her husband has a nice job, but he is not the founder of Microsoft.
My other Seattle friends are super thrifty, too. My friend Jane is the best thrift store clothing shopper ever. (She should enter one of those Seattle Times contests on best thrift shop wardrobe. She'd win.) Jane said the other day that Seattle covers its money in fleece. Which begs the question: do people have money because they are so thrifty here? Which came first? Seattle was a blue collar town for decades. Houses are smaller here than in other parts of the country. Having lived in both a large house and a small house, I buy way less with the small house because I have less space to put stuff. We have natural beauty and a climate that allows us to be outdoors for a large part of the year, so we don't need a beautiful indoor environment to keep us in frigid winters and melting summers. A small house in a moderate climate encourages us to be outdoors which means we spend less on furniture and wallpaper.
I digress. Did I learn something from the video? It didn't tell me how to live poor, but it made me look at some of my friends who do it with grace and elegance that I admire and aspire to.
* 1,066 is an auspicious number. It was the year William the Conqueror invaded what is now France. It is one of the few years I remember from history.
** I used to work in compensation consulting for a few years where we would recommend how much executives should get paid. I analyzed the value of stock options using the Black-Scholes model. I am sorry, America.
So I was curious. Did this two minute video contain something not covered in Jane Bryant Quinn's 1,066* page Making the Most of Your Money? Did this contain the secrets to becoming the next Bill Gates, Warren Buffet or the guy who owns Ikea? When I worked at E&Y, the partner I worked for said being a partner was a good gig, but the best way to make money was have something that would sell while you slept, like Coca-Cola. Did this video tell how to become part of the ownership class where you start your own business that refines or creates its own industry? How to recognize which companies are worth investing in? Lessons on how to get that CEO gig with an obscene amount of stock options**?
No. But it wasn't all that bad, either mostly common sense ideas. (Didn't someone say that comment sense isn't all that common?) The first four points of the video were simple:
1. Start early
2. Automate your savings
3. Maximize your retirement savings
4. Don't carry credit card debt
I have checked off the first four, no problem. The fifth was interesting, and the hardest.
5. Live Poor
My good friend Carla is the master of living poor. She used to work in international finance, so has she has a clue. She makes her own hamburger buns. She could very easily afford to buy hamburger buns, but she doesn't. She bakes them herself. I've had them before. They are really good, and she makes them small, like the size of reasonable hamburger that a middle aged woman should eat, not some monstrous 3/4 burger that would give you a heart attack three minutes after you ate it. Her family has prioritized traveling, so all of the money they don't spend on hamburger buns gives her the choice of going to New York City or Istanbul for Spring Break.
It isn't just the hamburger buns by themselves that create the savings to travel: it is the whole philosophy surrounding it. A woman who makes her own hamburger buns also paints her own house, does her own home improvements, and saves more money than I do at the grocery store. She drives used cars. Granted, her husband has a nice job, but he is not the founder of Microsoft.
My other Seattle friends are super thrifty, too. My friend Jane is the best thrift store clothing shopper ever. (She should enter one of those Seattle Times contests on best thrift shop wardrobe. She'd win.) Jane said the other day that Seattle covers its money in fleece. Which begs the question: do people have money because they are so thrifty here? Which came first? Seattle was a blue collar town for decades. Houses are smaller here than in other parts of the country. Having lived in both a large house and a small house, I buy way less with the small house because I have less space to put stuff. We have natural beauty and a climate that allows us to be outdoors for a large part of the year, so we don't need a beautiful indoor environment to keep us in frigid winters and melting summers. A small house in a moderate climate encourages us to be outdoors which means we spend less on furniture and wallpaper.
I digress. Did I learn something from the video? It didn't tell me how to live poor, but it made me look at some of my friends who do it with grace and elegance that I admire and aspire to.
* 1,066 is an auspicious number. It was the year William the Conqueror invaded what is now France. It is one of the few years I remember from history.
** I used to work in compensation consulting for a few years where we would recommend how much executives should get paid. I analyzed the value of stock options using the Black-Scholes model. I am sorry, America.
