You and No Other

by Jane Weiss

  After Erin’s birth in 1978, Brian and I were even more diverted from attending to our marriage, as we grappled with the complexities of raising a newborn, two grade-schoolers, and a high school student. We just kept on keeping on, together—along with our work and as parents of our four children.

  Let the Journnals Begin

  By the spring of 1981 I’d known Jane ten months, and our friendship had settled into a deep, abiding reverence for one another. I was awed by her gentleness, beauty, sensitivity, and spiritual connectedness. The bond between us grew stronger with each interaction. By all indications, she felt equally connected to me. So I was stunned in early March when she confided she was considering leaving Methodist in June, after only a year on staff, because she thought she wanted to get into marketing—or so she said. Her message hit me all the harder, knowing she gave one-hundred-fifty percent to anything she did. I couldn’t imagine she’d find time for me again, with a new job and consuming family obligations.

  I felt real despair and berated myself for allowing deep feelings to develop for someone I’d known for such a short time. It seemed to me that our relationship couldn’t be all that important to her, if she was considering leaving a job that provided our only contact. But try as I might, I couldn’t talk her out of it.

  My confusion regarding who Jane was to me heightened yet again, as I tried to understand why her impending job change left me feeling so abandoned. I couldn’t let her see how deeply affected I was by her decision. I simply couldn’t. Instead, I rallied the Education Department staff around giving Jane a whiz-bang send-off on her last day. We filled her office with colorful balloons and signs. Outside her window, placards were lowered from the balcony above, saying how much she would be missed. We asked her to bring a report to the Education Department and surprised her with a farewell cake and coffee. And one last time, I invited her to a late lunch. I suspected that maintaining my composure might be a struggle, and I needed to steel myself against her excitement for what was next in her life.

  I wasn’t prepared for what actually transpired during lunch. After what was mostly small talk, Jane reached into a shopping bag on the floor by her chair. She pulled out a gift-wrapped package, handed it to me, and said it was something very important to her. As I unwrapped a flower-and-leaf-patterned, cloth-covered blank journal, she again reached into the bag and produced another exactly like it.

  Placing the journals side by side, she said, “Our relationship and conversations have become essential to me, and I can’t imagine being without them. I bought these journals so we each could write anything we’d like to talk about with each other. Then we could schedule lunches to share our thoughts. This way, I would still feel connected to you and to all the growing I’ve done the last year. Can we do that?”

  I was right. Maintaining composure was a struggle. Was Jane really indicating that her leaving Methodist would be as difficult for her as it was for me? And that she was creating the means for us to maintain contact? Whoopee! I could not have been more delighted. My first journal entry read:

  Will write in my new journal with my new Mother’s Day pen from the kids—a combination that ought to provide for the capturing of profound thoughts!

  So why, just because a relationship changes, do I feel vulnerable again? How will my relationship with Jane change when she’s not at Methodist daily? Why does that change seem so important to me?

  Anne Lindbergh says in A Gift from the Sea, “Nothing is permanent, and only God is forever.” Also, “We have so little faith in the ebb and flow of life, of love, of relationships.” Maybe this is all just another lesson along the road.

  Oh, yes, talk to Jane about processing/closing relationships.

  Chapter 2 - Watch Out for That One!

  Jane

  My heart quickened to the energetic click-click of Bonnie’s high-heeled shoes. As she approached, the familiar sound increased in volume and reverberated through the narrow corridor, which ended in my office. I smiled at the thought of her assertively striding up to my desk, as she usually did.

  “Sounds like Bonnie Zahn, doesn’t it, R.K.?”

  “You’d better watch out for that one,” my office mate shot back at me in hushed tones. “She’ll just keep trying to get you to do more of her work.” R.K., a senior public relations writer, was overly attentive to how I spent my time as a new staff person. Writing updates for Bonnie’s quality improvement project was not high on R.K.’s priority list. Despite her opinion, I decided it was most appropriate for the employee newsletter to cover the hospital cost-reduction campaign the Education Department was spearheading. After all, I had been hired to develop and write copy for the new Monday newsletter, and article selection was my responsibility and prerogative.

  Bonnie had become an important part of every day. Over the past six months, we conferred weekly for me to gather the latest news for update articles about her program’s progress. I saw her daily when our two departments met for morning coffee break. On occasion, she invited me to lunch, where just the two of us fell into effortless conversation about intimate aspects of our lives, which surprised, pleased, and even flattered me. She didn’t seem to notice that I was in an entry position, while she sat on the top-level administrative policy committee. And I tried not to notice. Adding to my delight about our growing friendship, hospital workers often confused us, stopping one or the other of us in the hallways to give a message meant for the other. Perhaps our energy or intensity was similar, even though our physical appearance was not.

  What’s more, Bonnie encouraged me in my work, saying I was “unconsciously competent,” an expression she interpreted as a person who knows how to do the right things without being aware of her capabilities or without having been taught to do them. I thrived on and was amazed at her support. I had such a deep hunger to know who else I was. Bonnie seemed able to “see” all the parts of me like no other, and articulate what she observed in a sensitive and credible-to-me way.

