I’d go out to a bar with girlfriends now and then, and if a man approached me, he’d ask if I was single. When I said yes, I’d get, “So, have you been married?”
“Yeah.”
“Divorced?”
“No.”
“Separated?”
“No.”
“Well, what did he do, die?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, man, I’m sorry.” Then the guy wouldn’t be able to get away from me fast enough.
So I chose to remain secretive. Keeping my secrets gave me an excuse to keep most everyone at arm’s length. For years after Larry’s death, my family, Larry’s family, and Debbie remained the only people who knew what had really happened.
As my grief continued without letting up, my sons got older. Larry, Jr., entered high school, and I worried, as I’m sure most parents do, about his increased independence. When he was 14—a couple of years after Larry’s death—I discovered that he was hanging out with some older kids who could drive and were drinking beer. I saw him take off in a car with them and began to panic. It triggered my PTSD, making me feel that my eldest son might go down the same path his father had and end up dead. So I became very protective of and strict with him.
One day, while in the car together shortly after that incident, I was lecturing Larry, Jr., and wound up blurting out the truth about his dad. “You know, your father was no angel! He had a drug problem.”
At first, my son didn’t respond. He froze, trying to comprehend what he’d just heard. The cat was out of the bag, so I pulled over, stopped the car, and continued. “Look . . . your dad was a drug addict. He left us when you were a baby and was living on the street for a while. He got HIV from shooting drugs. It killed him! Do you have any idea what that did to his life and what will happen to you if you get involved with alcohol or drugs? He ruined our lives!” I lost control of my emotions and began to sob. “Don’t you see that? And his sister and brother were drug addicts too. It runs in the family. It’s the Crawford curse. Larry, you can’t fool around with drugs or alcohol! Your genetics are against you. And if anything ever happened to you, I would die. Don’t you know that?” Then my son joined me in my sobbing.
Losing control like that scared the life out of me. It reminded me of my father’s screaming outbursts. Was I so damaged that I would become like my dad when he was younger?
Words can’t express how terrible I felt for telling my son in this way. It wasn’t at all the way I had envisioned telling him. I know that day redefined him and caused him enormous pain, because his image of his dad was shattered. But it was also the day that brought me to my knees and made me aware that I had to get real help. The therapy I’d received up to that point obviously hadn’t been working.
I didn’t want Larry, Jr., to tell anyone else, especially his little brother, so in telling him, I inadvertently made him join me in my secret-keeping. I felt terribly guilty about it, and probably always will. Larry, Jr., whom I had vowed to protect, had inherited my caretaking role when his father was alive, and he was now also inheriting my secrets.
CHAPTER 9
ENDINGS AND NEW BEGINNINGS
So many things could trigger a memory that would bring me to my knees: Hearing songs that my husband and I had shared. Seeing fathers with their sons. Or just the arrival of a Sunday morning, since that’s when our whole family would always spend time together.
Then there was the smell of lumber—the familiar scent that I associated with Larry as he rebuilt our home. Not long after his death, I made the mistake of trying to shop at The Home Depot and became stricken with my feelings of loss. We’d spent so much time there together, buying supplies and materials for the house and for his work, that it was like hallowed ground. We had always enjoyed picking out what we’d use to design our home. I hadn’t realized that being there would bring up such intense longing for him. It would be years before I could bear to shop there again.
Reluctantly, I spoke to my therapist, Pat, about trying psychiatric pharmaceuticals. She didn’t usually advocate using medication for mental health, but she had to concede that I wasn’t improving. I was only falling deeper into darkness. She sent me to a psychiatrist, who could provide a prescription.
First, I was given Prozac, but it didn’t help at all. Instead, my thoughts became even more chaotic. I was desperate, however, so I kept trying. Next was Lexapro, Wellbutrin, Xanax, and lithium. The lithium worked, but I felt so lethargic that I couldn’t function. I took it for a few weeks because it did bring me some relief from the mood swings, but I wouldn’t have been able to work if I’d continued taking it.
When the meds failed me, I didn’t know what else to do but focus on my work and my boys. I had worked hard to create a safe space where Brian and Larry, Jr., could acknowledge their grief, feel happy, sad, or angry. I wanted them to be patient with and kind to themselves.
The irony was that I couldn’t do the same for myself. Even though my career was going very well—I had a solid reputation in my tough and competitive industry and was managing millions of dollars of business—I still felt like I had a big L for “Loser” stamped on my forehead.
Years went by as being grief-stricken, thinking of myself as a loser, and going through the motions simply became the norm for me. When I took the boys somewhere, I usually sat on the sidelines deep in thought as they enjoyed themselves on their own. They tried to lift my spirits, and they often managed to do so for short periods of time. It was beautiful how concerned they were about me. But when I was alone, I nearly always descended back into the darkness.
I was exhausted from all the responsibility on my shoulders. At the time, I wasn’t aware that continuing to keep Larry’s secrets was yet another responsibility that I had imposed upon myself. It had simply become a way of life, and since I no longer had to hide the progression of Larry’s illness or answer questions about his death, I didn’t question the wisdom of keeping the truth to myself.