Friday, July 11, 2014
Maui and NZ
Here I am, back to the topic of my marriage.
Yesterday, Jack and I had a difficult conversation. It wasn't capitally difficult, like the ones few weeks ago where I was calling him a fucking asshole every three sentences, screaming at the top of my lungs. Instead, I informed him that I am still keeping the "nuclear option" on the table, meaning I am reserving the right to call the end to this marriage should I need feel sufficient changes are not made. I was also questioning what I am getting out of the marriage. How does this relationship benefit me? I know it benefits him and the kids, as I take care of so much. But how I am supported? How does he show care and concern for my well-being? For the past several days, I had been asking him to write a list of ten nice things he did for me in the past year. I gave him days to think about it, and each time I asked him he acted like I was asking him a trick question, or asking him about something that had not yet been covered in class. All I was asking him to do was name ten nice things he had done for me in the past year. That's less than one thing a month. To my annoyance, he struggled.
He is not happy with me keeping the nuclear option on the table. "If you want to call it quits, let me know," he said, rather stressed. "I will leave if you want me to." He was moderately defensive when he said versus being in a zen state of "If you love someone, set them free" mode.
"I need some faith that we have a chance," he said. "If I don't have faith that this will get better, I am not sure I can stay."
Right.
Um, I was the one who was lied to and neglected. I was the one who was trying and met up against the defensiveness of someone with addiction. Someone who was in over his head and was suppressing those feelings at my expense and his.
"I have been the one who has been going on faith," I said. "I am the one waiting to see if things get better."
"Oh," he said. "Yes." And he switched directions instantly.
Yes, I want to let him know he has a chance. I still enjoy his company, which makes this whole situation all the more infuriating.
Earlier yesterday morning, he rattled off about four very nice reasons why he liked me.
"You are the most intelligent, thoughtful, introspective person I know. You are so in touch with your emotions. You are empathetic and sympathetic," he said as we were standing outside of our marriage therapist's office. "I need you."
"All of those reasons why you love me are exactly why all of this is so painful. If I were less intelligent, less caring, less thoughtful, perhaps I could handle this better," I said. "But I am not. I am all of those things."
He paused, and I left. I went to a nearby shop for a picture frame. The Big E painted a picture of the Boy, which I love. Aside from the nostrils, it looks just like him. My friend Abbie said it was good that I was taking care of things like painting the bathroom and dining room and other things that would make me happy. I was putting what I wanted to take care of on the agenda, not just those that belonged to my family.
Later that night, the Boy had a band concert. We continued our rather stressful conversation before the show began, ratting off and rehashing our therapy session from earlier that day.
"Why do you want to be here?" I asked him for the thirteenth thousandth time in the prior six weeks. "Why are you back?"
"I wasn't happy then," he said. "I was miserable. I know I hurt you, but living that life was not making me happy." Okay, fine I can buy that. He continued.
"I really enjoy our conversations," he said. "I've actually been happy these past few weeks now that we are talking again. I feel relieved that things are out in the open and I am getting help."
Well, that's is nice. Really. Excuse me while I vomit.
Okay, I am back. Sorry for the awful sarcasm. I apologize. That is not a reasonable way to solve problems. Jack has a point, but this point was so sharp that it burst the tender membrane that was my heart. Seriously, I could have skipped the year of lies and the previous three years of increasing neglect. Couldn't you have just talked to me before all of this shit happened? Where were you then?
So back to the title of this essay: Maui versus New Zealand. I've wandered far afield. (Okay, I think I've already told this story on my blog, but eh. Here it is again.) A few years ago (I think it was when the Boy was in second grade), that Jack and the kids got me a $20 iTunes gift card for Christmas. Now I love iTunes. I download music all of the time. It was the kids idea to get me a gift card, which was sweet. What was not sweet was that this was a shared gift between Jack and the kids for me. The only gift the three of them got me was something that was purchased two days before Christmas in the checkout line at the grocery store. I cried for two days at that lack of thought they put into getting something for me. Me, the person who made Christmas in our household. If that Christmas were a sports event, there would be a little tag at the end that said, "Brought to you by Mom! Thank her for making this holiday AWESOME!" I was pissed.
