husband

So I’ve been thinking…
Have I ever been brave enough to sidestep​ an emotional tsunami filled with mean-spirited accusations and diminishing love that was headed straight for my marriage?

The answer, after searching the archives of my menopausal mind, turning over every rock and remembering the times when the shit hit the fan was …once.

It was one night, inside one fight, but sometimes that’s all it takes to turn a situation on its head and start over. 

I remember it clear as day because my husband and I don’t really argue that much. We bicker and disagree, but rarely does it escalate into a full-blown fight.

This day was different, and the reason behind it was palpable – FEAR.

My store, the business that held all of our proverbial eggs in its basket, had flooded and closed. Insurance was in full jackassery mode, and the situation appeared bleak. Bleak is an understatement; it was a clusterfuck on steroids.

He had been letting me handle most of the fallout while keeping a watchful distance. I was grateful and full of resentment all at the same time.
This was th hardest time of my life. Weren’t we a team?

Our we project in good times had become a me situation now that it was damaged beyond repair.

But to be fair, I hadn’t included him in much of the business set-up. He didn’t know the in’s and out’s of my insurance​ policy, and besides, I had managed to establish an uneasy alliance with all the players so they only wanted to deal with ME. He felt it best to keep his distance and watch it play out.

One evening, after peppering me with questions, those inquiries quickly turned to accusations. I, of course, became defensive. “Oh nice of you to finally join the circus, welcome to MY world!”  I sneered sarcastically. As he realized the gravity of the situation, things escalated. Name-calling ensued; lots of fuck you’s were thrown around — it turned ugly.

“How could you let this happen?” he yelled at me ​as if I could have somehow prevented an act of God. “You said you could make this business work, you sold me a bill of goods, what the fuck happens now?”

How did I know? I was just as overwhelmed as he was except this had been my dream, a dream that was now covered with a stench I couldn’t escape — failure.

Here was my partner, my best friend; how had he become so insensitive? Couldn’t he see I was suffering, treading water just to keep from drowning in despair?

“I won’t cry, I won’t let myself cry” was my mantra, knowing that when I get that angry I can’t contain the tears.

I reverted back to a default setting from my childhood; Stoic Sadness – I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of breaking down. I would not let him know how much this hurt.

The fight was gaining momentum, words were on the tips of our tongues that could never be taken back, hurts leveled that would cut too deep to heal — it needed to be stopped.

I took a good look at him with eyes so clouded with rage it made me nauseous. And that’s when it hit me – I was hit by a thunderbolt of…Compassion.
It forced me to look again, and this time I could really see him. He was scared, just as scared as I was, maybe even more so. Hundreds of thousands of dollars were lost, lawsuits were pending, and his wife was a hot mess.

Something made me get up and walk over to him sitting in his chair. I had no idea what the next moment would bring. I didn’t have a plan. I was “winging it”.

My posture was such that it made him recoil. I remember thinking: that’s funny, he thinks I’m gonna punch him in the face, and let me tell you, his fears were not unfounded. There was a fist and a knock-out punch with his name on it—if I were the face punching type.

Instead, I put out my hand. It was a gesture that only confused matters.

He looked down at it and then up into my eyes.
Did I see…contempt?
I stood fast, my hand extended—this was a matter of life and death — our marriage was on the ropes.

“What?” he looked at my hand and shrugged like a punk.

“Come on, let’s go”, I wasn’t taking no for an answer.
I probably stood there for a good two and a half minutes, hand extended, while he considered the offer.

“What are you doing? Where are we going?” he asked.

“Just come with me.” I exhaled impatiently. Maybe this had been a mistake.

Slowly he rose out of his chair, shoulders sagging, eyes to the floor. His six-foot-three​ frame folded in on itself.

I took his hand, guiding him through the living room and down the hall. “What are you doing?” he sounded like a confused little boy. He wasn’t mad anymore, just worn down, vulnerable.

We kept moving forward.

I didn’t say anything, I wasn’t even sure what I was doing. All I knew is that I was headed for our bed.

I laid down crossways on top of the bedspread, never letting go of his hand. His face read: If you think I’m going to have sex with you, you’re nuts, but that wasn’t my intention, we needed something more than sex could provide.

The bed became a life raft on which to ride out the tsunami.

Begrudgingly, he lay down beside me as I positioned our bodies face to face. When I moved in closer, he moved away. So much for being best friends, we had turned into adversaries​, total strangers whose faces were now inches apart.

Looking at him in that moment, he was not the grown man who had been raging at me just minutes before – I saw a very scared nine-year-old​ boy – and that started to soften my heart.

“We need to remember what we love about each other”, I whispered softly, as I stared into his eyes, digging deep to think of something to say.

