by Jane Weiss
“Janie, how could I have been so hellbent on my own stuff that I almost missed my daughter’s appendicitis? What kind of mother am I? I was so worried that I wouldn’t do well enough on some stupid final exam, and here Erin was going into a crisis. If she doesn’t come out of this okay, I’ll never forgive myself …” and on and on I went with the self-flagellations.
Jane listened silently, waiting for the emotion to quiet down. Then she answered, “You attended to her perfectly well and had her diagnosed correctly even before the doctor was certain. If you were feeling impatient inside, so be it. If you want to re-evaluate the emphasis you’re placing on school, that’s up to you, too. But I don’t know how helpful it is to beat yourself up, now.”
She was right, of course. It seemed this episode opened the gate for all the pent-up emotions I’d been holding around what I’d done to the kids, and especially to Erin. Being only four when I blew our family apart, she had little recollection of us as an intact unit. The major visible effect on her seemed to be a reluctance to separate from either her dad or me, even to stay overnight at a friend’s or her cousin’s. But what was I not seeing in her?
How about the other kids? What would I do if something happened to any one of them, and I was left with all the heartache and pain I knew I had brought?
Though by now I firmly believed that souls came together for a purpose or with covenants to fulfill, at times of crisis or major upset with the kids, I reviewed ad nauseum my relationship with Jane and my decision to live with her. Could I have stayed in the family? Should I have done anything differently? Fortunately for me, each review not only brought me back to affirming our relationship, but I arrived there with still greater resolve.
I loved Jane more than I ever dreamed possible, and I was happier than anyone had a right to be. This experience for this time was purposeful for me, and I had to believe it was also for the kids. I knew it would be years before the meanings for each of us could be known, if ever they could. And only a love this powerful could have jolted me out of my erstwhile existence and into the blessing of such a sacred relationship. Surely this enabled me to give to the kids from a wholeness I had never known, and surely this brought them strength to offset the heartache and pain—didn’t it? Please God, didn’t it?
At 7:30 p.m., less than an hour after Erin was wheeled away, the surgeon came into the waiting room with the news that her appendix—though hot and inflamed—had not ruptured, and was easily removed. She was doing well. The doctor advised us to go up to her room in pediatrics, where they would bring her within a half hour. I planned to spend the night with her there.
Brian, Jane, and I dutifully shuffled off to her room and, with the crisis nearly over, my thoughts snapped back to my own agenda and to the statistics exam I was scheduled to take at eight o’clock the next morning. I was sure the professor had heard every excuse in the book for students trying to get out of their midterms or finals, and I wondered how he’d react to, “My seven-year-old daughter had an emergency appendectomy.”
But somehow, I must have sounded shaken and/or credible enough, because he was not only understanding, but also most considerate about scheduling an alternate test date just for me. I was finally beginning to feel some relief at the end of this nightmarish day.
A nurse pulling a gurney entered the room, and there was our precious Erin, all curled up, forming a small white lump in the middle of the big, white-sheeted stretcher. When she was brought close enough to focus her eyes on our waiting entourage, she looked up at me and said in a sleepy, hoarse voice, “See, Mommy—I wasn’t just trying to stay home to bug you!”
My guilt escalated into high gear once again.
Another Letter
Almost from the time Jane and I first lived together, and over the next several years after we’d built our first home, I struggled mightily to manage my emotions around how Jane’s children, parents, and siblings treated her. I wanted to like them—even love them—but with each new event, I was coming closer to taking on what I saw as their behavior—hating the sinners as well as the sins.
Daily, I asked God to send me patience and guidance, to send them loving hearts, and to uplift and hold Jane through these travails. Early on, I kept telling myself that her family’s anger was normal and to be expected, though I thought it could have been expressed far more compassionately. I felt sure the mistreatment would wane when they missed their mother/daughter/sister enough, and when they realized it was serving no good purpose. I tried to be as supportive of Jane as possible, without escalating my own fears that she might need to go back to the family to find relief from the isolation they imposed.
I couldn’t understand, however, the family’s need to carry their anger on and on. Jane and I began having arguments about how she put up with their abusive talk, and how she tolerated their repeated setups for disappointment. “Jane, tell your mom that just because you’re her daughter, she has no right to demean and belittle you. When she’s in the middle of one of her abusive tirades, tell her that when she can treat you with dignity and respect, you’ll talk to her. Until then, there’s no reason for conversation. Then hang up the phone.”
“You don’t understand, Bonnie. My mother holds strong, rigid values of right and wrong. She sees the world in black and white, and I’ve acutely disappointed her. She feels justified trying to get me back on the straight and narrow path. If I told her what you’re suggesting, I’d probably never hear from her again.”
“Well, what’s the loss? Not hearing that you’re a bad wife and mother? Not spending days each week trying to pull yourself up out of the dark hole she leaves you in? Not letting her gloat to your children over repeating what she said to you? I don’t think I’d have trouble giving any of that up. If your mom hasn’t figured out by now that she can’t maintain control through intimidation and manipulation, it’s high time she learned. And just imagine how it would feel to make a stand for your own dignity and worth.”