So, the following year we went to Maui. "Now no one can be upset this Christmas because we are in Maui," Jack said. And it was a great trip.
In the grand scheme of things, getting a $20 iTunes card for Christmas is not cool, but nor was it a felony. It was one of the many small cases of neglect, and the trip to Maui was restitution.
Fast forward to May, June and July of 2014. I was talking to my friend Jane the other day and she said there are two types of problems: those that money can fix and those that money can't. A trip to New Zealand and long-overdue upgrades to the house are now on the schedule. The Boy, Jack and I went to lunch today near Jack's office downtown, and walked past a Tesla dealer. "A new Tesla would really accelerate the forgiveness process," I told him and laughed. He laughed, too.
The trip will be nice, no doubt. It will be time spent away from work and the hubbub of life in Seattle. Both kids will be transitioning to new schools, the Big E to high school and the Boy to middle. Everyone will need a break. Changes to the home will be nice, too, as we will be fixing up our nest together. (Or if the nuclear option comes to pass, I will have a nice house to sell or keep in case I need to push the launch button.)
But I don't need a new car. I am just hoping for a new and improved husband. And that's a problem money can't fix. And no matter how I try, I can't fix him either. He has to change himself.
Yesterday, Jack and I had a difficult conversation. It wasn't capitally difficult, like the ones few weeks ago where I was calling him a fucking asshole every three sentences, screaming at the top of my lungs. Instead, I informed him that I am still keeping the "nuclear option" on the table, meaning I am reserving the right to call the end to this marriage should I need feel sufficient changes are not made. I was also questioning what I am getting out of the marriage. How does this relationship benefit me? I know it benefits him and the kids, as I take care of so much. But how I am supported? How does he show care and concern for my well-being? For the past several days, I had been asking him to write a list of ten nice things he did for me in the past year. I gave him days to think about it, and each time I asked him he acted like I was asking him a trick question, or asking him about something that had not yet been covered in class. All I was asking him to do was name ten nice things he had done for me in the past year. That's less than one thing a month. To my annoyance, he struggled.
He is not happy with me keeping the nuclear option on the table. "If you want to call it quits, let me know," he said, rather stressed. "I will leave if you want me to." He was moderately defensive when he said versus being in a zen state of "If you love someone, set them free" mode.
"I need some faith that we have a chance," he said. "If I don't have faith that this will get better, I am not sure I can stay."
Right.
Um, I was the one who was lied to and neglected. I was the one who was trying and met up against the defensiveness of someone with addiction. Someone who was in over his head and was suppressing those feelings at my expense and his.
"I have been the one who has been going on faith," I said. "I am the one waiting to see if things get better."
"Oh," he said. "Yes." And he switched directions instantly.
Yes, I want to let him know he has a chance. I still enjoy his company, which makes this whole situation all the more infuriating.
Earlier yesterday morning, he rattled off about four very nice reasons why he liked me.
"You are the most intelligent, thoughtful, introspective person I know. You are so in touch with your emotions. You are empathetic and sympathetic," he said as we were standing outside of our marriage therapist's office. "I need you."
"All of those reasons why you love me are exactly why all of this is so painful. If I were less intelligent, less caring, less thoughtful, perhaps I could handle this better," I said. "But I am not. I am all of those things."
He paused, and I left. I went to a nearby shop for a picture frame. The Big E painted a picture of the Boy, which I love. Aside from the nostrils, it looks just like him. My friend Abbie said it was good that I was taking care of things like painting the bathroom and dining room and other things that would make me happy. I was putting what I wanted to take care of on the agenda, not just those that belonged to my family.
Later that night, the Boy had a band concert. We continued our rather stressful conversation before the show began, ratting off and rehashing our therapy session from earlier that day.
"Why do you want to be here?" I asked him for the thirteenth thousandth time in the prior six weeks. "Why are you back?"
"I wasn't happy then," he said. "I was miserable. I know I hurt you, but living that life was not making me happy." Okay, fine I can buy that. He continued.
