Dogs & Honesty

Note: This is a post written on April 23, 2014 which I never got around to posting.  At the time, I didn't know my husband was keeping secrets from me.  My brain didn't know, but my heart did.  I thought I'd post this as is, in its incomplete state.  Even though this is about a job I didn't get, honesty (or lack thereof) was a theme in my life at the time.  Interestingly, I never considered honesty an issue to ponder before now.  For my first 45 years, most of my life was face value.  Since then, it has become increasingly more complicated.  

+ + + + +

Dogs are honest.

When Fox is content, he wags his tail.  When he is scared, he barks or hides.  When he is hungry, he does the hungry dance.  When he is tired, he sleeps.

People are so much more complex.  Oy.  People have to act happy when they aren't.  They drink coffee to stay awake when they are tired instead of taking a nap.  I am not saying I want to be dog, but life would be simpler.

I applied for a job that I didn't get.  I know the hiring manager, and friends say I should call her and ask why I didn't get the job.  I trust the woman, but I am not sure I'll get an honest answer.  I don't think she would lie to me, but I am guessing she might try to spare my feelings.  I don't think she'd say:

"You are overqualified!"
"You haven't worked in 14 years!"
"Some people in the organization think you are a pest!"

Dad

Happy Father's Day, Dad!  Better late than never.

In addition to being a dedicated father, my father is a dedicated spouse.  He is working so hard to take care of my mother during her decline into Alzheimer's.  My biggest fear is not that something will happen to my mom -- I've read about the downward spiral and am expecting it to be bad.  Death by Alzheimer's is a slow death by a thousand cuts, with minor and major insults and injuries along the way.  This weekend, my mom got in a car and drove off to visit her friend.  She isn't supposed to drive, but she did.  She was lost for an hour, which caused panic in my father.  No one was hurt and no damage was done except to my father's nerves.

My biggest fear is that taking care of the woman he loves will kill him, wound his heart, break his spirit.  What they were looking forward to as their golden years will be much less, marked with challenges and difficulty.  I hope he takes care of himself.

Workaholism - Living in the Crack House during Recovery

As I've previously posted, my husband is a bona fide workaholic.  This is an addiction like any other: alcohol, drugs, or shopping.

So, what happens when your spouse's workplace--nay, profession--is workaholism central, a figurative crack house where he or she can get their fix?  What is a spouse to do?

This weekend Jack and I went to a party for his work this weekend.  It was interesting to see these people he spends so much time with, and to chat with their spouses.  If Jack and I hadn't had our recent collapse and efforts towards recovery, this party would have been thirty times worse.

A conversation with one of the docs turned to Father's Day with one of the few docs in the room who is probably not a workaholic.

"My daughter is taking me to see How to Tame Your Dragon, Part 2."

"I read that got three and half stars in the Seattle Times," Jack replied.

"It doesn't matter if it is good or not," said the doc/dad as he smiled.  "My daughter will love it and that is all that matters."

Three weeks ago, I would have burst into tears.  The Boy had wanted to see the new Godzilla movie. He is eleven.  What eleven year old doesn't love a monster movie?

Jack's reply: "That movie looks stupid.  I don't want to see it.  You can take the kids to see it when I am working Monday."  (Which was Memorial Day.)

I didn't reply.  I just took the kids Monday.

While I was gone for eight days, he had no choice but to deal with the kids and their good moods, bad moods, too much homework, not enough homework, doesn't like what we are having for dinner, and needing to drive them places.  This past weekend, The Boy and Jack watched World Cup soccer, streaming it from Univision, hearing the play-by-play in Spanish where the only words they understood were a few numbers, Messi and GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!  It took a disaster for him to make an effort to meet the needs of The Boy.

The other parts of the party were hard. One spouse came up to me (she is a second wife of one of the docs) and said she realized for her husband work would always come first, family second.  It was like that in her family growing up, so she was used to it.  She was used to it, but she apparently didn't like it.  She was looking for me to commiserate, but I couldn't say anything.  What could I say without giving it all away?  My husband--and likely yours and 75% of the docs in this room--would pass a test for that would meet a clinical definition of workaholic?  That the culture breeds thinking about the work all of the time?  And it reinforces what important work it is.  What could be more important that saving the lives of children?  Honestly, not much.

Jack told me once about a line from House of God.  The surgeon was heading back to the hospital for an emergency procedure and his daughter was home ill, probably with the flu and not a ruptured spleen.

"Daddy is going to the hospital to take care of a sick kid," the mom replied when the child asked where her father was.

"But I am a sick child," the child replied.