I could see Jane struggling with the limits I was suggesting. She asked me to say them again so she could write them down. It was so foreign to claim her right to courteous, respectful treatment. The boundaries I was trying to get Jane to set were as logical to me as asking someone to stop hammering on your head when you had a headache. Why couldn’t she see that?
I was also getting weary of trying to pick Jane up after she was beaten down so often, and I was frustrated that I couldn’t seem to help her stand up for herself. I know my frustration showed, and it must have added even more weight to the burdens she was carrying.
Jane’s three oldest children were in college at this point—Michael in Wheaton, Illinois; Lynn in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania; and Andrew at the University of Minnesota in Minneapolis. Jane had been hopeful she’d see more of them once they were out from under Charles’s watchful eye, but not so.
According to the kids, Charles made them sign agreements that if they came to our house, he would no longer pay their college expenses. Whether that was actually the case, we didn’t know. But when the kids were in town during their college years, they insisted on meeting Jane only in restaurants or shopping malls. It was not unusual for them to allow her only one or two short visits over a two-week holiday period. By design, they never had time to get into meaningful conversation, so the uncomfortable equilibrium in their relationships just continued.
Sometimes, Andrew or Marie called and said they wanted to get together. Jane was instantly elated and rearranged all her plans around the agreed-upon time. She and I might even cancel out of a social evening to accommodate the request. But more often than not, and sometimes at nearly the appointed hour, the phone rang, and the plans changed. He/she wouldn’t be able to meet that day—maybe another one. And the process repeated itself. Jane’s hopes were dashed more times than I could count.
In my typical impatient approach, I lectured: “Jane, tell them you’re not falling for that again. You’re just not going to do it!”
“But when might I
ever see them if I don’t respond when they ask?”
“I don’t know. But do you know how it feels to me when you indulge their refusal to come to our house because I live there? It’s almost as if you’re agreeing they shouldn’t have to associate with me, like I’m a leper or something. Maybe you should establish two times a week when you’ll be home—say on Tuesday nights and Sunday afternoons. I may or may not be there. Then tell Andrew and Marie they can show up within those time frames whenever they please. But you won’t make special arrangements that they’ll just break at the last minute. You’ll have to come up with something else when Michael and Lynn are home from school.”
“I don’t know if I can do that, Bonnie. You have no idea what it’s like to not be able to set eyes on your beloved children—to touch them, hug them. I may have to put up with their restrictions for now, if I’m to see them at all. I can’t force them to resolve the issues between us on my time schedule.”
“But what are your chances of resolving anything in the minute quotas of conversation they allow you?” I asked, obviously highly frustrated with her passivity.
“Bonnie, I don’t know. I wish I did, but I don’t.”
Eventually, to release some of my pent-up frustration and anger, and hopefully to break the stalemate Jane’s family relationships had settled into, I decided—with her permission—to write a letter to her three older children, and to her mother and sister. I ended up writing ten handwritten pages, portions of which are excerpted below:
January 18, 1986
Dear Michael, Lynn, Andrew, Carol, and Mrs. Weiss;
Over the past four years, I’ve mentally written portions of this letter again and again. Each time, it brought some relief from the turbulent emotions I felt as I watched your interactions with Jane. And each time, I thought that would be the last time you’d need to hurt her—that you’d then be able to get on with the healing process. But that hasn’t been the case.
You’ve maintained the hurt, anger, and shame at Jane’s leaving Charles and choosing to live with me. While not seeking any more information about us, you’ve judged us based on your stereotypes, and supposedly your Christian beliefs. You’ve continued over all this time to hold on to the hurt all families experience when they first learn of a drastic change in their livingness. And you’ve nurtured the hurt into something bigger than life—something that provides rationale for all the future hurts you’re entitled to inflict …
Jane’s and my relationship and its unfolding is not yours to judge. If God chooses to judge us negatively, He will handle us in His way. But He has clearly admonished humankind to “Judge not, lest ye be judged.” I have never sorted out your logic of using the Bible to justify to yourselves that who we are is bad—yet disregarding other Biblical directives. It would be serving a higher purpose and would be more honest for you to say, “I can’t stand who you’ve become and what you do—therefore, I can’t extend myself or my love to you.”
You’ve systematically increased your neglect and denial of your mother/ daughter/sister over these last four years—from first “overlooking” Mother’s Day, to “forgetting” her birthday, to letting her build expectations and dashing her hopes time and again. And now, for the fourth straight year, to denying her a moment of your time at Christmas.
She has just as systematically turned back to each of you with forgiveness, with more love, with openness, and with honesty. Yet you continue making the next hurt worse than the last.
You may wish to know in some ways it’s worked as you’ve intended. Your cruelties have reduced her to abandoned despair on any number of occasions—and I’ve held her as she’s sobbed her eyes to dryness. But you’ve not changed her beautiful, loving nature because she’s found her peace, her God, her connectedness within. And with each of your assaults, you’ve strengthened her knowing and her reliance on God’s love within her even more.