"I really enjoy our conversations," he said. "I've actually been happy these past few weeks now that we are talking again. I feel relieved that things are out in the open and I am getting help."
Well, that's is nice. Really. Excuse me while I vomit.
Okay, I am back. Sorry for the awful sarcasm. I apologize. That is not a reasonable way to solve problems. Jack has a point, but this point was so sharp that it burst the tender membrane that was my heart. Seriously, I could have skipped the year of lies and the previous three years of increasing neglect. Couldn't you have just talked to me before all of this shit happened? Where were you then?
+++++
So back to the title of this essay: Maui versus New Zealand. I've wandered far afield. (Okay, I think I've already told this story on my blog, but eh. Here it is again.) A few years ago (I think it was when the Boy was in second grade), that Jack and the kids got me a $20 iTunes gift card for Christmas. Now I love iTunes. I download music all of the time. It was the kids idea to get me a gift card, which was sweet. What was not sweet was that this was a shared gift between Jack and the kids for me. The only gift the three of them got me was something that was purchased two days before Christmas in the checkout line at the grocery store. I cried for two days at that lack of thought they put into getting something for me. Me, the person who made Christmas in our household. If that Christmas were a sports event, there would be a little tag at the end that said, "Brought to you by Mom! Thank her for making this holiday AWESOME!" I was pissed.
So, the following year we went to Maui. "Now no one can be upset this Christmas because we are in Maui," Jack said. And it was a great trip.
In the grand scheme of things, getting a $20 iTunes card for Christmas is not cool, but nor was it a felony. It was one of the many small cases of neglect, and the trip to Maui was restitution.
Fast forward to May, June and July of 2014. I was talking to my friend Jane the other day and she said there are two types of problems: those that money can fix and those that money can't. A trip to New Zealand and long-overdue upgrades to the house are now on the schedule. The Boy, Jack and I went to lunch today near Jack's office downtown, and walked past a Tesla dealer. "A new Tesla would really accelerate the forgiveness process," I told him and laughed. He laughed, too.
The trip will be nice, no doubt. It will be time spent away from work and the hubbub of life in Seattle. Both kids will be transitioning to new schools, the Big E to high school and the Boy to middle. Everyone will need a break. Changes to the home will be nice, too, as we will be fixing up our nest together. (Or if the nuclear option comes to pass, I will have a nice house to sell or keep in case I need to push the launch button.)
But I don't need a new car. I am just hoping for a new and improved husband. And that's a problem money can't fix. And no matter how I try, I can't fix him either. He has to change himself.
Delayed Embarrassment
Note: This post has nothing to do with the current state of my marriage. Hooray!
Today I was driving the Boy to his last day of Band Camp. (Last night, he has his first jazz solo at the summer band concert. Yay! Very cool.) We were listening to the radio when the song "The Impression that I Get" by The Mighty, Mighty Bosstones came on. This song became my madeleine and slipped me back to when I was a freshman in college. I was at a fraternity party with music blasting when this super cute boy asked if I liked the English Beat.
"I like anything with a beat," was my response. He looked at me, puzzled.
Fast forward to winter break, 1987. I am riding with a high school friend and see a cassette in his car by the band The English Beat. Three months later, I was embarrassed.
I hate it when that happens.
Thursday, July 10, 2014
Girlfriends & Boyfriends
I have a bigger circle of girlfriends now in my mid-forties than I did when I was sixteen. This strikes me as peculiar. I would have thought that I would have had a larger posse when I was younger, as my husband and family would fill that space. Instead, the opposite happened.
When I was a sophomore in high school, I had a boyfriend. Kyle and I dated through middle of my junior year. My senior year, I met Ian and we dated all of that year. My freshman year of college was really the only time I didn't have a steady boyfriend, at least until I met Jack at the end of the year.
In high school and most of college, I considered my boyfriends to be my best friends. I had standing dates with them every Friday and Saturday night. Ian would call me every night, and we would talk on the phone for an hour. I had girlfriends, but they did not take up as much space. I would go out with them occasionally. At my 20 year high school reunion, I regretted having a boyfriend and not nurturing my friendships with other girls. I only have three people to talk to about that time. Betty and Mary are still great friends, and I keep in touch with them. Likewise, in college I have three women in keep in touch with. Jack was my best friend during that time.
