by Diane Rehm
DIANE: How does it affect the relationship?
JOHN: At times I've had a feeling of more than irritation that you weren't handling your body well, that you were operating at the margin and then allowing your body to collapse. I feel I've been abused in the process, because you're thinking of yourself and your job and the need for you to be at the office. But I have to deal with the aftermath, when I'm supposed to be there to take care of you.
DIANE: I accept that. I think you're raising a good point. We've been dealing in the last few years with a number of debilitating processes that have gone on within my body. I think I'm improving. At the same time, you haven't responded to my worry about what I would term your excessive self-concern, such as your reaction to a stomachache, when others might say, “Well, OK, I have a stomachache, but I'll keep going.” For me, the opposite is quite true, which is why I've gotten impatient and seen our relationship affected. I don't like it when you pull out at the last minute on a social event.
JOHN: I don't think I do that very often, but let me make two points. First, there have certainly been times when I've used not feeling well as an excuse to get out of a social occasion. Second, I don't buy this notion that the slightest stomachache sends me to bed. I won't belabor this, but for long periods, I went to the office day after day with a stomach more or less upset. So I've had to contend with that, and for the most part I think I've done fairly well.
DIANE: I wonder about other couples and the extent to which illness becomes a focus, if not the focus, of their relationship. There've been times over these past forty-two years when illness has become a central issue within our relationship and, when serious, has actually brought us closer together.
JOHN: Yes. When you and I have been estranged, illness has come along as a kind of boon to the relationship, and has allowed us to come back together. I do think there's a tendency to treat sickness as “my problem—I'll deal with it my way,” and not recognize it as something that invariably impinges upon the relationship and can do so quite seriously. I'm not talking about a life-threatening illness but the day-to-day illnesses. They're not the business of just one spouse but of the other as well.
DIANE: And you go back to the marriage vows, “in sickness and in health.” I have wondered, from time to time, whether my frustration with you over your separation and isolation has, in fact, worked psychologically to make me ill, knowing full well that you would be there to help me.
JOHN: So it was perhaps a device used to overcome separation?
DIANE: I wouldn't use the word “device,” but I think I may have been emotionally wounded to such an extent that I might give in to sickness as opposed to taking care of myself. I would be hoping that you would be there.
JOHN: And in my case, I've enjoyed your being sick and the opportunity for me to assist you in that cozy place where we could shut out the rest of the world and you're just “my Diane.”
Food
John
Food comes in many guises. It can be nutritious, harmful, soothing, belligerent, sympathetic, and unforgiving. Each of us has a unique approach to food, dating back to childhood. Sooner or later what may seem to be a neutral factor in a marriage will become an issue.
Diane and I each brought to our marriage what is loosely called a “nervous stomach,” together with a history of trying to disregard a sensitivity to certain foods. I learned this about Diane early in our courtship. Each morning she would regularly skip breakfast, have a coffee upon arrival at the State Department, and then suffer stomach pains before lunch. I suggested to her that she might avoid such pains if she had a bite to eat before drinking the coffee. I recall being both sympathetic and annoyed with her. During law school, I suffered from an irritated duodenum, which left my stomach intolerant of all but bland foods. I knew how a chronic stomachache could distort your outlook on life. At the same time, I was aghast that an intelligent adult could so willfully and repeatedly harm herself. Surely she must have known that coffee is hard on an empty stomach.
Diane and I both understand and accept admonitions like “Listen to your body,” “Be good to your stomach,” and “Avoid those foods you know will upset you.” For the most part, our diet is wholesome and nutritious and we happily don't suffer from obesity or any other food-related affliction. We're happy that, in this regard, our children have followed in our footsteps. The fact remains, however, that food is problematic for me. At times it's the source of hypocritical and even divisive behavior. I am drawn, in particular, to several kinds of food that I know will upset my stomach and lower my spirits. These include dairy products like ice cream, and chocolate-based foods. If I consume any of these at dinner, I will wake up the next morning with a malaise that can last much of the day.
What is so striking—and self-destructive—is that even while I'm eating such foods, I am aware that they'll disagree with me. Sometimes I try to convince myself that just this once I'll escape the nasty aftereffects. But deep down I know that I'm engaging in deliberate and destructive behavior. Diane is convinced that I'm allergic to chocolate in particular, and that it darkens my mood and thus harms our relationship.
My efforts to pacify my stomach can also prove troubling. My diet is quite limited, consisting mostly of fresh vegetables and fruits, fish, and occasionally chicken. As a result, I don't eat a number of foods that Diane is fond of, particularly meats such as steak or lamb chops. This is a source of disappointment and, at times, annoyance for Diane, because she misses the conviviality of a shared dish. Moreover, I think that she harbors the suspicion —echoing perhaps my father's—that I am excessively indulgent of my stomach.