One of the signs of workaholism is going to work when you family is sick.  I remember on several occasions when I was sick when the kids were little.  I was doubled up on the floor between visits to the bathroom.  Jack left me there as he went off to work.

The other part of the culture that Jack is immersed in that makes it hard to break out of is the "I don't do anything in my life other than science or medicine."  I was talking to one of his colleagues about a writing project I am working on.  She looked at me as if I were speaking a foreign language.  She didn't know how to reply or what to say.

I begin to wonder what we have in common when all he thinks about is science and medicine, two fields so far from anything I've ever done or studied.  And he is in a work environment where most of the other folks have an equally similar narrow focus.

Any thoughts on how to help him break his addiction while living in the crack house?

Older

Note:  This is not the most interesting post, but it is the first post I've come up with since May 27 that does not revolve around the struggles in my marriage. 

We moved to Seattle ten years ago this August.  This milestone begs me to look around.

I see my neighbors who I have known for ten years.  Our next door neighbors are celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary today.  Just before we moved in, they celebrated their 40th.  Another neighbor who used to organize neighborhood Halloween parties and Easter Egg Hunts for the kids has a son in college.

Last night, Jack and I attended the annual graduation party for the fellows in his department.  Many of the faculty members have been there since we arrived ten years ago.  I've thought, "I've known these people for ten years.  Everyone looks older."  I suppose they say the same about me.

The kids who were in kindergarten and preschool when we arrived are now in middle and high school.  Like the line from the song "Sunrise, Sunset" from Fiddler on the Roof,  "I don't remember getting older.  When did they?"  We have gone to open house events at the high school my daughter will attend next year.  All of the parents looks so much older than the parents in elementary school.  The scariest thing is that they are reasonably close to my age.  The other scary part is that I will have at least one kid in high school for the next seven years.  Surely I will age in that time, too.

I watch television or movies and see people who were big when I was in my twenties.  Hugh Jackman looks old.  Hugh Jackman.  He is not old.  He is my age.  (Just googled to check: He is 45-- six months old than me.)  Oy.  David Spade is performing at the Tulalip Casino.  That is where people who used to be big perform.  People past their prime.  And he is...49?

I suppose the world will soon belong to my daughter and The Boy, when people their age lead the way.

Wisdom

When a ninety-three year old woman who has seen the world offers you advice, you take it.

I had gone over to Eleanor DeVito Owen house for lunch to discuss our writing.  After we had our chicken soup and discussed her work, she offered me some hard advice on dealing with Jack.  Of course, she said it in the most polite and cheerful manner ever.  Nevertheless, it was hard.

"Tell him you need him.  Tell him you love him.  Tell him you want him all for yourself.  He has been on a journey for the past two years and you want him home."

Oy.  I was still slightly (okay, not slightly) in the rage stage.  I was mad.  I didn't want him to fix these problems with a tweak and nudge when I knew he needed an overhaul.

"When he comes home tonight, you are there and you give him a hug.  Then you recite this speech.  He will come back."

Oy.  No, I thought.  I can't do this.  I am too hurt and injured and I am not sure he can change.

"Tell him this is the most meaningful relationship of your life."

Well, that was true.  Was.  I wrote a few days ago that our past held some meaningful moments, with Ada and Michael where he carried me through.  But that was then.  I need someone now in the present and hopefully in the future.  Where was he now as I am struggling with my own midlife crisis?  Hiding, avoiding me, afraid.  Not afraid of me, but buried so deep in his job that he couldn't see his way out.  He couldn't look up.  He describes himself as a racehorse with blinders on, only racing forward, not seeing what was on the sides.

I practiced my speech.  She made me.

"No, no, no!  Do not give him chores or tell him what to do!  Keep it simple and one message."

This was going to be hard.

The night before had been difficult.  I was in a bad mood.  In the morning, I was more reasonable, but more like a wet cat is more reasonable that a cat being chased by a bear:  better, but not good.

"You need to hug and hold him while you are saying this, not sitting across a table from him taking notes like you are in a business meeting."  She raised her eyebrow at me.

I've been guilty of that this week.

I argued that the books told me and the therapists agreed we should...

"Ack!  Ack! Ack!  Don't listen to the books!  You have to tell him you need him.  He needs to be needed."

I paused.

"You are not allowed back in my kitchen until you do this."

Sigh.