I did everything I could to compensate for the fact that my sons had to live with a depressed mother. It was important to me to encourage them to experience life adventurously, so I began a new family tradition of taking them on winter vacations during their school breaks. A few years after Larry’s death, I took us all on a rain forest vacation package in Venezuela. The boys enjoyed it, but every trip we took pushed me further into my despair. I saw women with husbands and families with fathers. Strangers assumed I was divorced, and this made me want to scream, “I’m not a single parent by choice! I didn’t sign up for this life!” The word “widow” made me cringe.
When we returned from Venezuela, I began to experience gastrointestinal problems, and before I knew it, I’d dropped 30 pounds. For a year, I went to several specialists, including a gastroenterologist, but the test results were always inconclusive. The doctors wanted to attribute all my symptoms to grief or work stress. It was infuriating that they wouldn’t listen to me.
Then other symptoms began. I experienced chest pain, insomnia, brain fog, and, worst of all, frequent migraines with an aura that affected my eyesight. Debbie suggested that I see Dr. Marton. I hadn’t seen him since Larry’s death and had always thought of him as Larry’s doctor. He was an infectious disease specialist, so I wondered if he’d even agree to see me. But he did.
When he walked into the examining room, tears began rolling down my face. Every memory of Larry’s experiences in doctors’ offices came flooding back. On the one hand, it was painful, but I was also happy to see this dedicated physician and caring man who had been so important in our lives.
He immediately took charge and dug deep, running every test imaginable on me. In no time, he discovered that I’d been infected with a variety of amoebas while in South America. It explained practically all my symptoms. He started treating me right away, and I was ecstatic to be on my way back to good physical health.
But then another of the tests came back with a diagnosis we didn’t expect. I also had hepatitis C, and my liver func
tion had already diminished.
At his office on the day he told me, Dr. Marton continued to try to explain the medical details, but I couldn’t hear him or comprehend what he said. All I could think about was the boys. Was I going to die and leave my boys orphaned by a different disease after managing to escape HIV? Not after everything they’d already been through! It just couldn’t be! How could my luck be so terrible? Suddenly I had more of an understanding of how Larry had felt when he received his diagnosis.
“How did I get it?” I asked.
“Almost certainly from Larry,” Dr. Marton said. “It can stay dormant in the body forever, or it can become active after about 20 years.”
Obviously, the antibody that had protected me from HIV hadn’t protected me from hep C, and I still don’t understand why the previous tests had never detected the disease in my system.
“Dr. Marton, can I die from this?” I asked, dreading the answer.
He looked at me with kindness. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
While I knew he meant it, I also knew he might not be able to keep that promise. Once again, I was terrified. I couldn’t believe that I was still haunted by the repercussions of addiction years after Larry’s death. My anger toward my husband came back in full force, but I felt guilty for feeling it. But my main concern would always be my sons, so I knew I had to do everything I could to get well.
Dr. Marton suggested that we check the progress of the hep C monthly. As he’d done for Larry, he wanted to avoid starting me on the existing treatments for as long as we could and wait for new drugs to be developed. The treatment protocol at that time would have been almost the same as the treatment for HIV, and I already knew what those side effects were like. How would I be able to take care of my boys if I got sick from the medications?
Dr. Marton was able to help my body rid itself of the amoebas from Venezuela, and I worked with a doctor of Chinese medicine as well. I gained the weight back, and my gastrointestinal symptoms subsided. That left the symptoms of hep C, which were mainly chronic fatigue and brain fog. I was able to function, but it was a challenge to remember sales numbers and the many details needed in my job, especially since I worked for one of the most demanding companies in the industry.
I did my best to hide that I was ill and not 100 percent on my game. Just as I had always done, I put one foot in front of the other, hid what was really going on, wore a brave face, and kept going the best I could.
While it was especially difficult to travel so much when I didn’t feel healthy, that was simply part of the job. Since there were five years between them, Larry, Jr., entered high school while Brian was still in elementary school. They were the latchkey kids of a single mom, and they no longer needed someone with them 24 hours a day when I was traveling. But I always arranged for someone to look in on them and help them with dinner daily, and I hated being away from them.
About three years after Larry died, I was on a business trip when the boys and I experienced another loss. This time, it was our dog, Max, who had been such a comfort after Larry’s death.
Poor Brian was only 10 years old at the time, and he found Max’s body in our garden.
My cell phone rang. “Mom, something’s wrong. I think Max is dead!”
“What do you mean, Max is dead?”
“Why does everything have to die when you’re not home?” my little boy asked.
His words pierced my heart. I felt tremendous guilt that I wasn’t there yet again, and I jumped on the first flight back. I remembered how tightly Brian had held me at his father’s funeral. I could hear how scared he was when we’d spoken about Max.
Our neighbor was looking in on the boys while I was away, so he helped them bury Max in the backyard. At first, Brian was upset and freaked out about burying the dog, so he called me again. “What do you mean, they’re going to dig a hole and put Max in the ground?” he asked me.
