by Diane Rehm
Dialogue on Holiday Celebrations
DIANE: For me the last few years of holidays have been somewhat easier, simply by virtue of asking for more help. I cannot do it alone. That's true not only at Christmas but at Easter as well. We used to have a wonderful Easter party, with all of our friends here for brunch. I reached the point where I couldn't do it anymore. You and I have both written about our expectations of these holidays, and at this age I think we just have to let go of these expectations.
JOHN: I fully agree. We think it all has to be perfect, and when it doesn't turn out that way, we whip ourselves. I've learned from you the extent to which you've anticipated holidays like Christmas with some dread. Over time, we've identified a number of reasons for that. But most importantly, if I had had an early sense of that dread I think I might have behaved differently in anticipating holidays like Christmas. I think we would both have been less prone to set up these lofty goals, which almost ensure, by their ambition, that they won't be met.
DIANE: You know, it all starts with our wedding date, which was December 19. Now, how much closer to Christmas can you get? That puts yet another burden on us. I'm not in any way trying to discourage people from getting married around Christmas, because it's a very beautiful time of the year. But that simply has added to our sense of pressure to make the holiday season perfect.
JOHN: I think we've conjoined December 19 with December 25, and expected so much of each. The trick here is, on the one hand, to thoroughly enjoy the anticipation of these events, and at the same time to be far more realistic as to what they can provide.
DIANE: What you and I have finally learned to do is to scale back anticipations, what we can and will accomplish. For example, I used to spend weeks baking and getting everything ready, in addition to carrying on with my full-time job and trying to do all the shopping as well. What I've done in recent years is to take a few days off work before the holidays. I've managed to scale down the baking. You and I have done the shopping together; we've done things more as a team, rather than as in the old days, when all of the responsibility was mine.
JOHN: I'm amazed by the extent to which we didn't learn from past experience. I can recall a series of Christmases when you would have to go to bed on Christmas night. It almost became a family joke, although there was a good reason for you to go to bed: you were exhausted. We all clustered around the bed and watched movies like The Sound of Music or Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory. The thing that strikes me, as I look back, is how this pattern would continue, year after year. You'd think we'd have recognized the problem and done something about it, but we went on getting caught up in the power of these illusions. It's taken a long time to break that down, without forgoing the pleasure and the joy that do coexist.
DIANE: There were so many Christmases, Thanksgivings, and Easters when, no doubt as a result of that pressure, you and I got into huge arguments, not speaking for weeks and both unwilling to come back together until the day of the holiday itself. There was actually one Easter party we gave at which you didn't show up. It was awful.
JOHN: I guess if there are already tensions in a relationship and you pile a holiday on top of that, yes, it's going to exacerbate those tensions and also make the holiday more problematic.
DIANE: I think of our daughter and her husband. She was raised as an Episcopalian and he is Jewish. Now they need to reach a compromise as to how they'll celebrate the various holidays. When you and I were first married, you had no interest in religion. Your family had minimized the celebrations. When we went up to the farm that very first Christmas to spend our honeymoon there, I think for my sake your mother had decorated the house, and there were a few presents. But you all didn't do very much of that.
JOHN: Well, there was an exchange of gifts, and there was also a holiday dinner, which my parents prepared very well indeed. But if I were talking to a young couple, I would urge them to try to reveal, as much as possible, the darker side of each one's approach to holidays, and to recognize that the anxieties and sad memories are going to have an impact and should be taken into account. I tended to gloss over them, thinking that Christmas shouldn't entail sadness. But it does. A surprising number of people will say, if they're willing to answer the question honestly, “Christmas? I dread Christmas. It's a difficult time, and the best I can do is just to get through it.” Well, maybe we could have done better than just “get through it” if we had had a fuller understanding of each partner's true feelings about Christmas, including the sad memories.
DIANE: Perhaps not just the sad memories but also what experiences each grew up with and what each expects. Really talk it through. Going back to the beginning, we never shared our expectations or exchanged what we wanted it to be. I just went ahead and did it. You went along.
JOHN: In some ways, I think we're all victims of Martha Stewart— is that her name?—the Martha Stewart psychology, if I may put it this way. I was recently flipping through her magazine and all the gloriously glossy photographs of everything in perfect place, the colors, the fabrics, and all the rest. That just does a profound disservice to all those who are trying to celebrate holidays and enjoy other occasions. Let's start from a far more realistic base, with lesser expectations and greater cooperation, but fundamentally understand that any holiday is an imperfect occasion. It won't achieve perfection, and we don't have to beat ourselves up because it does not.
Illness
John
My parents' constitutions largely determined their antagonistic approach to illness—their own and mine. My father was ruggedly healthy. By his own admission, his experience with sickness was limited to a few headaches and stomachaches over his lifetime. He could eat and drink whatever he wanted, and he was unusually impervious to cold. He also had a high threshold of pain, enduring surgery on his shinbone on the strength of a single glass of calvados. My mother, on the other hand, suffered all her life from daily headaches, although she was organically sound. Some days the headaches were tolerable, while on other days they drove her into her bedroom, which had been made as dark and quiet as possible. In one of my earliest childhood memories, I'm placing a cold compress on her forehead. Elsewhere in the apartment in Paris, my father is regaling friends with oysters and white wine.