I feared he would get up at any moment and bolt for the door, but he just lay there, emotionally exhausted.

Tentatively, haltingly, I began.

“I love your eyes.” he closed them briefly, a long blink.
“I love the way you smell.” I started with the easy stuff.
“I love what a good doggie daddy you are.”

Did he crack a smile? If he had it was gone in a flash.

He wasn’t making it easy, but I continued undaunted for another few minutes until momentum began to build.

“I love your funny French accent.” I was on a roll. “I love how you mix your metaphors ​and invent names for things…like Ricky Ricardo does…”

He interrupted, “I love how that makes you laugh — every time.”

Now we were both laughing. Then he pulled me close, burying my face in his chest — and our laughter turned to sobs.

“I love what a big crybaby you are”, I mumbled into my best friend’s chest after a couple of minutes.

That made us both giggle uncontrollably, like teenagers, and suddenly I felt safe again. I exhaled a huge sigh of relief knowing that in that moment, we were a team again, we had found our momentarily misplaced love, and by the Grace of God – compassion had saved my marriage.

Carry On,
xox

*Holy Crap you guys,
This was a hard one to write and re-live. SUCH a painful time for us. My hope is that maybe you’ll think of this during the next big fight, and take a second look at the person and the situation. Compassion is an equal-opportunity-saver of anything for those who are willing to be happy—instead of right.

I know you guys have turned some horrible situations around by the Grace of God –– Care to share?

We need to carry this chart around with us at all times, because
most of us have a hard time articulating our level of pain.

My husband goes to the head of the class.
Classic story.

It was back a few years ago, when he discovered (on Web MD in the middle of the night) that he had appendicitis.
I scoffed at his self diagnosis, of course, suggested he had gas; and told him to buck up and take a couple of Motrin.
Wife of the Year, I know.

Since he was due to leave on a motorcycle trip to the Sierra’s the next day, unbeknownst to me, he went to the doctor.
THAT should have told me something right there, because he’s someone who can have a chainsaw stuck in his neck and he will sidestep a visit to the doctor.
“Oh that? Nah, I don’t need a doctor, I’m just going to observe it.”

He called me at work from St John’s, where he had been sent immediately by his doctor for an MRI.

He got the results while I was on the phone. He was told to go directly to Emergency, where they would admit him for surgery; seems his appendix had a slow leak and I was going to have to give back my medical diploma.
Gas it was not.

I drove like a maniac, in a thunderstorm, to make it across town at rush hour, to see him before they took him in to operate.
When I got there (late) he was in Emergency, hooked up to antibiotics and pain meds, waiting for his turn in surgery; doing his Sudoku and entertaining the nurses.

“What’s your pain level, one to ten?” the friendly nurse asked while I was hugging him hello.

“Three or four” he said, without even a cringe.

“Really? What’s a ten to you?” The nurse was curious, since appendicitis is up there on the pain scale – for most mere mortals.

“Being skinned alive or boiled in oil” he responded, completely serious.

“Huh… okay Braveheart, have you felt that? How would you know? I’m asking you as a point of reference.”

But that’s a great question.
What is a five or an eight or even a ten?

I wondered, have I felt a ten? 

We all know those individuals to whom a paper cut is a ten. Are most of us even aware of our pain tolerance scale?

Minutes later his appendix burst.
If he’d been riding the back country of the Sierra’s—he’d have died.
He hadn’t been accurately portraying his pain, because he didn’t know how.
“It’s a ten, it’s a ten, maybe even eleven!” he yelled as she injected morphine straight into his IV, his whole body relaxing, his eyes rolling back into his head.

They rushed him into surgery and he is now happily appendix free.

It appears to me that this list could apply to emotional pain as well.
Will we tolerate three’s and four’s as we “observe” the situation?
What constitutes a ten? The equivalent of emotional stigmata or boiling oil?

Food for thought.

Copy this list and keep it with you – in case someone asks.
I especially love the faces.

Love,
Xox

I wailed woefully at the top of my lungs and launched into a violent series of rapid fire kicks to the defenseless cabinetry that had the misfortune of being in line with my right foot.

Huge crocodile tears fell from my eyes into the batter, adding more salt than the recipe called for.

With one fluid motion fueled by rage and befitting a segment of one of those dumbass reality shows where the woman have major public meltdowns, I swept my right forearm along the cutting board which held the two bundt cake pans; their recently mixed, liquid contents coating the entire kitchen in one swipe; like a chocolate-chip Jackson Pollack masterpiece.