Before I went home, I responded to a few texts he had sent me during the day.  "I had a lovely lunch with Eleanor.  I'll see you when you get home."  I went home and did as I was told.  I had warmed him up with the text so he knew I wouldn't be loaded for bear when he walked in the door.  Over the past few weeks, I'll admit my mood was unpredictable.  Sometimes, I'd be in a good mood and kind.  Other times, I'd read something in a book that would set me on edge.  In fairness, these past two weeks have been traumatic.  Just when one wave of grief would pass, another would crash.  I've been thought the cycles and stages of grief before.  I know that the mind can only process so much information at once, and the heart has its limits, too.  I had been overwhelmed.  Unlike other traumatic experiences like when my first child died, this one I actually had some control and choice in terms of the outcome.  Jack did, too.

Nevertheless, Jack and I kept getting deeper and deeper into the pit.  Just when we gained some footing, it slipped away.  I was also uncovering much of the anger I had storing away for the past few years as he slipped away into work.  It was coming to the surface.

"I am not sure I have the strength to pull us both out of this," he said the other night.  I knew he needed me, but I questioned why I needed him.  And that was a legitimate question in my mind.  Why did I need a man who ignored me on and off for two years?  Who was self-centered and self-absorbed?  Would he change?

When I left to stay with my friend Susan, it was the best decision I had ever made.  When I laid in her guest bedroom, I was relieved to be alone.  I was and am grateful she and her family gave me a safe place to stay.  This eight day absence hit the reset button for Jack.  He was forced to reconnect with the kids and take responsibility.  His backstop who took care of everything was gone.  I was also mad that I had to leave for eight days to get his attention.  Why did he have to turn me into a bitch to change?  I was annoyed at that.  I don't like being a bitch.  Really, I don't.

Which was Eleanor's point.  Stop.  Get off the anger cycle.  Yes, you were right to be enraged, but you have his attention now.  Tread carefully.  I needed to do an about face.

Jack and I had been sliding deeper into the pit.  I started my speech, but he wanted to tell me about how he had managed his day.  He was excited to tell me how he was fixing things.  I interrupted, and said my three sentences.  He listened, and seemed to relax.

It was as if I had gotten out my ice ax, and slammed it in the glacier to stop the free fall.  We still have a long way to go, but hopefully we can get out together.

To Love

One night during an unpleasant conversation, my husband asked me what I wanted.

"I want to be loved.  I want someone to love me."

He was slightly shocked by my answer.  I think he thought I would ask for something unreasonable, like pink ponies and unicorns.  In other words, the impossible.

"I want to love and be loved in return.  Isn't that all we can hope for in life?"

At the same time, I am learning to let go.  Recently, I thought that I could never replace Jack.  He was there when our baby Ada died.  Ada was a full-term stillbirth delivered on her due date.  She was beautiful, looking more like Jack than me.  It didn't look like I was even involved in the process.

When Ada was delivered, I held her.  My amazement at holding and seeing the baby inside of me for nine months was overwhelming.  I was filled with joy, with some part of my brain hit with the trauma suppressing my grief for a few minutes to partake in her beauty.  While I was rapturous over this small wonder, Jack was crying, sobbing into my lap.  He was carrying the burden of grief while I glowed.

And then there was Michael.  My brother has schizophrenia.  My dad called Jack after Michael fell apart and changed the direction of my family forever.  Jack was a rock and stable.  Jack was such a part of my family that my father called him first, told him first, before he told me.  I will forever be grateful to Jack for that.

But a real relation needs a past, present and future.  I need to make sure this relationship has forward movement, a pulse that keep us going.  If I need to let go of the past to take care of the present and the future, I will.

Uncomfortable

I am pondering writing about the recent difficult times I've had in my marriage.  These past few weeks have been exceptionally hard.  There have been ups and downs and sideways and flips.  There are times I am not sure how things will turn out.  Will we stay married or not, and how will I know what call to make?

All of these things are uncomfortable.  Part of writing this blog is for me to explore the comfortable and the uncomfortable.  Life is hard and sticky and messy at times.  Why should we pretend otherwise?  And how many of us go through the same things, but just suffer in silence?

Yet, we need to be careful.  My intention here is not to air our dirty laundry or say hurtful or mean things that could cause further damage to the fragile state of the relationship.

If I only wrote about the comfortable, that would be boring.  It would also be a lie.  The goal for me to share an experience, to bring light to the dark corners of the closet.  Trust me -- there are loads of dead spiders and dust bunnies.  I don't need to show you all of them for you to understand the process.

So, here is to exploring the uncomfortable.  Wish me well.

Sex, Money and Physical Attraction

Before my husband and I got married, we went to a pre-Cana class.  The session was all day on a Saturday in the fall.  Several dozen couples met at a local parish where we talked about marriage.  I am thinking in was St. Mike's in Old Town in Chicago.  Most of the couples were in their mid-twenties and early thirties, and had been together to a reasonable length of time.  John and I had been dating for more than seven years before we got married.  The general response from family and friends:  "It's about time."