My father tended to view my mother as a hypochondriac. He did not believe that she was fabricating her headaches, but he couldn't accept their daily presence and offered little sympathy. Robust as he was, he viewed her complaints as exaggerated and self-indulgent. My mother, in turn, considered him intolerant and uncaring.
Out of her own experience, my mother was particularly sensitive to my boyhood illnesses. If I was able to go to school yet still felt a little sick, my mother didn't hesitate to keep me at home. Indeed, at times she would give me what she called “rest cures.” These would last for a day or so, and were more preventive than remedial—and quite enjoyable. I would spend most of the time in bed, dozing, reading, or listening to music on the radio. My mother would bring me a tray of favorite foods that I would consume sitting up in bed. My father didn't approve, fearing that I too would become a hypochondriac, but my mother had her way and the rest cures continued. In short, I have happy memories of being ill, and illness still connotes for me warmth and affection.
Diane's experience was unhappily all too different. When she became ill, she was treated in a manner that was tantamount in her mind to punishment. Her mother apparently believed that the best medicine for any sickness was the enema—which Diane hated. Her mother withheld sympathy, making Diane feel that she was somehow responsible for her illness. No wonder that she concealed her sicknesses in order to avoid such maternal abuse.
In our marriage, we have had to reconcile our different approaches to illness. At a time of sickness, I am more likely to listen to the body and give it sympathetic care at home. Diane, on the other hand, is more apt to override what the body is saying, and tough it out at work. When she does decide to stay in bed, I enjoy taking care of her. Her sic
kness creates an intimacy based on her need for me. I think it took some time for her to accept my sicknesses instead of dismissing them as unworthy of care. In short, I have retained my maternal model, while Diane has had to overcome hers.
In the summer of 1988, I suffered a pinched sciatic nerve, which brought on excruciating pain and prevented me from walking. My doctor recommended surgery, but I decided to lie in bed for four weeks, hoping that such prolonged rest would induce the body to heal itself. As a result, Diane became responsible for feeding me breakfast, lunch, and dinner in bed. Instead of returning at noon, she left me with a delicious cold lunch. Also, she asked our close friends to help out by occasionally bringing around dishes for me at lunch. Diane certainly had doubts— as I did—about the value of my regime (which failed and led to my agreeing to surgery, which turned out to be successful), but she was able to disengage herself from her childhood and care for me in a loving way.
Diane
I like to think of myself as a healthy person. Anyone looking at me would surely think I was one. I am slim. My skin color is good. I exercise. I do not smoke. I drink lots of water, eat a mixture of fresh foods, and take a few supplemental vitamins. So what has long troubled me is why I get ill as frequently as I do, and why, in some cases, my illnesses last as long as they do.
When I was a child, I tried at all costs to avoid the appearance of illness. I dreaded missing the pleasure of being with teachers and playing with friends at school. And I hated having to endure the sickness regime my mother imposed, which included lots of enemas, Milk of Magnesia, and other less than pleasant medications. The only things I looked forward to were the chance to lie in bed listening to the radio, and the delicious homemade chicken soup she made, with a sprinkle of cinnamon added. I can still smell the aroma.
Looking back on our marriage, I realize I've had a fair amount of illness, including various colds and viruses, pneumonia, stomach problems, headaches, backaches, and the aftermath of surgery. Along with those memories comes the realization that throughout it all, John has been there to care for me. I don't mean just checking in to see how I am, but caring for me in the fullest sense of the word.
I shall never forget how stunned we were when, in the early months of my first pregnancy, there were some signals that I might miscarry. My obstetrician didn't believe in using medications to save the pregnancy, such as diethylstilbestrol (DES), which later was found to cause testicular and ovarian cancers in the children of mothers who received the drug. Instead, he advised complete bed rest for at least ten days. At the time, we were living in a house in Georgetown belonging to John's aunt. So John made breakfast for me each day before he left for the State Department, then returned at noontime to prepare a nourishing lunch. After work, he made our dinner. I barely had to leave the bed. A healthy baby boy emerged, I believe, as a result of John's care.
John's experience of illness was so different from mine. His mother was especially attentive to him whenever he was sick. She read to him to encourage him to eat when he had no appetite, and spent time with him when he needed company. She allowed him to take what she called “rest cures,” when he could miss school to stay in bed for a slight cold. I think she really believed that the best way to cure illness in her son was to coddle him, and apparently it worked.
There came a time during the Second World War when she had to undergo an operation, while John's father was off in Europe. It was John who nursed her and cared for her during her recuperation. What John brought to our marriage was that very same approach, one I'll always be grateful for. He taught me that I needn't be afraid of illness or try to hide it, as I had done for so much of my life. In turn, he gave me the model by which I could care for our children, trying to be as comforting to them during their childhood illnesses and injuries as he was to me. Eventually I became more aware of my attitudes to illness and was able to put most of my fears behind me.