After living in Seattle for almost ten years, my circle of friends larger than it has ever been. I feel truly fortunate to know such intelligent, kind and caring women. Some are quiet and reserved, others are bold and bossy. All of them are well loved.
While my husband was drifting away with his job, I was creating a bigger social network to make up for the loss of my primary partner. Jack's primary partner became his job, and all that came with it: the adoration, accolades, and acceptance. The job also has its challenges. He kept both the good and the bad hidden from me: the buzz and the downsides. I raised the kids, and he look back and occasionally offer input. Before he the crisis emerged, he said he was beginning to resent us as we cut into the time could spend on work. He did this instead of resenting a job that took him away from his family. He said he was wondering if he would be better off alone so he could get more done.
So, what is there left to save in this marriage? Jack says he wasn't happy during that time, but he didn't know how to turn to the marriage for support. A friend countered that I am kind and generous friend, and he could have found me in his home. But addiction will do that to people. The drinker doesn't like to hear he drinks to much. Instead of looking inward to see if he has a problem, he avoids those who recognize it.
I ask myself if Jack is just a flawed man, a man who is otherwise good but slipped into bad habits? But do those bad habits make the person? At what point does he slip into becoming a bad man, as his habits became pervasive, a way of life? When he told me he didn't have time for therapy when I said I wanted to go back? When I asked for support in looking for a job and he was more concerned about how it would fit into his schedule than be concerned about my general welfare and happiness? When he failed to tell me about major parts of his work life?
I talked to a friend today who said I needed to look at those things as the old Jack, and take a look at his new and emerging behavior. How is he changing? Is he trying to be different? Yes, I will answer, but I was fooled before. I didn't realize how much he was hiding from me about his work life. How could I support him when I didn't know? How will I know he has truly changed and in a meaningful way? I don't know.
Wednesday, July 9, 2014
15 Minutes
"Fifteen minutes could save you money on car insurance," goes the ad for either Geico or Progressive. (I am feeling too lazy to Google it.)
Aside from looking for car insurance, what can be done in fifteen minutes? Yesterday, I had a small pocket of time between running errands, walking the dog, and picking up the Boy from camp. Instead of looking up the latest on Facebook or Instagram, I took the time to work on painting the upstairs bathroom. I had started Monday, and yesterday was the day for a second coat. Yes, this blog post is as exciting as watching paint dry, but aren't there times we miss out when we have just a few minutes and decide to do nothing or zone out? I am all in favor of the mental break, but I was surprised at what I was able to accomplish in such a tiny window. And the work wasn't onerous. While it is helpful to have an afternoon to paint, it was equally helpful to get started between my carpool rounds.
And the other good news is that I am painting and fixing up the house in small bits and pieces. Feathering my nest, focusing on home.
Monday, July 7, 2014
NZ, or Cheaper than Divorce
Joan Didion wrote The Year of Magical Thinking, a memoir about the year after her husband and long-time companion died. In it, she talks about the good times and the rough times she and her husband had. Once when they were having a difficult time and nearly broke, they went to Hawaii. Why?
"It was cheaper than a divorce."
Jack and I face a similar situation in our marriage, and are meeting our challenge with similar relish. This weekend, Jack booked four tickets to New Zealand for our winter vacation. The Boy wants to go to Peter Jackson's The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings. (The Boy is wildly excited that The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies will be released days before our trip. He plans to see the movie in NZ. He is dancing/stomping around the house at the thought.)
Jack and I are clipping through books on marriage repair. One book, His Needs, Her Needs, was recommended by several friends. The Five Love Languages is another we have read. Jack, to his credit, is dutifully providing me with "acts of service" to help me feel loved (i.e., making dinner, folding the laundry without being asked, etc.)
