The Good Guys
I was a very anxious child. Convinced that our house would catch fire (in the days before smoke alarms were mandatory), I kept the bottom half of the cardboard box that our new refrigerator had been shipped in, and I put my favorite toys in it so that I could drag them to safety in a moment’s notice. Aside from fires, I worried about ghosts and monsters, car accidents, tornadoes, burglars–you name it, I feared it.
My independent and intellectual parents did not know what to do with me. My siblings teased me, and my mother would try, with exasperation, to convince me that there was nothing to fear. One night, when I came to her with some now-long-forgotten fear, she told me something that her father used to tell her: “Nothing bad will happen to us. We’re the good guys.”
I have thought of that statement many times in my adult life. Did she mean that our family followed the rules? Was on the right side of justice? Or that God or some higher power was on our side? It wasn’t true, of course. Bad things did happen to me, and to my siblings. For me, it was not just one or two difficult life events–it was a nearly thirty year stretch of what I jokingly called “learning experiences.” I married when I was young and naive. My 20-year marriage was crippled by poverty, alcoholism, and instability. My husband and I separated, and then he died suddenly and tragically in a car accident. A year later my mother also died suddenly. Another family member struggled with alcoholism and spent a month in rehab. One of my children stopped talking to me for several months. And then, when my life started to balance again, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. It has been a year since my surgery and radiation and my last mammogram was clear. Thank you, modern medicine.
I have just returned from the memorial for my Uncle Mike, my mom’s brother and the last of her surviving siblings. I spoke to Mike occasionally and have many fond memories of him from my childhood. At his memorial I was struck by how privileged he and my mother had been. They had attended private boarding schools and elite colleges like Vassar and Princeton. No wonder my grandfather told my mother that nothing bad would happen to them– they were not the “good guys,” they were just privileged enough to shield themselves from bad things happening. My uncle became a lawyer in New York City and traveled internationally. A friend of his spoke at the memorial and described Mike as an “ardent capitalist” whose views were softened in his sixties or seventies when he delivered Meals on Wheels to senior citizens in Ithaca and realized that many people his age were impoverished, ailing, and homebound.
I am so glad that my uncle had this experience and came to know that there are many realities going on “out there” in the world around us, that his life was not the norm. After the memorial, as I drove through Ithaca and the campus of Cornell University, I wondered at the way we strive so much to provide our children with that sheltered life. Of course, we don’t want our children to suffer. At the same time, I see what a gift it was for me to understand, in my twenties, living in poverty in an unstable and alcoholic marriage, that there were other “realities” than the one I had been raised in. That there were forces beyond an individual’s control that could shape her life. That not everyone was middle-class and well-educated and that not everyone desired to be! This, to me, is the greatest “gift” of struggle, of loss, of grief. Our wounds provide an opening to let humility and empathy in, if we let them in. To see that we are not our circumstances– for good or bad. To respond with gratitude for the smallest of joys. To know that bad things happen to all people– there are no “good guys” who are protected from harm, and those who have struggles do not have them because they are “bad guys.” We are all just human, improvising the best life story we can with plot twists that are often out of our control. We are all doing the best we can.
Further Reading:
One of the books that helped me the most along my journey was When Bad Things Happen to Good People, by Harold Kushner. Notice the title is not WHY bad things happen, but WHEN. Bad things will happen, even to “good” people. I am not religious in the traditional sense of the word, but I found this book to be very comforting and wise.
Lessons from Loss #3
The future is not going to be what you thought it would be. Don’t try to predict it. You can’t imagine what it will look like. Fear is not prophecy, and your wishes and daydreams are far less interesting than reality will be. Leave room for surprises– there will be many surprises!!
Lessons from Loss #1
There’s a great line from the early 2000’s TV show “Six Feet Under” :
“I know that if you think life’s a vending machine where you put in virtue and take out happiness then you’re going to be disappointed.”
Life is also not a vending machine where you put in suffering and are rewarded with something you want. Life’s just not fair, a lot of the time. But it’s still wonderful.
The Way You Thought It Would Be
One piece of advice I read right after my husband died was something along the lines of “Get used to the idea that your life is not going to be the way you thought it would be.” As the years go by, I am realizing more and more how difficult that advice is to carry out. I think I’ve got it– I think I’ve accepted it–and then I find myself adjusting again, letting go of more, and thankfully, opening up to what “not the way I thought it would be” might look like.
When Anson died, I foolishly thought the next chapter of my life might be better than the previous chapter. Anson had struggled with stress, anxiety, and alcohol dependency, and we had struggled financially for 10 out of the 21 years we were married. I envisioned myself meeting a man who was financially and emotionally stable, who would make a good role model for my children and create a new, adventurous life with me filled with travel and cool adult children and grandchildren. We would get married and create a big, beautiful Brady Bunch family and take a picture every summer at our beach house on the Cape with all of us wearing blue. I wanted a new family that I could insert myself and my kids into so we could just keep cruising forward through life. After dating for a few years and having some six-month or longer relationships with a couple of men, I realized that this dream was not likely to happen. I don’t move in the same circles as men who own beach houses on the Cape. The men I do feel comfortable with come with their own challenges and problems. I had to accept the fact that my new chapter will be better in some ways, but there will always be trade-offs. As my sister once said, “it won’t be better, just different.”
It’s been six years now that I’ve been processing grief and dating. There have been years of feeling lonely, hurt, and sad, and longing for a positive, healthy, nurturing relationship to balance out the loss and pain. I’ve tried five or six online dating sites, and wow, there are some “interesting” people out there. I see my friends and relatives navigating their own relationship terrain and I realize how hard the struggles can be. “Not better, just different” has slowly morphed into “actually, it could be a lot worse.” There are men out there who have harder problems than Anson had. And there is no doubt that being single is far healthier than being in a bad relationship. My daughter works so much that it is very hard to see her, and my son has told me flat out that he doesn’t want to meet the men I date unless I’m sure it’s really serious. Maybe I won’t find a man who will create a new family with me– maybe I’ll find a man who never had kids of his own or who doesn’t earn as much money as I do and can’t afford to travel with me. Maybe I’ll travel by myself or with my sister. Maybe my future partners will be polite to my children, but that’s all. It’s not going to be the way I thought it would be.
Now my son has moved out, and it’s just me and the cat living in this four bedroom home. I so badly want to sell this house and get out of the burden of lawn mowing and shoveling. Every day, I am more tempted to just rent for a year to see what my next move will be. I have been on one coffee date in the past six months. But I have an amazing group of friends through my dance community. They are all younger than I am. Most of them are immigrants. They talk about traveling and living in other places– two years here, three years there. Maybe I’ll do that– rent an apartment, take a year off from teaching to go abroad and teach English, be a nomad for a while. Maybe I’ll have lovers and friends who are 15 years younger than me and my kids won’t even know about it. Maybe I’ll be a cool middle aged woman who’s traveled the world and been on all kinds of adventures. Maybe, if my son and daughter ever decide to have kids, I’ll be that quirky grandma who visits for a few weeks in the summer before heading off to another country to explore. Maybe someday I’ll settle back down with a head full of interesting stories to tell.
Who knows? It’s not going to be the way I thought it would be.
And yet, we persevere
I’m sitting here typing this with a feeling in my lower abdomen that I can only describe as being punched in the cervix. For those of you without a cervix, imagine having a splitting headache in the deepest, most inaccessible part of your body. I just returned from the gynecologist– I have had some abnormal cervical cells on my pap smears for the past few years, and they’re not going away. They’re not getting worse and I do not have HPV, so that’s the good news. But my doctor advised that I have them looked at every six months just to be on the safe side.
Today the gynocologist and I discussed my IUD and whether to leave it in for two more years or take it out now. I told him I preferred to leave it in– I’m only 52, I still have occassional spotting, so I think I’m still ovulating from time to time. He agreed, and he proceeded to do the biopsy which suddenly felt like a balloon had exploded inside my body. Then he calmly said, “Your IUD came out. It was attached to the biopsy piece.”
Here’s what I get to take home: 1. Cramps like I haven’t had since I was a teenage girl getting her period. 2. Two requests for blood work– one three weeks from now after my hormones regulate and one for three weeks after that to see what my follicle stimluating hormones are doing. Based on those results, my gynocologist will tell me if I still need and IUD. 3. The gyno’s suggestion that I use a condom if I have sex between now and the last blood work results. (Thanks for the reminder that I haven’t had sex in six months and have no good prospects in sight.) 4. A nagging question– When will there be a MALE birth control pill or device?? and 5. An overwhelming sense of shock and awe that any women my age have a positive attitude toward life.
Being an aging woman is hard enough. Being a middle-aged woman who is going through a divorce and then grief is indescribably difficult. I remember one day when my husband had just moved out of our house and I was cleaning up the piles of stuff he had left behind. I was feeling sad and angry and scared about the future and wondering if anyone would ever find me attractive again. I picked up a beautiful wooden hand mirror that I had received as a gift in my twenties, and in my reflection I saw my neck skin, loose and crepey and old looking. I literally fell to my knees and cried in a heap on the floor. Why now? Why did I have to be “resingled” when the ravages of old age were just around the corner?
After that, it seemed like one slap in the face after another. My ex got a girlfriend right away and was flying to Baltimore every other weekend at her expense. Then his lawyer decided he should ask for alimony from me since his hearing loss might prevent him from working in the future. The first man I slept with was less than forthcoming about his sexual history, and when I learned the truth, I rushed to a walk-in clinic to be tested for everything, crying as I sat in the exam room. The nurse who did the tests said quietly “Maybe you’re not ready to be dating yet?” She was right. Five months after my husband died, when I did feel ready for dating, I ended up with a genital wart (which, by the way, condoms do not prevent) and an abnormal pap smear.
I got the IUD when I met a decent guy who was patient with me as I tried various methods of birth control and finally opted for the Mirena. I feel like the hormones in the IUD screwed up my emotions for the first six months I had it in, although my doctor assures me that it is too small a dose of hormones to do that. My emotions have been rocky for six years– is it because my marriage ended? Is it grief due to the tragic death of my soon-to-be-ex-husband? Grief over my mom’s death a year later? The empty nest syndrome? Peri-menopause? Birth control? Who the hell knows? Now I am going cold-turkey on the hormones my body had become accustomed to– what hormonal joys do I have to look forward to next?
All I know is this– aging is not for sissies. Older women are portrayed in our culture as weak, out of touch, clingy, and useless. (They are not. If they persevere and keep their heads up, they are the strongest creatures on earth.) Men write articles about why they date younger women, saying “Older women are so negative.” Really? I wonder why? It’s not as if biology and society hit women with a double whammy at mid-life. Women are the ones who deal with birth control, pregnancy, breast feeding, and the bulk of child rearing. Then at mid-life, after we’ve given our best reproductive years, many of us are left by the fathers of our children so that they can puruse younger women. And yet we persevere. We keep caring for our children and grandchildren, we keep learning new things and exploring the world. We keep showing up.
So if you see me, or any woman my age, and we have a positive attitude about life, give us a pat on the back. If you don’t, I’ll punch you in the cervix.
This is not a story about my colonoscopy…
This is not a story about my colonoscopy, but there is a colonoscopy in it. Actually, there are two. The story begins in 2006 when my late-husband, Anson, turned 50. When you turn 50–just something for those of you under 50 to look forward to– the universe rewards you with an invitation to join AARP and a reminder to get your first colonoscopy. I drove Anson to the hospital, dropped him off, did some shopping, and went to pick him up two hours later. He was lying on a bed wearing a johnny in a room with other patients and I remember the room smelling vaguely like…well, farts. He was groggy and uncomfortable, and I felt sorry for him lying there. This was the most vulnerable I had ever seen him–drugged, half-naked, surrounded by strangers in a room smelling like farts. When he felt clear-headed enough to get dressed, we left the hospital and went right to his favorite diner for lunch.
Five years later, I was a widow. The surrealism of the years just after Anson’s death are difficult to describe. The pain, the loneliness, the profundity of grief are too great for me to go into here. Suffice to say that there are thousands of details about life that you don’t think about when you are married but that suddenly come to the surface as a widow. Who do I call to fix the drier? If my car is being repaired, who will drive me to work? Will anyone want to date me now that I’m 46? Is there anything I can do about the skin on my neck? Does anyone realize how lucky they are to be alive? And for some reason, one of the questions that bothered me the most was “Who will drive me home from my colonoscopy?”
I actually brought this question up with a man I dated shortly after Anson died. This man had never been married, had no children, and was five years younger than me. When I told him that I worried about who would drive me home from my colonoscopy, he grimaced. “I don’t even want to think about that stuff– I do enough of that for my mom, I don’t need to do that for my girlfriend.” Needless to say, that relationship didn’t last long.
I’ve said many times since Anson died that I feel like my foundation is gone. When you are married, even if it is a difficult marriage, there is a sense of continuity, of stability. You have a go-to person, and if your spouse can’t help you with a certain task, they can at least help you find a stand in. As a widow, I feel like each scenario is up in the air– who do I ask for help? And if I ask person A for help this time, I’ll have to find person B for next time so that I don’t wear out my friends’ goodwill. Who among my friends would be kind enough to meet me at the hospital and see me half-naked in a room that smelled like farts?
Last year, I turned 50. I got my AARP invitation and my colonoscopy notice. My health insurance company even offered me a $50 gift card if I got the colonoscopy within a year! What a deal! Because I am a “good patient,” I scheduled the consultation and procedure right away. My 21-year-old son agreed to drop me off at the hospital and pick me up a few hours later. The preparation was no fun, in spite of all the peach iced tea and Sprite I bought to try to make it more enjoyable.
On the day of the procedure, as I lay on the gurney waiting for the gastroenterologist to begin, I fought back tears. Lying on a table in a hospital johnny open in the back, surrounded by strangers and cold machines made me feel vulnerable and small. I didn’t want the anesthesiologist or nurses to think that I was scared– I wasn’t afraid of the procedure. I just hated the fact that I was alone. I had been there for Anson when he came out of the anesthesia. Why couldn’t someone be there for me?
But anesthesia today is so lovely! One deep breath and I was out. I woke up a few minutes later in the recovery area– no nausea like I remembered from the anesthesia of my youth. The nurses were warm and funny and they were checking on me and bringing me water. They told me to go ahead and fart– it was good to fart! But the room didn’t smell bad the way I had remembered with Anson’s procedure. There were other patients around me; some had friends picking them up, some had spouses, some had adult children. I had survived! I actually felt great. And all these people, at different phases of later adulthood, with different life situations– we all had found rides home. The nurse called my son; he was on his way to get me, so I got dressed and waited for him. Other than riding down to his car in a wheelchair, I felt as normal as could be.
So it was over. My first colonoscopy! (By the way, SURPRISE! You have to have one EVERY FIVE YEARS!!!) I had done it without a spouse or a boyfriend to drive me home. It was not a big deal. So, this is not a story about my colonoscopy. I had been a widow for four years, and this is a story about learning that I was going to be okay, alone.
Fuddy-duddy
Being a 49 year-old high school teacher has its pluses and minuses. The kids do keep me young– they are funny and energetic and curious– most of them. But as I age and go through the hard knocks of life, they never get more than four years older. My students are always between the ages of 14 and 18– I’m always swimming in the same adolescent stage– the crucible of conformity, identity formation, and burgeoning sexuality. The older I get, the further away I get from their hormonal, anxious lives.
When I first started teaching, I felt young. I was 32 and I had a 3 year-old son, a 6 year-old daughter, and a teenage step-daughter. I remember supervising detention and listening to the high school kids talk about their plans and dreams and complaints about life. One young man was talking about his dream to open up a clothing store that would sell only “cool” clothes. “Like what?” I asked. And he said “Nothing these people are wearing.” I looked around and saw a room full of denim and sweatshirts, and said “What do you mean? You’re all dressed in jeans.” He rolled his eyes, pointed to the person next to him, and said “You don’t get it. My pants are NOTHING like his. Look at the hem on his pants!” Then he mumbled to himself, “Old people, jeez…” I realized at that point that aging is not a choice; no one wakes up one day and says, “I’m going to be a fuddy-duddy from now on!” The young people come up underneath you and push you into that status. They think they’ve invented the world, and your insistence that you will never get old means nothing to them. Our music, the rebellious rock-and-roll that made Tipper Gore’s hair stand on end? They’ve never heard of it, or they think it’s “boring.” The dancing that made parents in the fifties keep their daughters home at night? Child’s play.
That first year of teaching, a student wrote an article for the newspaper in which she used the term “clueless adults.” I had to chuckle in a stupefied way– clueless? Really? Had this high school junior ever applied for a mortgage? Bought a car? Paid her taxes? Now, at the age of 49, the idea that I’m “clueless” seems even more sadly comical. I’ve been through a 21-year marriage with a man who struggled with many demons. I’ve raised two children and watched them learn to crawl and walk and face the world, fail, get back up, cry, and move on. I’ve seen a man broken by love for his daughter and I’ve seen people being horribly mean to the ones who love them the most. Nasty politicians, hypocrisy, senseless wars.
I chaperoned the prom last weekend, and I couldn’t stay in the room with the dancers because their dance moves were so sexually suggestive. My colleague told me “You’re getting old!” and I agree that I am. But why is that statement tinged with a warning? I don’t want to get old and obsolete. I want to stay in tune with the world and its changes. But getting older is not simply a series of losses. I have gained such insight from what I have been through.
I see subtlety and nuance in the world that I would never have seen in my twenties. As I search for “true love” since my husband’s death, I am surprised by the way my concept of love has changed. I love my husband in spite of his demons and in spite of the pain we went through together. I love his parents and sister and brother. I love the men who dance with me, who are willing to share an embrace with me on the dance floor even though I am not young, not their spouse, not the best dancer in the world. I love the women I tutor who endure hardships that Americans do not understand. I love my father with all his eccentricities, and I forgive him for his human frailties.
The smallest gestures of kindness can have such deep meaning– a thank you, the holding of a door. The smallest details can be masterpieces of beauty– the fog on the river in the morning as I drive to work and the perfect V of ducks parting the water.
And then there’s sex. After 21 years of marriage, sex took on many different meanings. It was passionate, athletic, fun, and sweaty, but it was also tender, deeply loving, and vulnerable. As a non-religious person, I found that my sexual relationship with my husband was the closest to a spiritual experience I had ever had– a feeling of unity with something greater than myself and the most profound sharing of love I had witnessed. To make love to someone who is attractive and loving, who makes you laugh and who shares in life’s joys– that is easy. To continue to make love to a person with whom you fight, argue, cry over, who frustrates you, who knows how to push your buttons– to continue to LOVE that person–that takes great strength and maturity. Our sex life was a reflection of all that.
One year, when I taught the novel Catcher in the Rye, we discussed the scene in which Holden sees a couple in another building spitting water on each other. Holden says “I really don’t understand sex,” and a young man in my class said “How can he not understand sex? What is there to understand?” I just shook my head. These are the things I want so badly to explain to my students but just can’t. I said to him “Come see me in 15 years and tell me what you think.” Watching my students “grinding” on the dance floor makes me feel the same way. They lack subtlety; there’s so much they have to learn about intimacy and tenderness, about fog on the river, about love.
These are the appreciations of life that only experience and age can impart. This richness is the prize for aging. It is not flashy, it is not loud. It would not make a good music video for Beyonce. But I would never trade it for youth.
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