So, back to the question of why I get sick as frequently as I do. Perhaps, without my being consciously aware of it, illness has been a way for me to reach out and ask for help, for caring and kindness, when I perceived that things were difficult between John and me. Maybe the only way I “knew”—without knowing—how to connect with him was to get sick. I'm not suggesting that I took unnecessary risks or foolishly exposed myself to extreme temperatures or weather conditions. What I'm suggesting is that the well-being of the body can be vulnerable to the heart's needs. When I've felt an emotional void between us, perhaps my body has felt sufficiently wounded to respond with illness. It's remarkable to observe this interaction of mind and body, a connection I've long believed in.
Now I come to the issue of spasmodic dysphonia (SD), with which I was diagnosed several years ago. SD is a neurological disorder affecting the vocal cords, leading to excessive and inappropriate contractions of the cords when an individual tries to speak. My type is called adductor SD, and produces a cracked and broken voice.
For years I knew something was wrong with my voice. I would find myself choking or growing hoarse, unable to complete a sentence. I consulted many physicians and specialists, all in vain. I could hear the difficulty, and it was getting worse. I knew I couldn't keep going, and I took myself off the air.
I spent four months at home, sitting quietly, reading, meditating, and trying to stay away from the phone and all other vocal contact with people except for the therapists who helped me get through this period. Here I cannot say enough for John's support and caring. We discussed all the various possibilities, including my leaving the air, but he encouraged me each day not to give up, believing that ultimately there would be some answer to this mysterious ailment.
Finally, at the insistence of my internist, Dr. Carole Horn, I went to the Johns Hopkins University Medical Center. There, neurologist Stephen Reich and otolaryngologist Paul Flint concluded that I had SD. It was such a relief at last to know what was wrong with me and that something could be done. There is no known cause for SD. Neither is there a cure.
There are, however, various treatments, and I chose periodic injections of botulinum toxin (Botox), plus weekly acupuncture sessions and various medications prescribed by my physicians. When I have injections of Botox (every five to six months), I must be off the air for several days, waiting for the vocal cords to resume their normal vibration.
In a curious way, I believe illness is an area where John and I have strengthened the bond between us. Both of us have exhibited, without reservation, the greatest kindness, caring, and respect for each other when we are under the weather. When John is not feeling well, he usually asks for quiet in our darkened bedroom. He sleeps until he feels better, demanding very little, even in the way of food. When I am sick in bed, the more sunlight the better, and I'm always hungry. Even with those differences, we seem to have handled each other's attitude toward illness and the experience of it quite well.
“In sickness and in health,” goes that familiar phrase from the wedding vow. It is a promise that, despite all of our other problems, John and I have kept well.
Dialogue on Illness
JOHN: In approaching the issue of illness, I'm struck by a certain complementarity that you and I have brought to feelings about illness. In my case, based upon a happy experience of illness and the amount of caring my mother showed, I have positive feelings about illness. As you've explained in your essay, your feelings are different. In that sense, I was able to make up for, to remedy, what was a really dark and serious aspect of your childhood feeling about illness. I can recall the pleasure of being needed when you were sick, of being there to take care of you, and I still experience that pleasure.
DIANE: I can't tell you how much I've appreciated that over the years. But, because of our different backgrounds, I think there's not only been a reluctance on my part to accept my own illness but also, to a certain extent, an unwillingness to be sympathetic about your fragile stomach, for example. Your stomach has entered into our relationship a lot. There've been a number of social occasions
when you've said, “My stomach just doesn't feel well.” I haven't had much sympathy for that kind of mild infirmity. On the other hand, when your back went out and you had to have an operation, I was sympathetic.
JOHN: I think that's true. But one of the things I've had to contend with has been your reluctance not only to accept your body but also to listen to your body when it was saying, “I'm really stressed out. I've been overworking. My hours are too long.” Typically, your response has been, “Well, I'll tough it out. My body be damned. I will prevail.” Of course, you can't always prevail over your body. In turn, that's brought on darker feelings about your body in general.
DIANE: I think you're right. I do resist the feeling of sickness and the need to stay at home, given the kind of job I've had in the past twenty years. It's not easy to call in sick. If I had another kind of employment and was not expected to be at that microphone every day, perhaps I'd feel differently. I have resisted. I can remember one of my therapists telling me that he thought my body would just “shut down” and not be able to take it anymore. On the other hand, I've felt you've given in too easily when you've said to yourself, for example, “My stomach hurts so I'll stay home.” So I feel you give up too easily, and in contrast, you're impatient because you believe I go on too long.
JOHN: You go on too long, and then, instead of having a series of milder ailments, it reaches a point where you really get sick. I can just see you from time to time coming back from the office looking utterly drained, saying, “I'm just exhausted.” Then you'll go to bed and be sick for a day or two. Here I'm really criticizing myself, as well as you, because I've done the same thing. If you have a demanding job you enjoy, you really have to adopt a stoic attitude. But that attitude comes back to hurt you—and the relationship.