The sadness in all of this is that these years are irretrievable. Though you’ve chosen to believe that the parent/child relationship is disposable, you’ll eventually come to the realization that you threw away the gift of love.
Jane’s mother—you’re alone now, probably more in need of family than ever before. Yet as you sit in judgment of us, you’d even choose to deny yourself one who’s been such a light and love in your life. But what shall be between you and your God will be your part in separating the Weiss children from their mother “in His name”—as you’ve become His self-designated emissary. Do you not trust that He also knows about Jane, and that He will deal with her as He sees fit? Why must you intervene? How will you justify to Jane’s children how it was your right to separate them from their mother?
It’s now over two weeks since I started this letter, and it’s passed the test of time. So I’ll finish it.
Jane’s mother—you’ve since called to apologize for your role in encouraging the kids to leave Jane out of their Christmas, for your role in “playing God.” That was a big thing to do, and an important one. I wonder if you’ll ever find it within you to apologize for telling her you wished she had cancer when you learned of her relationship with me.
Andrew—you’re the confusing one in all these Christmas happenings … You, who included Jane and even me in the events that were important to you. Was it too difficult to object to the decision-making the family was doing? Or do we see one side of you when you’re in the family group, and a totally different side when you’re making decisions for yourself? Do you know how much it meant to your mom when you insisted she come to your graduation open house? Where did your love go this Christmas, Andrew?
Lynn—you said you wished your dad hadn’t put you in the position of saying you couldn’t go to your mom’s house. But your dad told Jane he was only providing a convenient way out for you kids because you didn’t want to come to her house. Where is the truth? When do you make your own decisions, rather than giving them to (or blaming them on) Michael and your dad? Your father’s disapproval doesn’t seem to have affected your continuing relationship with your boyfriend, Ted. Why has it affected your relationship with your mother, unless you’re in agreement with him?
Michael—you’re the hardest to speak to because you’ve resisted even looking for resolution the loudest and longest. How much you must need your mother—so much so, that you’ve acted out your rage by orchestrating family times over these last four years to exclude her. I know you feel you’re full of wisdom, but how will it feel years from now to carry the responsibility for having led your younger siblings in your personal vendetta against your mother? Marie was only eleven when you began discrediting Jane. Does it please you that she’s passing through adolescence without motherly guidance? How will you handle her awakening to the years she was deprived—not through Jane’s doing, but based on the family judgments of her mother?
Carol—you who have been in our home and we in yours; you with whom we’ve shared dinners and deep communing. What have your agendas been with Jane? To replace her as mother to Lynn? To replace her as fair-haired daughter to your mother? Why won’t you simply love her as a cherished sister? Has it been worth it to deprive yourself of her these last several years? Can you not see the hoax your mother and you have perpetrated on each other to keep yourselves aligned against Jane? Which of you will call the game?
I hope that each of you will once again come to treasure the wondrous soul you’ve cast away as not worthy of your time and love. She is, perhaps, more worthy than us all.
- Bonnie
As expected, I received no response to my letter from anyone, though I’m sure there must have been much conversation about it (and me) within the family group.
The Other Shoe Drops
Erin’s appendicitis was only the first family crisis that year. Within a few short months of her episode, a turning point with Moria changed our family relationships for the long term.
The MHA program and my employment tied up over seventy hours a week in classes, library study, or work at the Unive
rsity and Methodist Hospital. Throughout the two-year program, I continued working at Methodist ten hours a week as assistant to the chief operating officer. I also worked ten to fifteen hours a week as assistant to a professor in the program, as my scholarship stipulated. I spent what little savings I had squirreled away from the sale of the Minneapolis house to support the kids and myself through this period. Jane was my saving grace as I dived into these waters that quickly rose up, not just to my neck, but also over my snorkel!
In the little time I was home and not sleeping, I made every effort to spend time with Jane and the kids, and to attend the kids’ special functions—soccer games for Edward and Moria, and chorus concerts and piano lessons and recitals for Erin. But I simply couldn’t be all the places and do all the things three children wanted and expected, and I was certainly not being a good partner to Jane. In fact, I felt woefully inadequate in most realms of my life during this stint in graduate school.
Having resigned from my full-time job, however, I couldn’t turn back, and didn’t have the energy to figure out other options. I knew I needed a ticket to a different line of work if I was to find job satisfaction again. I thought that somehow we’d get through these two years, and then everyone would see that the sacrifices had been worthwhile—or so I prayed.
By March, I dreaded the end of second quarter. I still had two papers to write, and volumes to read before final exams that were only two weeks away. While I was studying in the MHA student lounge, someone answered the phone and said it was for me. Thinking that one of my work schedules had changed, I grabbed a pencil and my daily planner before reaching for the phone. Within seconds of my “Hello,” however, I knew I was in for more than a work schedule change. Sixteen-year-old Moria was on the phone, nearly hysterical.