In this vein, we went for a bike ride yesterday and contributed to the "Recreational Companionship" bucket from His Needs, Her Needs. The Big E is in Japan for a week, so Jack, the Boy and I rode from the University District to Woodinville where we had lunch at the Red Hook Brewery. (Jack worked the past two weekends, and next week The Boy is in a soccer tournament. In a given month, this was really the only day we could have made the trip.) Jack and I had lunch there in 1997 when we were in the Pacific Northwest on a bicycle tour vacation. I had been dreaming about riding there since we moved to Seattle, but there had never been a good time. That, and The Big E is not an avid cyclist like the other three. (The Boy is not an avid traveler, so he has times of being the odd man out.)
I didn't realize how far the Red Hook Brewery was -- eighteen miles from our house, or thirty-six miles round trip. With breaks, it was about a five hour trip.
So, it was good. We didn't talk much, but that is the nature of cycling, which is fine. Jack shared a thought with me on the trip. On many long cycling trips or even skiing, there is a plethora of middle aged men out exercising on their own. If I am ever divorced, I will spend every winter weekend at Crystal Ski Resort. The last time I was there, there was an 8:1 ratio of men to women on the mountain. The Burke-Gilman Trail had a similar ratio. There was one man maybe ten years older than me at the brewery, taking his new bike off his Audi station wagon. As Jack was fixing my flat tire, Jack noticed this and shared his thought with me. If she is going to start over, why not start over with me instead of with one of these other guys?
That is a reasonable question. Why shouldn't we start over with each other? I am inclined to say yes, but there will need to be some significant repair in the meantime. After all, none of those men on the Burke-Gilman had lied to me for about a year on various topics. By lie, I also mean lack of openness, honesty and transparency. If I am the person who is supposed to know him best, why did he withhold significant information from me? The answer to that still remains unclear.
And Jack wrestles with another problem. Until this year, he has generally able to choose what he works on and when. His new position has considerably more responsibility. One thing he has been slow to accept is that in life many of us don't get to choose what we do. We all don't have the freedom to do as we please. Therein lies the primary basis for responsibility. I struggle with whether or not to get a paying day job, but after losing a daughter years ago, I am still conflicted about motherhood and career. Yes, I would prefer to have a day job, wear a suit and collect a paycheck. Instead, I am spending the summer with my kids and taking then back and forth to camp. Even people high in power don't have much choice. Take Queen Elizabeth I. As queen, she could do whatever she wanted. Did she want the Spanish Armada to attack England? No. Could she sit back and watch? Yes, but that would have been disastrous. Instead, she called upon her navy to defend her country.
Dear Jack,
Sometimes we do things because we are called to do then, even when we'd rather be doing something else.
Lauren
"It was cheaper than a divorce."
Jack and I face a similar situation in our marriage, and are meeting our challenge with similar relish. This weekend, Jack booked four tickets to New Zealand for our winter vacation. The Boy wants to go to Peter Jackson's The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings. (The Boy is wildly excited that The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies will be released days before our trip. He plans to see the movie in NZ. He is dancing/stomping around the house at the thought.)
Jack and I are clipping through books on marriage repair. One book, His Needs, Her Needs, was recommended by several friends. The Five Love Languages is another we have read. Jack, to his credit, is dutifully providing me with "acts of service" to help me feel loved (i.e., making dinner, folding the laundry without being asked, etc.)
In this vein, we went for a bike ride yesterday and contributed to the "Recreational Companionship" bucket from His Needs, Her Needs. The Big E is in Japan for a week, so Jack, the Boy and I rode from the University District to Woodinville where we had lunch at the Red Hook Brewery. (Jack worked the past two weekends, and next week The Boy is in a soccer tournament. In a given month, this was really the only day we could have made the trip.) Jack and I had lunch there in 1997 when we were in the Pacific Northwest on a bicycle tour vacation. I had been dreaming about riding there since we moved to Seattle, but there had never been a good time. That, and The Big E is not an avid cyclist like the other three. (The Boy is not an avid traveler, so he has times of being the odd man out.)
I didn't realize how far the Red Hook Brewery was -- eighteen miles from our house, or thirty-six miles round trip. With breaks, it was about a five hour trip.