  This job opened up a whole new life for me—the new life I had prayed for. And to think I almost decided to not even apply for it!

  Graduating from college the previous June (at age forty), I hadn’t wanted to begin working immediately. My four children, ages ten to sixteen, would be out of school for the summer, and although Grandma Seltz—close neighbor, dear friend, and babysitter extraordinaire—could hold down the fort, I wasn’t at all sure I was ready to take the plunge into a real job. While I hadn’t worked full time outside my home since our first child was born, I sensed that having to fulfill the obligations of a bona fide workplace position would inexorably change my priorities and require a difficult adjustment for all of us.

  The last two years of schoolwork to finish a bachelor’s degree had fit fairly well around my family’s needs. I was off summers and holidays. My class and study hours coincided with theirs, and I found I still had enough energy to manage the kids’ requirements and some of their requests, as well as the household chores. Only entertaining and tending friendships had suffered. But my husband, Charles, was more than content to socialize at the country club and, for me, friendships had always taken third place after my family and home duties were fulfilled.

  Compounding my concerns about attempting to enter the workforce, I was concerned that I hadn’t developed a strong skill set in any specific area to be able to compete for a position. The non-traditional degree I cobbled together with my student advisor had a concentration in Public Relations, but also included a smattering of marketing, literature, and a little journalism. I had confessed this fear to one of my professors, and his comment was, “No one is ever ready. You just have to take the leap.” But as a middle-aged woman who would probably be starting in an entry-level position, I felt great pressure to be successful.

  Nevertheless, during the last two weeks of my six-month internship at the University of Minnesota’s Public Relations’ office, my supervisor said I must apply for this great position at Methodist Hospital. She knew the perso
n hiring for the Public Relations staff writer position, and that it had been open for two months. They still hadn’t hired anyone. She thought I’d be perfect for the job, and she gave me an excellent reference. Public relations positions were hard to find, so it felt like the right thing to do. Maybe waiting ’til fall wouldn’t be wise. I’d lose the momentum I’d built up in school. And I was afraid of falling back into old patterns of being completely absorbed in my family’s needs, so much so, that I would lose myself again—I was even more fearful of that than applying for a job I felt under-qualified for.

  So, in the midst of studying for finals, preparing a graduation speech to address my University of Minnesota Class of 1980, and finishing a major article for the University Hospital’s newsletter, I talked to Charles about applying for the position at Methodist. He encouraged me and agreed that I should at least interview. To my amazement, from over two hundred applicants and thirty-plus interviews, I was hired to start June 30—just two weeks after graduation—as staff writer in the Public Relations Department at Methodist Hospital. The start date unfortunately precluded any summer vacation trip with the kids. Even so, I was elated—and terrified.

  And there, on the first day of my new job, I met Bonnie Zahn.

  There was something special about Bonnie. She was gregarious, articulate, vivacious, wise, and made anyone feel comfortable in her presence. I was fascinated by how perfectly she presented herself. From her stylish hairstyle, down to her polished shoes, she epitomized the classic “dressed for success” attractive woman executive. Professionally, her pioneer accomplishments over the past ten years in the Twin Cities had earned her the reputation as “Grand Dame of Hospital Education.” In her personal life, she read voraciously, had a deep faith, sang in a women’s chorus, and exercised regularly, even as she parented four children with her husband, Brian. Unknowingly, I was setting up Bonnie to be my role model, as I endeavored to reinvent or at least expand upon who I wanted to be in this next phase of my life.

  I’m certain I needed the deep level of support Bonnie offered me to offset the stress I was feeling. For I continued to, and wanted to, caretake my family as I always had, in spite of having ten fewer hours in the day to clean, wash, cook, shop, and carpool. My job became a respite where I could focus on only two or maybe three things at once, but my fear level about producing and sustaining acceptable work created a high level of anxiety. Despite these pressures, I was being singled out and rewarded for my efforts. The Monday newsletter exceeded circulation projections. My supervisor submitted the newsletter and a feature article I authored to a national trade association, and both won industry awards.

  But the greatest and most unforeseen benefit to working at Methodist was the quality of women friendships I was developing for the first time in my adult life. The camaraderie, laughter, attention, and admiration from my coworkers created a soft container in which I felt safe enough to continue taking risks in my work, and begin to appreciate and explore more of myself.

  Alone Together

  Without consciously comparing how I felt at work, and especially with Bonnie, I was becoming acutely aware of how unseen and alone I was in my marriage. This was not the first time I felt this way. Charles and I had struggled to reach a satisfactory level of communing for most of our married life.

  I met Charles when I was in my second year of nursing school in Chicago, just two days before he had to report to Army boot camp. Our courtship was a series of disappointments. My expectations, typical for that time, were to have a Doris Day-type romance come true: A tall, dark, and handsome, potentially successful man would think I was beautiful, fall madly in love with me, sweep me off my feet with kindness, respect, and caring, and beg me to marry him. In sharp contrast, a clipping Charles had taped to his Blue Ford coupe’s rear view mirror when we were dating reflected his expectations.