For one of the exercises, each table of four couples needed to create a list of the top three things they thought were important in a marriage.  I volunteered to speak for the group.  One of the guys offered me a buck if I said sex, money and physical attraction.  I was in.

When it was my turn, I stood up in front of 50 or 60 people.  When asked what are the three most important things in a marriage, I replied, "Sex, money and physical attraction."

There was a pause before the room exploded into laughter.  I understood comedians desire to make people laugh.  It was awesome.  The guy handed me a dollar, but I refused to take it.

But there are other things.  Trust and honesty are to marriage like wings are to an airplane.  If it doesn't have wings, it isn't a plane.  Without trust and honesty, it isn't a marriage.  Yes, marriages need more than trust and honesty.  Wings are necessary, but sufficient.

After my husband's workaholism has come to light, there are more things that need to be rebuilt, including trust and honesty.  Honesty takes many forms.  First is the plain old not lying.  But there are other parts, too.  Part of being honest with a partner or spouse is being honest with ourselves first.  When things are falling apart, we need to tell the other person so they aren't surprised when things explode.  They can brace, prepare and perhaps prevent the explosion.  He needed to tell me he was overwhelmed and didn't know how to stop.  But he didn't.

While I dread the handwork in the months to come, I am at least thankful our marriage was stable on so many other fronts.  We have generally been three for three in the list I presented at St. Mike's eighteen years ago.  At least we have something on which to rebuild.

Anti-Depressants

As I am uncovering the debris from the explosion of my marriage, I am trying to figure things out.  One of my dear friends offered me some anti-depressants.  She highly recommended them.

I paused.

I have nothing against medicating for mood disorders or mental illness.  Sometimes people's emotions can leave them debilitated.  If a pharmacological solution makes them functional, so be it.

Yet, I didn't want to be medicated.  I wanted to feel the pain of this trauma.  Pain is our bodies way of saying stop.  I needed to feel the grief.  How will I know when it is better if I first don't feel the pain?

Change

My husband has just discovered he has a case of workaholism.  Like many other addictions, this one consumes all of his waking thoughts and attention.  He would check his email before he made his coffee in the morning.  He would sit in out office behind the kitchen while I made breakfast and lunch  for the kids.  I would feel like I was imposing to ask him to wake the boy while I was getting muffins or scones out of the oven.

As far as workaholics go, Jack is a successful one.  Bryan Robinson in his book Chained to the Desk describes the typology of workaholics.  There are levels of work initiation and work completion.  John scores high both, placing him in the "Relentless Workaholic" category.  These are the high performers who get shit done.  Family gets the little that is leftover.

As Jack dove himself deeper and deeper into work, he pushed me further and further away.  I would try to reach out and connect, and he would step away, thereby exacerbating my loneliness.  When I told him I was lonely, he would further retreat.

My life began to revolve around his work schedule.  I accommodated him with little show of appreciation or support form him.

But then it wasn't all that bad.  At times, we had fun.  What I didn't know was that he was always thinking about his job.

Jack and I each called a friend of ours -- a friend of Jack's from college.  This friend has since been divorced.  I asked him how he knew when it was time to give up:

"When I knew she wasn't going to change."

He bailed when he knew she wasn't going to change.  That the status quo would remain forever.  That she wouldn't or couldn't fix her problems.

Silence

A week ago Saturday, I was staying at a friend's house.  I needed a break from my husband while he pulled his head out of his ass.  I needed sometime where our conversation did not consist of me yelling "You fucking asshole."  I am sure the texts traced backed to Seattle saw a measurable uptick in the count of those two words.  The CIA might be alarmed.

In the case of who should have left, me or Jack, it had to be me.  The man needed to be broken from his addiction to work.  If he left, he would have holed up in a hotel and worked.  Checked his email and text messages 24/7.  It would be like leaving a boozer at a bar to sober up.  Nope.  I needed to go.     Our heated conversations needed a break, and it wasn't healthy for me, him or the kids to have to experience the rush and flooding of emotions.  The kids needed a break when they were getting ready for school.  They didn't need to leave on a note of acrimony.

The night I left, we talked on the phone.  "Talk" here is a misnomer.  I mostly screamed.  He was mostly defensive. 

"What should I do with the kids?  I have to work," he said.  "I have call of these nights..."

"Figure it out yourself," I said. 

"But..."  

"Figure it out," I said.

Silence.  

Since the day our daughter was born, I have been the one figuring it out.  I have been his backstop for all things work.  I have been the one waiting at home with the kids while he is on call or working over night at the hospital.  Out of town for conferences. 