So, it was good. We didn't talk much, but that is the nature of cycling, which is fine. Jack shared a thought with me on the trip. On many long cycling trips or even skiing, there is a plethora of middle aged men out exercising on their own. If I am ever divorced, I will spend every winter weekend at Crystal Ski Resort. The last time I was there, there was an 8:1 ratio of men to women on the mountain. The Burke-Gilman Trail had a similar ratio. There was one man maybe ten years older than me at the brewery, taking his new bike off his Audi station wagon. As Jack was fixing my flat tire, Jack noticed this and shared his thought with me. If she is going to start over, why not start over with me instead of with one of these other guys?
That is a reasonable question. Why shouldn't we start over with each other? I am inclined to say yes, but there will need to be some significant repair in the meantime. After all, none of those men on the Burke-Gilman had lied to me for about a year on various topics. By lie, I also mean lack of openness, honesty and transparency. If I am the person who is supposed to know him best, why did he withhold significant information from me? The answer to that still remains unclear.
And Jack wrestles with another problem. Until this year, he has generally able to choose what he works on and when. His new position has considerably more responsibility. One thing he has been slow to accept is that in life many of us don't get to choose what we do. We all don't have the freedom to do as we please. Therein lies the primary basis for responsibility. I struggle with whether or not to get a paying day job, but after losing a daughter years ago, I am still conflicted about motherhood and career. Yes, I would prefer to have a day job, wear a suit and collect a paycheck. Instead, I am spending the summer with my kids and taking then back and forth to camp. Even people high in power don't have much choice. Take Queen Elizabeth I. As queen, she could do whatever she wanted. Did she want the Spanish Armada to attack England? No. Could she sit back and watch? Yes, but that would have been disastrous. Instead, she called upon her navy to defend her country.
Dear Jack,
Sometimes we do things because we are called to do then, even when we'd rather be doing something else.
Lauren
Friday, July 4, 2014
Should I Stay or Should I Go?, Part 2
Until this all settles out, I am still asking myself if I should stay or should I go. Jack is feeling somewhat frustrated and worried because so much of my decision is riding on him. He feels like he has to carry both of us up and out of the bottom of this pit with a cesspool at the bottom. I was talking to my friend Susan yesterday and I came to an interesting thought: Jack does need to do all of the work. I can support him in getting rid of his problems, but I can't do it for him. His problems need to go. As I've said before, the status quo of a month ago, a year ago, cannot stand.
I ask myself how responsible I am (or was) for these problems in the first place. My conclusion is almost none, and that is the problem of working with, living with and loving someone with an addiction. The addicted don't want help, and anything that calls attention to their problem is dismissed. The critic is the bad guy trying to get between the drinker and the drink. Make the drink a well paying job, and a nagging spouse is determined to be ungrateful. How can I have his best interest in mind by asking him to work less? How selfish of me to interfere with his means of making a living? (Making a living. Egads. What a rich phrase. Jack hasn't been living.)
Over mid-winter break, Jack and I took the kids to see Spamalot at the 5th Avenue Theatre. We bought the tickets at the last minute, splurged and got really nice seats. Before the show, I prepped the kids by renting Camelot and then Monty Python and the Holy Grail. The show itself was fun and funny. Afterwards, we went to dinner at The Cheeesecake Factory down the street, where Jack turned his pager back on. In the middle of the meal, he took a five minute phone call from the hospital. It was a crisis, of course. They needed him. Nevermind that we need him, too.
I did not bitch. I did not complain. Jack's Holy Grail is work and never saying no. I sat there in the middle of the meal and determined that what I was getting out of this marriage was measured in dollars, not love, affection or attention. I was beyond pissed, but knew there was nothing I could say that would make a difference, make him change. After all, it wasn't a drink he was having. He wasn't gambling away the nest egg. It was work.
But it was like a drink, as far as the kids were concerned. I can calculate how much money Jack makes, but they can't. I could potentially find another mate. They cannot find another father. Jack cannot take back those moments of lost attention.