As for Diane, her gastric downfall lies in what she aptly calls “junk food,” like the deep-fried chicken available at carryout shops. The sudden craving for such food will descend on her at least twice a year and she'll yield to temptation in full knowledge of its ill effects. Although it may have been hypocritical of me, I used to try to reason with her using a syllogism like the following:
Junk foods upset your stomach.
Deep-fried chicken is a junk food.
Ergo, deep-fried chicken will upset your stomach.
Given such indisputable logic, I suggested that Diane had no rational choice but to forgo the deep-fried chicken. Of course, she made the irrational choice. So much for syllogisms.
Even alcohol has created difficulties between us, given our respective sensitivities. It has been some years since Diane and I had a vodka or Scotch before dinner. Nowadays she will have a glass of champagne before dinner, and another with dinner, while I will have just a small glass of white wine with dinner. I know that many couples sit down together to enjoy a glass of wine before dinner, and regret that my limited consumption of alcohol may dampen the festive atmosphere that goes along with the anticipation of dinner together.
Diane
You would think that talking or writing about food would be one of the easier exercises, because eating is one of the world's great pleasures. But when the subject of food is combined with the subject of marriage, the conversation changes radically.
When John and I first began to date, we shared an appreciation for good food—and drink, I might add. At first we went to many restaurants, enjoying everything, including fresh fish, good steak, a delicate quenelle, or a savory pizza. We experimented with new restaurants, tasting and sharing, talking and drinking. John was far more adventurous than I, since he'd been exposed to a greater range of foods.
Shortly after we met, his aunt loaned him her home in Georgetown, complete with a full kitchen. That's when we began to cook together.
John was quite comfortable in the kitchen, in part, I believe, because his father enjoyed cooking and creating new dishes. My own efforts in preparing meals for myself consisted of little more than spooning out cottage cheese with canned fruit and boiling or scrambling eggs.
John introduced me to foods I'd never tasted, such as artichokes, oysters, clams, pomegranates, and veal kidneys. We delighted in t
rying new recipes together, and eagerly awaited Craig Claiborne's Sunday New York Times Magazine food column. We broiled, braised, stewed, and fried. And all the while John was right there beside me, chopping, paring, and slicing, enjoying the aromas and anticipating a good meal. I was happy to cook and to taste anything and everything. Ultimately, I became a fairly accomplished cook, making breads, pies, cakes, as well as a variety of sophisticated dishes. We had many dinner parties during those early years, and guests were always quite complimentary.
A few years into our marriage, John began complaining of stomach problems, saying he believed that certain foods didn't agree with him. When his problems first began (in law school, he tells me), he tried some medications, but they apparently did little to ease the discomfort. Actually, both of us had various stomach problems that came and went, but I paid less attention to my own, even though I knew I should. I loved the taste of food too much to sacrifice the pleasure in order to avoid the pain. But John felt differently. As a result, little by little he began to cut down on the kinds of foods he would eat. Alcohol consumption was eliminated almost entirely, as well as what I consider the “fun” foods like fried chicken and pizza. No longer was there a willingness to experiment with new recipes. Rather, he came to rely on a narrow stable of favorites, foods he felt were less irritating to his system.
At first, when John began to develop his new approach to food, I found myself both sad and resentful. In my sensitivity, it seemed as though eliminating the shared foods was one more way for John to express his separateness, his lack of interest in being totally “in” the marriage. I had seen food as one of the basic elements of life that we could share. Now I saw food as symbolic of many of the problems we were experiencing. I felt that the food I prepared and offered was being rejected, and it felt like a rejection of me. I also found myself somewhat embarrassed, when we were invited out for dinner, by his abstemious manner of eating, and his refusal, most of the time, to accept even a small glass of wine. When we went to dinner at the home of good friends, he would sometimes take his own dinner along and eat a meal totally different from what everyone else was being served. For a long time, that got to me.
These days, while we continue to prepare the evening meal together, it's apt to consist of two entirely different offerings, one for him, which he prepares, and one for me, which I prepare. In other words, though we do sit down at the dinner table together, we tend to eat quite different foods. So food, one of the joys we shared early on, has become less of a shared experience and more a question of what pleases each of us individually.
Slowly, perhaps as individual experiences with food allergies have become more widely understood, I realize that John is not alone in his keen attention to diet. Increasingly, others have voiced the same kinds of problems, and may even go so far as to alert a hostess that there is a particular difficulty. Though I'm saddened by the thought that we can't enjoy the range and variety of foods that we once did, I've come to accept the fact that this is John's problem and he is taking care of it in the best way he knows how. And his careful attention to diet has made me more aware of, and more conscientious about, my own. My own stomach problems have been around for years and years, but I haven't cared to pay the kind of attention to them that John has. Now, thanks to John, that has changed, and I too am becoming a less foolhardy consumer of food.
Dialogue on Food
JOHN: Somewhat surprisingly, I still find the activity of preparing food and dining with members of the family to be very important. But memories of one's own childhood—you and I have had debates about whose rice pudding is better, my mother's or yours—bring an emotional undercurrent to the act of preparing and eating food.
