UNSANCTIONED MOURNING

Last week, I went to my final divorce hearing, alone. Nobody really feels good about getting divorced, even if it is inevitable – a welcome relief from a relationship that has become painful, even toxic. I believe there is always a sense of grief, loss and failure over the death of What Might Have Been. Divorce spells an end to the hopes, dreams and possibilities that existed at the beginning of that relationship. After all, who begins a marriage without good and strong feelings?

I had been rather quiet about the breakup of my 18 year marriage, discussing my pain only briefly with two or three of my closest friends, who don’t happen to live in the same state. Otherwise, I had mentioned what was going on to my nearest and dearest living locally, but had, rather heroically, I thought, refrained from whining and crying on their shoulders. I never want to be an emotional burden to my friends or relatives; however, I never for one minute thought they would interpret my silence to mean that I didn’t care or wasn’t in pain at the ending of a relationship of more than two decades to which I had devoted time, attention and sacrifice. I really tried hard to make it work.

Imagine my surprise when none of my friends offered to go to the hearing with me, or even suggested that, since I might not feel like being alone that evening, we should go out to dinner. I was very, very hurt. Rather than curling up in a ball of pain and abandonment, however, I called a relatively new acquaintance, who had never met my ex-husband, and asked him to meet me for dinner, which he was glad to do. We had a nice evening, catching up on mutual acquaintances from “back home,” and our conversation touched only briefly on the events of the day.
Unfortunately, my hurt feelings over being ignored by my friends soon turned to blazing anger. I started to mentally review my relationship with individuals and think of the myriad ways I had supported them, emotionally, during their difficult times. I could not imagine why they had chosen to pretend nothing bad had happened in my life. It didn’t help matters when certain of them suggested that I should throw a big party to celebrate. Nobody noticed how I was really feeling and I was feeling worse by the minute.

Several days later, someone I regarded as one of my closest friends noticed I was not interacting normally with him and asked me if, “we” were okay. My first impulse was to coldly repulse his inquiry with, “Of course. I can’t think why you would believe otherwise,” but, fortunately for both of us, the hurt and anger I was feeling burst out and I told him, in no uncertain terms, how I really felt. He was completely stunned. His take on the whole thing was radically different from mine. He said I had revealed so little of how I was really feeling that he honestly didn’t think I was pained by the divorce.

Honestly, is there anybody out there who ISN’T pained by a divorce, no matter how bad the underlying relationship? If so, I haven’t met them yet and I was a family lawyer for 15 years.

He then compounded what I regarded as overwhelming insensitivity by telling me that it was my responsibility to ask for what I needed from my friends! Now, we’re never going to see eye-to-eye on this one. I felt (and still feel) like, by behaving like a reasonable adult and NOT drowning my friends in my sorrow, fears, and misery about the breakup, I was building capital in the Friends Emotional Support Bank, to which I had made many, many deposits of time and attention to others. I expected that my investment would pay dividends in my time of need, but I guess, according to him, I forgot to fill out the withdrawal slip. I feel as if some of the other patrons of that institution should have known, without me tugging at their coattails and whining, that I could have used some support.

It was a painful conversation for both of us and, although I’m not sure we are yet over this speed bump in our relationship, I believe we are important enough to each other that we will try to understand the other’s viewpoint. We have each learned something from this life episode. I learned that I need to be a little more open about needing things from others, instead of being the bastion of unlimited strength and independence, as others apparently view me. To me, it’s another thing that proves the squeaky wheel really does get the grease. This is a hard pill for me to swallow and it’s going to require some serious effort, but I can learn to mewl and whine with the best of them, I suppose, if the occasion requires it. I think he learned that things aren’t always the way they appear on the surface and that he does have an obligation to pay attention to what‘s going on to people who are important to him; that just because it’s happening to someone else, doesn’t mean it is less painful than it would be to him and just because the other person isn’t visibly injured, it doesn’t mean she/he isn’t bleeding inside.

I also had a startling personal revelation about why I felt so very, very angry and betrayed over the lack of support I received. I realized I was angry out of all proportion to the event. I had more distant friends that I called on and got through things just fine, because I am, usually, an adult about such matters, but that didn’t dissipate the anger I felt toward those I regarded as closest to me. I was sweeping the kitchen floor on Sunday afternoon when it struck me.
I felt just like I did long ago, after my father’s suicide, when, my loss was not acknowledged by my high school friends.

Suicide carries a stigma with it that, even to this day, prevents people from fully acknowledging and sympathizing with the loss, the way they would in the case of a normal death. I found my father, after he shot himself, and the natural devastation I felt at such a loss was further compounded by the way my extended family chose not to reach out to me and deafening silence from my friends. Although my family was comprised mainly of teachers and other educated professionals, not one of those people ever considered that I might be in shock or need counseling, or even someone with whom to talk. I received no condolence calls, none of my friends sent flowers or talked to me my loss, when I returned to school. Nobody even asked why I resigned from my sorority and clubs.

One person in my class, however, sent me a card and a note immediately after hearing the news of my loss and I clung to that card like a magic talisman, hanging on to the knowledge that someone knew and cared what had happened to me as if it were a life raft. After all these years, I still have that card and I still feel such an enormous debt of gratitude to the person who sent it that I would move heaven and earth to help him, if he ever needed it. Many years after high school, I saw him at a reunion and tried to tell him what his actions meant to me, but I don’t think he ever fully understood that his simple act of kindness may have saved my life.

After I connected the feelings generated by the two, long-separated, yet mutually life-altering events, I better understood my visceral reaction to the fairly understandable failure of my busy friends to rally around me, unasked. It got me to thinking about other events for which we are not generally permitted to openly grieve and for which we cannot expect unsolicited support. Miscarriage, infertility, loss of an ability to do something important , such as drive or see or hear, hysterectomy, mastectomy, death of a severely damaged or impaired infant, death of a beloved pet, and death of an aged or very ill loved one all join divorce and suicide in the ranks of unsanctioned mourning events.

I have been guilty of not adequately marking those sad events in the lives of my own friends, even if I never uttered insensitive platitudes like, “It was probably for the best and you can try again,” or “lots of other cats need homes.” Never again, though. People who are already hurting should never have to ask for comfort. There will be no more unsanctioned mourning events among my friends. Shouldn’t you make that promise to your friends, too? One of these days, you’ll be the one needing that spontaneous comfort. Count on it.

LEGAL DRUGS

The only remotely interesting part of this whole surgery experience has been unfettered and legal access to really good drugs. For someone who came of age in the early 70s, having medical professionals freely hand you prescriptions for stuff that would "normally" cost lots of money and could be acquired through dangerous and clandestine transactions is pretty amusing. Add in the fact that my insurance company is paying the lion's share of the cost of the prescription and I'm rolling in the bed laughing!

Of course, I'm getting first hand experience in the whole "medically-necessary" thing. If you take strong pain medication to relieve pain, it doesn't have same effect as it does when you're taking it recreationally. Duh! I have to admit that I had never thought too much about that, all of my (far-away) experience with pain meds being of the recreational variety.

Anyhow, I know I'm rambling, but I AM drugged up. I've been amazed at how well the pain meds work at alleviating pain. I'm taking one pill every three hours. At two and a half hours, my foot starts to tingle. At two hours and forty-five minutes, it is throbbing pretty good. I take my magic pill and within fifteen minutes, the pain has receeded to a dull, diminshing hum. I really appreciate the efficacy of this stuff!

P.S. I think I'm very close to being caught up on my sleep, too!

Hello From Crankyland

Surgery took place, on schedule, on Sept. 5th. I have lost big chunks of time since then, thanks to the happy pills, percoset, a/k/a oxycodone. NOBODY told me it was going to hurt this much, post-surgery! This hurts SO damn much. The freaking cast weighs about 40 pounds and I have to keep my foot elevated at a 45 degree angle, as much as possible, for the first two weeks. I can barely drag myself between the bed and the dreaded potty chair. Have to use a walker. Can't be trusted with crutches whilst I am on happy pills.

This is the first time I have fired up the laptop and this is not going to last long. Talked to the surgical nurse today and she said to keep on taking the pills until I got back next Wednesday for my cast change. Maybe I can get something lighter, so I don't face injury everytime i turn over in bed.

BETTER GOVERNMENT

Here's my idea:

Build or buy some apartment buildings in Washington, D.C. Make sure all the apartments are the same size, plain and without adornment, and would be of the type affordable by a family of three with a combined annual gross income of $75,000.

Take the names of every person who has two years or more of college and is registered to vote and put the names in a big hopper. Have a small child pull out the appropriate number of names for the House of Representatives and two names for the Senate. Those people will serve in the respective legislative bodies for the requisite period of time. They will receive the salaries they were making in their private positions, with a 7% increase each year. If they were unemployed when selected, they will receive salaries commensurate with the positions for which they are educationally and experientially qualified. Their employers are required to GUARANTEE them their old jobs back, at the end of their government service, if the people want them back.

Move them to Washington, make them live in the designated housing. Do not allow them to use their own or other private funds to decorate or otherwise change the housing. Provide child and pet care services on-site, for hours necessary. Contribute to a 401k and provide health insurance during the period of service. Give them a set number of transportation vouchers to go home during each legislative session.

At the end of their term of service, send them home and get new ones. It can be the "New" Draft. How much worse could it possibly be? I'll bet they'd be more reasonable and get more done.

The Word for the Day is Kakistocracy

Kakistocracy - Rule by the people who are most inept and unqualified to lead.

Degringolade

The word for the day is "Degringolade." It is that exact point in time, usually discernible only in retrospect, when things started to go to hell in a handcart.

Volunteering for Surgery (Have I really done this??)

I've had a bad left ankle for just about as long as I can remember. When I was eight, Cousin Yvonne was spending the night and we were jumping from twin bed to twin bed, for some unknown kid reason, and I got my foot tangled in the sheet. My foot went one way and the rest of me went another - break number one. When I was eleven, I decided (against parental directives) to take a short cut across the creek behind our house, on the way to feed my horse, by walking a log that my neighbor had put across the water, instead of walking a quarter mile up the road to the bridge. The log rolled, I hit the water and the rocks beneath - break number two. Later years of high school basketball brought several rounds of pulled ligaments, which I probably didn't allow to heal properly before resuming normal activities. Two severe sprains in adulthood didn't help matters and my determination to lose weight via working out and using the treadmill extensively finished off my poor ankle.

I can't remember being pain-free. I actually passed on a trip to Italy two years ago, because I knew I couldn't walk the required amount. My trips over the last few years are memorialized as, "the year my ankle swelled so badly I didn't go to the Empire State Building with the rest of you," and "oh yeah, that was the year we went to the Outer Banks and I had such trouble walking through the dunes because of my ankle," and "that was the trip where we walked all over Chicago, THEN did the DaVinci exhibit and I couldn't walk for three days, afterwards."

I gave myself a recurring ulcer by overusing OTC anti-inflammatories and had to step down to Tylenol, which doesn't do squat for the pain. Finally, about three weeks ago, I had had enough. No more Tough Grll. I collected my pathetic series of MRIs and Xrays, did my doctor research, picked an orthopaedic surgeon and called for the first available appointment.

He was the only one surprised by the new Xrays. I knew I didn't have any cartilage in that ankle three years ago, but there was too much going on in my life to have the surgery, then.
Now, it hurts so much that, last Sunday night, I would have agreed to have the surgery on my dining room table, right then, if I could have good drugs. Walking around on a bone-on-bone ankle hurts - a lot!

So, I'm scheduled for surgery on September 5th. I have cleared my work calendar, made arrangements to have a cleaning service scrub my floors and windows, organized my nightgowns and bed linens (I am a high count sheet whore, but that's a blog entry for another time!), and called in my former-nurse mother-in-law to help me get through the first two post-surgery weeks.

I will be out of service for all work purposes for the first five weeks of my twelve week recovery period! If all goes well, I can go back to work in a wheelchair (if I can figure out how to manage the transportation part) at the end of the first five weeks. I will be in a wheelchair, with limited use of crutches for getting to the bathroom, for eight weeks. I will be in a walking cast for another four weeks.

The extended recovery period is why I have put the surgery off for far too long. (OK, so there's that pathological fear of being anesthesized, too, but that's part of my control issue thing and I'm working on that, so we won't go there.) I cannot ever remember a time in my life when I was not productively engaged in something for a five week period. I guess I can find something productive to do from home, but I really do need some mental down-time, too. Being really busy and having constant pain takes a toll. The plan is to read trash novels, watch a zillion Law and Order episodes, along with all the Oz and Godfather episodes, and spend quality time with the fur kids.

I know my staff, back at the office, is more than qualified to run things just as well without me, as they run when I'm there. They are great folks. This is why it pays to always try to hire people as smart or smarter than you are! I have no worries on that score.

My mother-in-law figures the timing is just right, for her. She gets to leave at the end of two weeks, when I'll be moving from hurting and cooperative to healing and bitchy.

I'll let you know how things go. Hopefully, I'll be back on the adventure travel trail this time next year. I want to do the Windjammer Cruise on the Tall Ships off the Maine Coast next Summer, unless I go to cooking school in Provence, or the walking tour of Tuscany!

MICHAEL VICK SHOULD DIE!

Michael Vick should die for his crimes against the most loyal and loving creatures on earth. Dog lovers everywhere should appoint a time to beam death rays at him, from all over the world, to see if we can make his head explode.

If I were more courageous, I would hunt him down and eliminate him and all his despicable posse from the face of the earth. Maybe that would eliminate the horrible mental images of the torture he and his band of thugs put those poor innocent dogs through. It wasn't enough to shoot the ones they couldn't make fight, so they electrocuted, hanged, and beat them to death. You'd think he'd get enough outlet for his massive need for brutality on the football field, but apparently not.

I can't get it out of my head. I've always been what my late mother referred to as "overly sensitive" about animals. God knows, she tried to eradicate that from my emotional lexicon by never missing a chance to read some story about hideous animal abuse from the newspaper over breakfast or by regaling me with a story I'd missed on the evening news. It didn't seem to matter to her that just hearing those things gave me nightmares and disturbing thoughts for months. As far as I'm concerned, that's the only thing I know of that I think she's had to answer for in the hereafter, whatever her version of the hereafter was.

So, Michael Vick's actions have filled my head with horror and ruined the upcoming NFL season for me. Based on the comments and support he has received from some other players in the NFL, I'm wondering how many more of them need to go on my mental hit list. Some other player actually referred to dogfighting as a SPORT! Tell me he doesn't need to die, too.

Since I'm not brave enough to do track Vick and his ilk down and eliminate them from the gene pool, I can only hope that the justice system works, for once, and he doesn't walk out of the court room a free man because he really did get a jury of his peers.

I can tell you this, if I ever do get a terminal disease, I'm striking a blow for dogs everywhere.