On another note, I am exhausted, but in a good way, I hope. I think the cumulative impact of lack of sleep over the past five weeks is catching up. I am falling asleep early and sleeping in. (My dreams are kind of weird, but hey, at least I am sleeping.) I indulged myself and took a nap this afternoon.
I also finished a book today. Before the crisis hit, I was reading Moneyball by Michael Lewis, one of my favorite authors. I am slowly rejoining the world and getting out of my head and into someone else's.
I ask myself how responsible I am (or was) for these problems in the first place. My conclusion is almost none, and that is the problem of working with, living with and loving someone with an addiction. The addicted don't want help, and anything that calls attention to their problem is dismissed. The critic is the bad guy trying to get between the drinker and the drink. Make the drink a well paying job, and a nagging spouse is determined to be ungrateful. How can I have his best interest in mind by asking him to work less? How selfish of me to interfere with his means of making a living? (Making a living. Egads. What a rich phrase. Jack hasn't been living.)
Over mid-winter break, Jack and I took the kids to see Spamalot at the 5th Avenue Theatre. We bought the tickets at the last minute, splurged and got really nice seats. Before the show, I prepped the kids by renting Camelot and then Monty Python and the Holy Grail. The show itself was fun and funny. Afterwards, we went to dinner at The Cheeesecake Factory down the street, where Jack turned his pager back on. In the middle of the meal, he took a five minute phone call from the hospital. It was a crisis, of course. They needed him. Nevermind that we need him, too.
I did not bitch. I did not complain. Jack's Holy Grail is work and never saying no. I sat there in the middle of the meal and determined that what I was getting out of this marriage was measured in dollars, not love, affection or attention. I was beyond pissed, but knew there was nothing I could say that would make a difference, make him change. After all, it wasn't a drink he was having. He wasn't gambling away the nest egg. It was work.
But it was like a drink, as far as the kids were concerned. I can calculate how much money Jack makes, but they can't. I could potentially find another mate. They cannot find another father. Jack cannot take back those moments of lost attention.
++++++
On another note, I am exhausted, but in a good way, I hope. I think the cumulative impact of lack of sleep over the past five weeks is catching up. I am falling asleep early and sleeping in. (My dreams are kind of weird, but hey, at least I am sleeping.) I indulged myself and took a nap this afternoon.
I also finished a book today. Before the crisis hit, I was reading Moneyball by Michael Lewis, one of my favorite authors. I am slowly rejoining the world and getting out of my head and into someone else's.
Wednesday, July 2, 2014
Stand By Your Man
I never thought I'd be the type to stand by my man when he was behaving badly or being problematic. I was more of the "I don't need this in my life" type. I was never one to suffer abuse,* disrespect, or respect. I am more of the "I don't need this in my life." My mother told me when I was a kid, "Friends don't make you miserable." The same should hold true to significant others, even more so. They should be the one caring and protecting you when the world is beating you down.
And here I am.
Well, I am not exactly standing by my man. I've already decided that the status quo from a month ago will not stand. I cannot be married to the man Jack was a month ago, a year ago, even longer ago than that, as I was neglected by him and his workaholism. My heart is saying, Give him another chance. You have deep and meaningful history. My mind is saying, Hold on a sec. This guy drained your love bank empty, and is now borrowing on your goodwill. Foreclosure on this account is a real possibility unless some tangible and meaningful changes take place.
Sometimes you have to stand for yourself before you can stand by your man.
* To be clear, Jack has not been abusive. And I have friends who have been in abusive marriages, and understand that leaving an abuser is difficult business.
And here I am.
Well, I am not exactly standing by my man. I've already decided that the status quo from a month ago will not stand. I cannot be married to the man Jack was a month ago, a year ago, even longer ago than that, as I was neglected by him and his workaholism. My heart is saying, Give him another chance. You have deep and meaningful history. My mind is saying, Hold on a sec. This guy drained your love bank empty, and is now borrowing on your goodwill. Foreclosure on this account is a real possibility unless some tangible and meaningful changes take place.
Sometimes you have to stand for yourself before you can stand by your man.
* To be clear, Jack has not been abusive. And I have friends who have been in abusive marriages, and understand that leaving an abuser is difficult business.
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