First to go were the bed pillows—an easy way to eliminate something we had shared. I quickly disposed of them and bought new ones. I thoroughly washed all of our bedding and sent our king-size down comforter to the dry cleaner. I purchased new bed linens and towels. I had erased his smell from my bedroom. Feeling quite smug and savoring the movement and sense of accomplishment, I removed all pictures of the two of us from their frames and tore them to shreds. He was done? Well, so was I.
With the help of physically strong friends, I hauled the last of his furniture into the garage. Awaiting pickup were the very few items he had contributed to our marital home. With that, I moved another reminder of our shared life out of my direct sight as I continued my effort to make sense of the situation in which I found myself. I gave a display cabinet he had wanted for a birthday to a neighbor. I cleaned and sorted shelves, tools, and debris in the garage. I presented to another neighbor the brand-new table saw and stand that my husband had coveted and I had purchased. I donated gloves, sprinkler valves, and a spreader to the man who mowed my lawn. I sold all metal of value.
Room by room, drawer by drawer, closet by closet, I whisked away memories and reminders of an old life. I shredded boxes of cards from him and letters he had written to me. I collected his toiletries and threw them away. When I opened his nightstand, I was confronted with the adult toys we had accumulated. I ignored my typical sense of environmental responsibility, removed the batteries from each—after all, I did live in a hurricane area, where extra batteries were always needed—and put the items directly into the trash. I sorted through my jewelry box and removed for sale pieces of jewelry he had given me. Oddly, I lacked the emotional strength to face the prospect of selling those objects on my own. I needed support from Robbie, on her next visit, to go to the jeweler, initiate conversation about the need to sell the items, and help me to complete that process.
Several times, I sorted my own clothing. On their way to the women’s shelter were things I had bought specifically with him in mind. I discarded all textures and colors he enjoyed, as well as lingerie he had purchased for me. In one instance, I found myself with scissors in hand, destroying a beautiful silk nightgown he had given me just weeks before he left. I stuffed it into one of his dresser drawers for him to discover when he picked up the last of his things—proof, once again, that I must indeed be mean. I sold to a friend the lovely artificial Christmas tree we had purchased together our first year in our new home and acquired a new tree. There would be no reminders of the time I had lost to him.
The purging process remained ongoing—a continuous cycle of cleaning, sorting, shredding, and donating. I went drawer by drawer, item by item, eliminating every trace of the life he had left behind and the memories we had shared. I even emptied the refrigerator and pantry of staples, as most items had reached their expiration date. Each time I removed something, I experienced a brief respite from my pain. However, I was still unable to eat or sleep, as I continued my efforts to wrap my brain around the fact that my marriage was over and search for closure. I knew full well that without communication, I would receive no answers. How easy for him just to walk away. How cowardly to terminate, with no backward glance, the life we had shared, turning over to me all responsibility for cleaning up his mess. I was the one left to explain things to family and friends, to change memberships from family to individual, to cancel his subscription to the newspaper, and to handle all the other minute details required to end a marriage.
With every sweep through my house—every scrap of paper shredded, item donated, maintenance issue resolved—I gained greater clarity. I realized that the divorce would result in only a financial loss for him, while my loss would be emotional and far more painful. Each step left me drained but determined to regain normalcy and routine. I would continue to have fresh flowers and wine in my home, friends and family surrounding me, and a welcoming and inviting atmosphere for all who entered. Later, I would learn from therapy the phrase “mindless but meaningful,” and the importance of focusing energy on even the smallest of accomplishments. But for now, I knew only that I was busy, felt productive, and relished even the most fleeting moments when I felt as if I had some control in my life.
Although I was scarcely capable of focusing, was unable to read a magazine article, and could not even consider a book, I was grateful for the many modern-day miracles that came my way each day. There were the lyrics of a song that inspired me. The mantras friends provided to aid in my survival. Each morning, a text reminding me to “find the good in today” would greet me. As I focused on that one little reminder, the beauty that remained all around me momentarily replaced the pain that persisted within. My older daughter shared a quote—“You have everything it takes, but it will take everything you have”—that I copied onto a large whiteboard and placed against my bathroom mirror. Each time I passed by, it helped to motivate me to keep going forward. It was anonymous and easy to remember, and fit my situation perfectly. So many times, I found myself internally repeating the words, which kept me inspired to accomplish whatever task was at hand.
There were cards that arrived in the mail, and the everpresent and always beloved tulips. With a change of perspective, I found myself viewing even my favorite flower differently. I watched them rise, bend, and stretch toward the light, searching for all the life that was available. They had a resilience and desire to thrive. Even when cut and without a food source, they continued to grow and reach for the sun—for hope. They would linger and hold on, despite the odds. Tightly closed when I first brought them into the house and placed them in a vase, tulips would open their petals to new life, new potential, a new adaptation—much as I knew I myself must learn to do.
I found myself working hard to restructure my thinking. Life as I had known it was over. Having never been one for television, I began watching Downton Abbey and the new show Madam Secretary, simply to connect with others who watched. Surprisingly, I found them quite entertaining and enjoyable as I began to heal and became caught up in both.