He is a smart man with great organizational skills and executive functioning.  He needed to figure it out.

+++++

The second round of silence was far more painful.  I left Thursday night, and Saturday I met the Boy for breakfast.  We went to Specialty's Cafe, his choice.  Since Tuesday, I had been talking non-stop about the situation of my marriage and try to figure things out.  It was a roller coaster.  I'd settle, then a new wave of understanding and then anger and heartbreak would flush through.

The Boy was different than talking to all of my friends.  For the previous few days, it had been all about me.  This time, it was all about the Boy.  In the car to the restaurant, I asked him a few questions about the past few days at school.  I had seen him Thursday before I left, and I talked to him Friday night.  

At the restaurant, we sat in silence.  While we were waiting for the food, he had his back to me, looking at the counter, waiting for the servers to call our food.  When the food came, I asked a question or two to start conversation.  He shrugged, and I let him be.  His sadness was palpable.  He needed to be quiet, and I let him.

When we got home, he showed me his new lego train.  He showed me how he used a piece with the wrong color in one spot, and had to take it apart and rebuild it.  Later in the afternoon, he insisted I watch Parks and Recreation with him.  He knew I needed the distraction.  He told me he loved me first, before I told him I loved him.  At the time I appreciated his tenderness and attentiveness.  

And then I was haunted.  He was taking care of me.  Yes, children need to learn responsibility and need to learn to give love.  That is why we got a dog.  But I am the parent.  Until he is grown, I need to take care of him.  Not the other way around.

Separation, and What is my Blog About?

Last night, I returned home after an eight day separation from my husband.  Thursday was my daughter's fourteenth birthday, and last night we took a handful of her friends out to see the movie The Fault in Our Stars.  It is love story about teenagers living with cancer.  I stayed at home after the party.

The movie and the birthday party are not the point here.  The point is that I got fed up and left.  The shit hit the fan Tuesday night.  I realized the status quo of our relationship could not and should not hold.  Jack was unaware that this was the case.  I was able to hold it moderately together until Thursday, when I friend saw my anguish and offered me a place to stay until I could recover. I knew I was taking a break during this time.  The main question I need to answer is: "Should I stay or should I go?"

(There are lots of details as to what drove me out.  Lots.  While I wish to write about it, I will grant my husband and I some privacy over the details as we try to make sense of them ourselves.)

One of the main themes that has come out is my husband is a workaholic.  Addicted to work.  He took a survey in U.S. News and World Report, and answered 17 out of 17 for questions that suggest he is a workaholic.  I am starting to understand the impact this has had on our family and myself.  Reading Chained to the Desk by Bryan Robinson is simply terrifying.  He describes workaholism as the best dressed addiction.  It beats down the other family members.  I felt a sharp pang of recognition when a woman writes about being ill and home with the kids while her husband trots off to work.  I looked back a few bouts of violent stomach flu while my spouse carried on while I tended to toddlers.

The good news is Jack identified this himself.  The hard part will be fixing it.  It is not as debilitating as drug addiction, but it will likely be as hard to kick.  As Jack said, he tried to solve the work problem by working harder.  That is like the drunk trying to get sober by having another beer.

Which leads me to an interesting point.  I was working with my writing teacher, Theo Nestor.  I asked her to take a look at my blog and to see what she thought and to get some advice and direction.  She recommend I develop a unifying theme for my blog, a few topics that hold it together.

After the shit hit the fan, I took a look back at my blog, and I understood the theme.  It was theme of a woman barely holding on, barely holding it together.  A woman who looked to her dog for unconditional love.  A woman whose rage is starting to boil below the surface before she even knows what is wrong.  A woman who cries for no reason.  No, there was a reason.  My heart knew something was wrong before my head figured it out.

And yet, I pray for hope.  I think of two things I wanted to write about but didn't.  When I was in Columbus, I visited the Columbus Museum of Art with my mom and dad.  There was a beautiful exhibit of Judaica, showing the art of the marriage contracts, created as art.  It was lovely.  I spent a decent portion of time looking at the contracts.

And then, the night before the shit hit the fan, we were all driving the car going past Kidd Valley, a hamburger restaurant.  They were selling Pina Colada milkshakes.  When we got home, Jack showed the kids a video of the Pina Colada Song online.  I checked the browser history to confirm the date.  Perhaps that is something subconscious, too, perhaps a plea for help and connection from him via the song.  Maybe he would rather be married to me than his job.  Time will tell.  As my friend says, guilt and admission are not sufficient.  He needs to change.