Fraidy and Teddy, my two Siamese cats who were the ever present, blue eyed witnesses to the hijinks that was my life, had been watching the whole debacle from the other side of the kitchen, atop the microwave. As they jumped down to sample the brown goodness that literally dripped from every surface, I shooed them away, remembering chocolate is bad for animals, and bemoaning that fact because I needed the help.
I had a long night of clean up ahead of me.

All the while the catalyst for the onslaught of my melt down with judo moves, the melancholy, molasses voice of Karen Carpenter played on speakers from the den nearby.

“I am dreaming tonight of a place I love
Even more than I usually do
And although I know it’s a long road back
I promise you

If only in my dreams”

If you know me at all, you know that the day after Thanksgiving, the Christmas music goes into heavy rotation – and I start baking.

Always have – always will.

It usually makes me stupid happy.
That year, 1999, it mad me sad, with a side of mad.

It had all started when I bought my house the previous April. I should have felt such a sense of accomplishment for having the courage to put my whole life in storage, save my ass off and find the perfect little house to purchase 

On. My. Own.

Just me, and my two cats.
But THAT ended up being the problem.
Huh, didn’t see THAT coming.

The day I moved in, when the last friend and family member said their goodbyes, and I stood amid the contents of my life stacked around me, along with all the empty pizza boxes; I had never felt so ALONE.

Wasn’t this a milestone you were supposed to share with that special someone?

Wasn’t there supposed to be that moment where you realize you’ve done something monumental, and you and your guy dance in candlelight with your nauseatingly cute matching pajamas (him, just the bottoms, you, just the tops) to music from a portable radio?
Then don’t you drink champagne from paper cups, toasting your good fortune, christening the house by making love on a mattress on the floor surrounded by boxes, books, bicycles and skis, while your cats have the good manners to look away?

Hey, I’m ashamed to admit it, but I wanted that.

All of the sudden at forty one, after being divorced for fifteen years, I wanted a significant other, a partner, a mate, a beloved.

I wanted a (gasp) husband with whom to share my life.

I’d often wished, late at night, for a shoulder to cry on when things were going down the toilet, but this was different, I wanted someone with which to share my – joy.
My accomplishments, the good things in life.

Oh great.

That was a completely unexpected side effect that must have been written in the small print the came with the mountains of paperwork that made up my mortgage and homeowners insurance.

Damn it, it shocked me.

My house echoed back it’s emptiness to me.
It was just me and the cats.
No matter what I did cosmetically it didn’t feel like a home.
.
Backyard lawns are there to run on, screen doors are made to be slammed, big kitchens should be hot and messy with sticky floors and the constant smell of something burning.

My friends referred to my house as “the museum.”
No noise, no chaos, no dirt. Nothing out of place.
Ugh. I didn’t want to live in no freaking museum – I wanted a home.

One week that June I went to Vegas for an annual jewelry trade show. I got a call about 9pm one night from one of my neighbors, the husband half of the lovely couple next door with two kids.
Steve was yelling into the phone over a loud siren. It was my house alarm, which had been going off for fifteen minutes.
It sounded like someone had escaped from Alcatraz.
Did I have a hide a key and code for him to go in and disarm it?
Another male voice yelled loudly in the background, “Maybe we can call her husband, do you have his number?” It was the police who had been sent by the alarm company.

“She doesn’t have a husband – she has cats.”

Steve’s voice suddenly sounded hugely amplified, as if he was yelling through a megaphone, announcing my sad predicament to everyone in earshot.
The alarm had gone silent.

Thanks Steve. I don’t think they heard you in Malibu.

I wanted to die. Kill me now. I’m the cat lady of Studio City.

This sudden urge to marry is not a strictly female affliction. I know several men who have succumbed. It is the taxi cab analogy. Men are like taxi cabs, roaming the dark streets of the big city, light off, ignoring a real fare, looking for action.

Then suddenly one day, their light goes on. Just like that.

These rogue cabs are ready to go legit. A man’s light has to go on, then he’ll settle down, until then….good luck.
Once a man’s light goes on, he usually marries the next girl he meets.

It’s all timing.

That was me. Suddenly, my light was on.

I wanted a husband and whatever that meant at that age.

I yearned for complicated, noisy and messy. No more order and no more museum. So hearing that song about love and home and Christmas had sent this Spinster Auntie (as I jokingly referred to myself) over the edge.

Isnt life crazy? Just when you think you have things all figured out…..

Sometimes you don’t know until you know.
Oh brother, we’re back to that again.

But it’s true, some seemingly innocent accomplishment, tragedy or happenstance can suddenly become the catalyst for change in your life. It happens quite by surprise, when you’re not even looking.

It’s all about timing.
BAM!
Your light goes on and changes EVERYTHING.

Tell me about the time that this has happened to you because I KNOW it has!
I’d love to hear your stories too!

Love you,
Xox