DIANE: You and I never anticipated that there was going to be that kind of distress, if I can put it that way, with food. When we first began to date, we had such fun cooking. You introduced me to so many things, and you liked to cook. And I loved to be in the kitchen. As time went on and I began to learn to cook, some of the foods agreed with you and some didn't.
JOHN: Yes, I did change, though I'm not clear why. You've thought it had to do with my father's death. When it came to food, I shifted from my paternal model to my maternal model. My father was quite a creative amateur chef, my mother constantly preoccupied with a delicate stomach, serving healthy, simple meals, with few sauces. At some point, perhaps after my father's death, I began to emulate my mother's mores. That began to change the way you and I ate.
DIANE: The issue of just having a drink before dinner! You and I used to have martinis, as I recall—
JOHN: —or, in my case, Scotch and water—
DIANE: —and it used to be such a relaxing moment for both of us. The day would ease away. Remember, for Christmases we used to take all kinds of wines up to the farm for your father to sample. My point being that up until the time he died, we used to enjoy a drink together, or a glass of wine. Then you gave up the wine and turned to mineral water. I think that began your pattern of changing your foods, eating more lightly, your mother's mode rather than your father's. Whereas my foods, healthy or unhealthy as they may be, are more wide-ranging than yours.
JOHN: I want to come at this from a different angle, namely, that meals became a time to pursue parental and familial issues. I can remember that my mother and father would choose mealtime to air some of their problems and grievances. I would sit there, largely silent, having to endure what could be at times sharp disagreements while I was trying to eat. So for me, eating has always been somewhat problematical. In our family, Diane, we made a decision, which was to use breakfast —when we could all get together—to discuss controversial issues. That made for some fairly tense breakfasts, and my stomach wasn't happy about that. So there's a degree of concern that I bring to the table and the otherwise lovely ritual of dining. I've often wondered whether that's true of others, namely, using meals as a battleground.
DIANE: By contrast, for you and me the time of food preparation has been a time when we've experienced some of our closest moments. I can think of standing there in the kitchen with you, week after week, chopping vegetables for soup. We've had the same kind of fun working together outdoors in our beautiful garden.
JOHN: I agree, and I'd even use the word “therapeutic.” I've always felt that these simple actions are particularly satisfying, because you can take carrots, turnips, and celery, and turn them into a simple but delicious meal. So the preparation is just as important as the consumption. Or you can plant a rosebush and watch it grow over the years.
DIANE: You and I have reached a point where we basically eat separate foods. We sit down together every night that we don't go out, but we're eating separate foods. You've chosen yours and I've chosen mine. But increasingly I find myself moving toward your way of eating.
JOHN: Now that has really surprised me. For years you were the one who wanted the rich roasts, the steaks, the lamb chops, and I, for a number of reasons, became less interested in meat and more drawn to fish and vegetables. But somewhat to my surprise, you've come around to my diet, and I have to confess, in a paradoxical way, it makes me a little sad. Not that I would've gone back to eating those rich dishes, but I hated to see you give up things like that marvelous veal kidney stew my father used to make. So we gain and we lose, but we move forward.
DIANE: But forty-two years together means that food has become an important and integral part of the marital structure.
JOHN: I think food is equivocal in that respect. It can help strengthen the marital relationship, but it can also work to weaken it. I think at times when you and I have been at odds over the issue of food and diet, it's been weakened. In recent years, it's been strengthened.
DIANE: Why do you think you and I were at odds over food?
JOHN: I don't have a clear answer, but I would guess that, unconsciously, food was another occasion or pretext for manifesting, if not resolving, our differences. It did become, to a certain extent, a battleground between us.
DIANE:
Do you think that most couples think about food in those terms?
JOHN: Well, that's my thesis, that most people don't think about it, but in fact are caught up in strong feelings, going way back into the past and continuing into the present. And their diffi- culties and grievances find their way into the cuisine.
DIANE: I don't think most people regard food as part of the whole mix of the relationship, yet it's such an integral part.
JOHN: Of the many illusions that each of us carries about our relationships, one is that eating is a time of pleasure and relative neutrality, and that people sit down peaceably. But the point I'm making is that inevitably, as you just suggested, these difficulties and problems do affect the ritualistic experience of eating three times a day.
DIANE: So I brought to my relationship with you a childhood memory of sitting down and eating pretty much alone. I don't remember, except for special holidays, sitting down and having a meal with my entire family. Perhaps that's why I made such a point of wanting to have all of us together for meals. At first it was only breakfast, but later on it was dinner as well, because you could be at home. Dinners then became a time for airing grievances and tensions.
JOHN: There've been times when you or I have abruptly left the dining table—although not so often when the kids were present. For a couple there are few overt gestures as alienating as getting up from the table and saying, “I don't want to eat with you. I'm going upstairs or into the library to eat by myself.” That's a heavy blow.