His father had been cremated, and we still had the ashes in the house. So Brian had never been to a cemetery. I don’t think he’d even thought about what usually happens to bodies after death. Our neighbor lovingly talked Brian through it so he would feel comfortable with the burial.
Ultimately, both of my sons handled Max’s death well, but the experience made me feel inadequate as a single parent. I needed someone who could help me raise my boys, not just babysit, as family and friends were willing to do. What they needed were guidance and stability, especially when my work took me out of town.
Around that time, a man named Jerry entered our lives. He was Larry, Jr.’s high school history teacher and football coach. One day, Jerry said to my son, “I see your mom picking you up, but I never see your father. I guess your parents are divorced?”
“No, my dad died.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. My father died too, when I was a kid.”
The two of them talked about what it’s like to grow up without a dad.
When I picked Larry up from school that day, Jerry approached me. “Mrs. Crawford, I had no idea that Larry lost his dad. I really commend you for always being here and staying involved, because I know it’s hard to be a single parent. If there’s anything I can ever do to help, just let me know.”
“Well, how do you think Larry is doing?” I asked Jerry. “I’d really like to know how he is when he’s at school and at practice.”
“I think he’s doing pretty well. He seems happy and gets along with everybody.”
After a few more conversations during football season and getting to know each other a bit, Jerry and I went out for a casual drink. Then he asked, “Would you like to do this again?” And we started dating.
He seemed “normal.” Unfortunately, I still believed that word had some actual meaning. Now I know better. As Alfred Adler once said, “The only normal people are the ones you don’t know very well.”
But even if “normal” is a myth, Jerry was the opposite of Larry, which seemed like a good thing at the time. He was stable and as bread-and-butter as they come—something I thought would be good for me. He was a jock, which was the kind of guy I’d always despised in high school. In his younger days, Jerry had been a WWF wrestler, so even physically, he was entirely different from tall and thin Larry. The edgy, hip, sophisticated guy didn’t work, so let’s try the jock, I guess I thought.
Over a period of months, Jerry and I became serious, and he wanted to get married. I hadn’t yet told him about Larry’s drug use and HIV status, so I knew it was about time that I did. He was taken aback, but since we were all healthy, it didn’t frighten him away. Dr. Marton had assured me that the chances of Jerry contracting hep C from me were miniscule, especially if we were careful.
The problem was that I wasn’t ready to get married. By this time, Larry had been gone for nearly four years, yet I was still in mourning. I didn’t feel that enough time had passed. It seemed like marrying someone else would be disrespectful to Larry’s memory. I told Jerry that if I did marry him, I wouldn’t give up my last name of Crawford. I used the excuse that the boys would hate it if they had a different name than me.
Despite my reservations, I couldn’t deny that there were a lot of good reasons to marry Jerry. First, I was in my 40s and dreaded the idea of dating. Second, I assumed he’d lose interest if I said no, and third, I didn’t want to live with him out of wedlock.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this!” Larry, Jr., said to me, mortified that I would even consider marrying his football coach. “I’ll wind up in therapy over this one, for sure.”
Brian, on the other hand, fell in love with Jerry and came out of his shell a little bit as a result of their relationship. That was probably the main reason I fell for Jerry. And I expected that Larry, Jr., would come around.
My parents were all for the wedding, but not my friend Debbie. She was adamant that I not marry Jerry and did her best to talk me out of it. “Come on, Kathe, you know you’re not in love with him. Jerry’s a good guy, but he’s not right for you!” I knew she
was right, but all I could think about was that I had a chance to give my sons a male role model. I wanted so much to give them a good life.
I thought Jerry might finally offer the emotional support I needed. So we tied the knot in 1999.
At first, I enjoyed the stability of a drama-free life with Jerry. I didn’t have to worry about him walking in the door high on drugs. But a month after our wedding, I panicked. I felt like I was losing my identity. I said to Jerry, “I can’t do it. I can’t be married. We have to get a divorce.”
Understandably, Jerry felt very hurt and was adamant that he didn’t want to split up. He told me he loved me and that I was just experiencing some jitters that would soon pass.
All I could think was, Who am I to hurt such a decent guy? Who am I to throw love away? So I stayed with him. But in time, there was no escaping that the two of us had very little in common. Living with Jerry felt like still living alone. Our marriage showed me how much I’d truly been in love with Larry.
After I’d been seeing my therapist, Pat, for several years, she finally gave up, realizing that she’d tried everything in her arsenal to ease my grief and the negative voices in my head. “I’m sorry, Kathe. Clearly, I can’t help you,” she said. “I think you have post-traumatic stress disorder and need to find someone else for treatment.”
Was I a hopeless case? Surely I’m not doomed to despairing for the rest of my life! I thought.
I was willing to dig deep and work hard. I didn’t want to be like my mother, who had spent most of her adult life in therapy but was only willing to change up to a point. I was determined to feel whole, whatever it took.
Luckily, that’s when a friend recommended a therapist named Jack. He helped me realize that I wasn’t at fault in my troubled marriage with Jerry and encouraged me to end it. He was my advocate, acknowledging my career success and telling me I was capable of anything I set my mind to. He often commended me for raising such great children.
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