During the first holiday season, my loss felt crippling, my world empty, and tears rolled down my cheeks as I dug out cherished ornaments and set about celebrating on my own. However, I continued to embrace the love of family and friends. I hosted tree-trimming and cocktail parties at Christmas, as I had always done and which I greatly enjoyed. I purchased cards and wrote lengthy personal notes of thanks inside for service members. I even spent a long weekend in New York with Robbie that very first holiday season alone. I experienced moments of pure and unexpected joy as I watched snow fall on the tree in Rockefeller Center, viewed the Rockettes’ holiday performance, and Christmas-shopped in the Big Apple. I made sure that Santa left presents for me under the tree and was brought to tears by the generosity of my children and Robbie, who offered piles of thoughtful and humorous gifts for me to open as well. He was not going to take my love of Christmas away from me. He had taken enough.
I purchased a new tablet, and because technology always made me feel awkward and inept, for too long I found myself using it only for email and online searches. I struggled repeatedly, until I finally reached out for help. I could conquer this. Calling first upon a high school–age neighbor, I gained some control over my new machine. Soon, however, there was a Windows 10 update and I was back to square one. I went to Amazon, ordered the Dummies version for seniors, and walked myself through the training. Amazingly, I gained the upper hand and was rewarded with a huge sense of accomplishment.
Instinctively, I became aware of a sense of the need for more options as I continued to experience the changes occurring in my world. Driven by something more powerful than I, I sought advice from the realtor who had assisted us in the purchase of our house. We had become friends, and she generously worked up a market analysis on my home and plugged me into a search engine of locally available properties in my price range. Concurrently, I connected with a realtor closer to my daughters who did the same thing. Still feeling powerless and frozen in plac
e, I knew movement was required and options needed to be weighed. The home I had created was my only refuge and provided the motivation and soothing inspiration I desperately sought. Yet, given his totally unexpected change in behavior and commitment, I began to realize he might force me to leave. I was certainly not prepared for or ready to make an immediate move, but I did know that it was important that I have choices.
I had no income. While I had offered to return to teaching upon our arrival, I had been out of the profession for five years. I had no connections and no marketability, and I was sixty years old. I had retired to accompany him to this new location and was not eager to jump back into the workplace without careful consideration of what my options might be. Change was likely imminent, and I would not be in control of the timing of that change—regardless of how strong or how weak I might feel. I promised myself that while I might lose it all, I would not go down without a fight. Mechanically, I moved through the motions of searching for another place to live. Fortunately for me, I had a long-distance friend, MaryAnn, who had just retired. She could offer support to me on speakerphone as I circled, zeroing in aimlessly on listings, while confused tears rolled down my cheeks.
I learned to present the facts and information of my life and my circumstances in terms others could understand. I explained that my husband had grown tired of married life and that he had walked away. His sudden change of heart surprised them, too. I accomplished the renegotiation of my cable and gas bills, regained control of my bank accounts, and adjusted and adhered to the budget that the forensic CPA who had represented me had created. I refinanced my home—a result of mediation—to secure a more comfortable payment.
As the process moved forward, I found myself guiltily enjoying two pleasures in my life. I smiled each time I bought a new throw pillow because I was acquiring something that I had always enjoyed and he had always scorned. Equally pleasurable was each lingerie purchase. I had always been a sucker for pajamas and panties, and, as he had enjoyed them on me, money had never been an issue for those items. My acquisitions now often came from the sale rack of overstock stores, rather than from the exclusive boutiques where I had shopped before. They now sometimes included synthetic fabrics, instead of exclusively silk. Still, I savored the knowledge that he would no longer delight in seeing me in such items. That pleasure belonged, once again, only to me. Ultimately, an oversize T-shirt I had purchased for my father to humor him through his rehab became one of my favorite sleeping choices.
Memory by memory, closet by closet, and room by room, I continued. Soon, I realized that my friendship garden needed to be purged as well. While I had always thought myself cautious in selecting those to have around me, my garden was long overdue for weeding. I had no strength or desire for betrayal or negativity. I required optimism and sincerity now more than ever. I needed to yank out and discard wilting specimens in the forefront. I needed to move some from the periphery to a place of better light and visibility, where they could flourish and grow.
I gave a few, which had languished from neglect, the proper attention, and those became some of the strongest and most beautiful treasures of all. My old friend Mary-Ann returned to my life in a more active role. We had graduated from the same college, taught at the same school, and kept in touch with letters and visits over the years as I’d found myself moving from state to state. When she learned of my situation, she made arrangements to fly from Chicago for a visit. Although she had family members who required her care and could stay only a week, she provided crucial support, inspiration, and strength, which continued and increased over time. The rekindling of old and the nurturing of fledgling relationships were some of the hidden benefits of this most painful process, as new connections developed into admired and trusted friends.
Each day—each moment—I struggled not just to replace old pillows and pictures with new, but also to replace my old life with a new, recognizable, and enhanced version of what I had come to know. My life had become similar in feeling to the hurricane-prone area in which I lived. I had been left to sweep away the debris and rebuild in the aftermath of the devastating storm and destruction of my marriage. I needed to resurrect what loss had devastated. I hoped one day I would reach a point where new was better than what I had known. A day when pain and grief would be left behind, and growth and healing would take their place.
As I continued to peel away layer after layer, I found myself changing and metamorphosing, moving toward my new normal. I didn’t know where the road led or how I would realize when I had reached my destination. I was on the most difficult and unexpected journey of my life, without a compass or a map. I was unsure whether I would have the fortitude to continue moving forward—even with the support I was receiving. I did, however, know that I could never go back and was beginning to understand that it would not benefit me even if I could. I had no choice but to persevere, for I knew I could not give up.
CHAPTER FOUR
Just Because He Says It Doesn’t Mean It’s True
“The greatest act of faith some days is to simply get up and face another day.”
—AMY GATLIFF, THE POWER TO NEVER GIVE UP
ONE OF THE MOST URGENT AND DIFFICULT STEPS in my grieving process was finding a qualified therapist with whom I would feel comfortable and whose services, with luck, health insurance would mostly cover. Although I had sought professional advice throughout tumultuous or stressful times during and after my first marriage and had even talked with a therapist before my second marriage, in hopes of making it even more certain of success, I knew that this time it was imperative that I find a “perfect fit.” Yet people made to feel as shameful as I are sometimes reluctant to initiate conversation or question others regarding professional help of that sort. Often, information on the Internet is outdated and unreliable. There is always the emergency number on the back of one’s health insurance card, if all else fails. However, my pain felt too intense, too immense, and too overwhelming to leave it up to that kind of free-for-five-sessions number.
My insurance website offered a starting point where I could search for family therapists in my area. I knew I wanted to speak only to a woman about my situation, so I immediately ruled out all male therapists. Experience was vital, so I next looked for someone with extensive years in the profession, someone in my own age range. Board certification was equally imperative, so I narrowed the field yet again. Location was also important, as I preferred not to have a long drive each way, especially at the beginning, when “fragile” didn’t begin to describe my mental or emotional state. Grieving is a long process, especially in cases when there is no communication, clarification, or understanding of how a situation developed.
I made a list of several women I thought might be good candidates and cross-referenced them online. I searched for discrepancies in reviews, as well as client remarks, updates, and satisfaction ratings. It felt much like finding an attorney by watching accident commercials on television. If I had it to do again, I would pray for the strength to talk to trusted friends and get personal recommendations. I would ask for the courage to share the unspeakable anguish his words conveyed to me, and the horrific shame they caused me to feel. I would express the heartache and desolation I experienced in believing that I had destroyed my seemingly perfect life. I had shared those feelings only with Robbie and my daughters, and, without living in my location, they could suggest no professional support. Yet, finally, I found the name of the person I knew was right for me: a woman my age with a great deal of experience in such matters. Now, all I had to do was call her, set up the appointment, and then actually force myself to go.
While conducting the research took several days, making the phone call was even harder and took an equal amount of time. I finally summoned my courage and made the call, only to reach her voice mail. I later discovered it was often the case to initially reach only voice mail with family therapists who take their own calls and are routinely in session. When the return call came, from a very kind and pati
ent receptionist, I discovered the therapist’s next available appointment was three weeks away—another unsurprising event with a sought-after professional. But I was in despair. How could I survive until the available date? I would have to busy myself with routine chores, force myself to the fitness center, and rely heavily on supportive phone calls from family and friends.
On the morning of the appointment, I dressed and left hours earlier than necessary, thinking I would fool myself into making an outing of this experience. I would explore all the little shops and restaurants surrounding the office. I was unable to distract myself as long as I’d hoped to, and I arrived more than an hour ahead of schedule, nearly hyperventilating and on very shaky knees.
I parked and stepped out of the car. Walking through the door took all my strength. I was about to relate the humiliating story of what a terrible person I was and how I had destroyed a perfect marriage by being selfish and mean.
The receptionist, the kindest woman I may have ever met, warmly welcomed me into a cozy, homelike environment. She spoke to me in the soothing voice typically reserved for calming young children and frightened animals as she began to take down my personal information. Feeling a bit of confidence and offering a timid smile as I reached into my wallet for my insurance cards—I had a primary and a secondary provider—I received a knowing smile in return as she informed me that the doctor took no insurance. The fee was $200 per session.
That instant became one of the unforgettable moments of my ordeal. I had existed in a mostly vegetative state for the weeks following my husband’s unexpected and unexplained departure. I knew that I could not work through this on my own. I had used every bit of strength and reserve I could muster to find a therapist and get myself to the appointment. I collapsed at the knowledge of an error in updated information and knew that at those prices, this doctor was not a realistic choice for my budget. Having plenty of time, I asked for a moment to think. I stepped outside and sat on the wraparound porch. Flowers were blooming and birds were chirping as I tried hard not to break down into tears. I texted my friend Robbie and, out of habit, my husband. They had always been my trusted advisors, and at this moment I felt in desperate need of help. I asked for their advice, already knowing that whatever their replies, I had to talk to this therapist, no matter the cost. Not surprisingly, both concurred: I did not have the strength to go forward another day on my own.
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