  “When I was one and twenty,

  I heard a wise man say

  Give ounces and pounds and guineas,

  But not your heart away.”

  A.E. Hausman, 1896

  Nevertheless, after a four-year, on-again-off-again long-distance relationship, we married in June 1962—against my parent’s wishes and, consequently, with no financial support from them for our wedding. I was twenty-two, and Charles was twenty-nine.

  “I can’t believe you’re going to go through with this.” Mother was exasperated that Charles showed up fifteen minutes late for our wedding.

  “He was so absorbed in the Kutztown Folk Festival, that he lost track of time,” I quickly added.

  “You’ve made excuses once too often for your not being important in his life. You’re making a terrible mistake.”

  “Mother, please let it go … at least today.” A wave of tiredness swept over me at having to manage her insecurities, as well as my own.

  They didn’t believe Charles loved me and, as I would be moving from Pennsylvania to Chicago to live, they were afraid of how I might be treated in the absence of nearby family. I felt that we needed to experience life together, for better or worse.

  Our first five years of marriage were jam-packed with thrill and momentum, created by new experiences. Three of our four children were born during this period. I eagerly and dutifully took on this full-time mothering role, ensuring our babies were well cared for and loved. We were involved in the fundamentalist Christian church Charles had grown up in—even singing hymn duets when asked during church services. Charles’s job, earning a master’s degree, and community commitments fully occupied his waking hours. And so, the foundation of our marriage roles was laid early on. The children, house management, and entertaining his family and our friends became solely mine, while Charles was our arm into the world, separately and autonomously developing his career.

  Despite my intense busyness, I began to recognize an emptiness in our relationship. I had thought conceiving and raising children together would create an emotional bond between us.

  “Could you stay home tonight?” I asked. “You’ve been gone nearly all week again.”

  “A four-room apartment is no place to be able to talk, let alone think. Besides, I’ve promised J.T. I’d beat him at a game of gin.”

  I hesitated, and then blurted out, “Charles, do you still love me?”

  Before he responded, I knew he’d say what he’d always said when I dared to ask where his loyalties were: “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

  Charles seemed to think that assuming the role of provider was sufficient involvement and contribution towards our relationship. We didn’t develop a true partnership, where we worked together. However, with each child’s birth, a renewal of my spirit resulted in a recommitment to give my best to nurture our growing family.

  Upon Charles’s graduation from Northwestern University in 1967, he accepted a position with Western Bank, and we moved from Chicago to a rental home in St. Paul, Minnesota. I soon discovered that the isolation from family, friends, our church, and even Charles—as he traveled extensively in his new job—the rigors of managing three children under four years old by myself, and my inability to understand that I could not keep giving without tending to my own needs propelled me into emotional turmoil.

  My subsequent depression and a short affair with a neighbor shook me to my core. I believed marriage and motherhood had deemed me whole and good, but this incident left me feeling deeply stained and sinful—a familiar feeling from my childhood. In a desperate attempt to relieve my self-disgust and now suicidal thoughts, and to determine how to manage my depression, I voluntarily decided to submit to psychotherapy—not a common practice in those days. Although my short-term therapy was somewhat helpful, this period could have been a time for Charles and me to deepen our understanding of each other. Instead, the affair and my responses to it were buried in silence, along with the rest of his and my needs. We didn’t speak of divorce, although he coldly distanced himself even more.

  In 1969, we relocated to Eagan, a suburb a few miles west of St. Paul, Minnesot
a. The diversion of building a new home and moving took precedence in our lives. I was energized by the opportunity for a fresh start in a brand new neighborhood, and a chance to redeem myself by proving to Charles that I was a good wife and mother. Marie’s arrival in 1970 should have been a clear statement that I had chosen to continue to invest myself in this family of four beautiful, healthy children. I prayed that Charles felt that way, too.

  However, when Charles’s salary reached a level where we could manage the expense, he eagerly joined the Minikahda Golf Club, and was absent from the family even more. To compensate for his inattentiveness, I continued to put my children’s needs first, leaving little time for building support for me outside our home.

  Awakening

  In 1976 at age thirty-six, I reached another emotional crisis point. It seemed related to cumulative years of resentment for being alone in our marriage and feeling unloved, disillusionment with my self-negating life and its lack of rewards, and a shift in my children’s dependence upon me. Over a two-year period, my companionship and close involvement with my three oldest kids (Michael, Lynn, and Andrew) was drastically reduced, as they one after the other entered their teen years and began the horrible—but essential—task of separation and individuation. Even little Marie began to withdraw. I didn’t understand why. Perhaps her intuition was guiding her to a safe place in preparation for changes she sensed in me.

  I clearly remember the day when, with all the children at school, I sat alone in our living room and cried out to God to help me change my life. In my journal, I wrote: