Tag Archives: divorce

The Scalded Nipple Incident

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It was a good day and I was happy…happier than I had been in many weeks. The kids were with NH, but I didn’t feel the stress of their absence. Instead, I was content to be in the moment and leave the worries and fears on shelf. I gave myself permission to be free for a few hours. Troubles would be there when I returned.

I had hiked and I had showered. I picked up a latte for TA, a fellow mother who was incapacitated by major reconstructive ankle surgery. As my life was falling apart, I appreciated that I was a healthy, clean smelling, thoughtful friend. I even had a piping hot cup of tea for myself. I approached my friend’s front door, balanced the tea on top of the latte and used my chin to hold the two cups in place. Leaning forward with my free hand I reached for the doorbell and SWISH, the cups buckled inward towards me and scalding hot tea-water poured down my shirt. My involuntary reaction was to throw both drinks against my friend’s front door. I held in a scream. I pulled at my shirt to get the molting hot fluid as far away from my skin as possible, yet the intense burning persisted. I clutched my breast and realized that my bra had absorbed the scalding water and was holding it against my nipple and the surrounding area. The pain!

I marveled at how the hot water seemed to have hit nothing except my bra. I was thrown between fascination and excruciating pain of a burning breast. My white shorts were clean; I couldn’t feel water anywhere else on my top except in my damn bra. How did I manage that? And then I was wincing from the pain again. Breasts should never be burned. Not by the sun, cigarettes, ropes or hot tea. Never. By anything.

Thankfully, my hobbled friend did not hear the commotion, and thankfully she had a bench in her entryway where I could sit and gather myself. I seriously considered beating a hasty retreat and hiding at home, but she was expecting me. Besides, the mess I had created wasn’t going to clean up itself. She would know I had been there, and she would see that I had cracked. “Wow. She’s worse than I thought…throwing coffee cups at my front door”. I peaked at my breast – ouch – the blazing red skin around my nipple made me cringe. Would it blister? Would it scar? Great. I was going to have a deformed breast.  Would it be a badge of honor that always reminded me of how I held my cool during this insane time of life or would it be the first of many battle scars that evoked the torment and suffering of the summer of 2009?

The contents of my cup were dripping down the wall and door and pooling near the welcome mat. The latte had survived relatively unharmed, but knowing what I did about its little journey from the coffee shop to this front door, it seemed pathetic.  I sat and contemplated: sit and cry silently, slip away, knock louder on the door and ask for help or run home to get cleaning supplies and pretend this never happened. I decided to pick myself up, go back out in the world and get more hot beverages. I left the cups, the dripping, pooling mess, and texted TA about the situation:

Me: Do u want/need food? I just dumped my drink in your entry. Going to get another. Yours is safe!

TA: I’m good on food. R u coming back to join me?

Me: If you want company i can stay for a bit.

TA: Yes!!

TA: Oh, now I see the mess 😉

Me: On my way. Dont touch it!

TA: Well it’s like torture eyeing the coffee and I can’t get it!!

TA was using crutches and there was no way for her to bend down and pick up her intact drink. She had to stare at it, and the liquid disaster, through the screen door and hope I was coming back soon.

I returned, hosed down her entryway, and we settled into chairs outside in the backyard. We each had a load to share. Hers: the frustration of recovering from a serious surgery where her ankle was completely rebuilt; the agony of having her husband diagnosed with an advanced case of prostate cancer, and his surgery. Me: a husband who decided that on the eve of our eleventh wedding anniversary that the marriage was in major crisis and that he was abandoning ship. Three children, his own health scare/breakdown, a successful/failed business that came within inches of breaking the two of us, and four years of waiting…waiting for him to figure out what he wanted to do with his life; waiting for him to make a serious effort towards something; waiting for him to tell me how I could help and support him…had not deterred me from holding onto our marriage and the idea we could pick up the pieces and make a good show of it. Man, I was determined to a fault. Naïve. Afraid.

Depending on where you like to find your statistics, 50-65% of all marriages in the U.S. end in divorce. One truly has a 50/50 chance of having a “successful” marriage (I put successful in quotes because I don’t believe that a life-long marriage equals a good, happy or healthy marriage, but that’s a topic for another time). So the fact that I was in a whirlpool of turmoil in my marriage wasn’t remotely unique…and not all that interesting from the outside. We had no stories of infidelity…that I’m aware of. Neither of us is an addict. Out of control spending hadn’t driven us to financial ruin. The horror of domestic violence wasn’t our reality. We were simply faced with sorting through some very mundane, adult themes: How did our families color and shape our intimate relationships? How, as adults, do we put to rest the demons from childhood (and believe me, we each had our fair share)? Where did our connection short-out? Could we mend the damage that’s been done? Did we even want to wake up next to one another every day? In my relationship/marriage to NH, there were 18 years of inconsistent communication, the build-up of little resentments that affect intimacy, and after enough hurt I’ve had to wonder if he can be trusted with my heart. I believe, looking back, that he never trusted me with his and that he wasn’t capable. TA points out that most couples are literally one bad argument away from where NH and I find ourselves in the summer of 2009. Boy, for their sake I hope not, I think to myself.

Looking back, I now believe that we started with everything going against us. My therapist  – God bless this women, she was my life preserver on very rough waters – would say, repeatedly, that if we had been put in a room with a thousand eligible people, we still would have gravitated to one another. This is because NH’s unique set of issues coupled perfectly with mine. We were like moths drawn to what kills them, the bright light; we were destined to orbit closely and burnout. Of course, she had a more hopeful message. One filled with the possibility of healing the wounds and building a story where the gravitational pull doesn’t make the planets collide, but instead they’re able to hold a symbiotic path and actually enhance one another’s existence. And for a while she believed this.

NH is not a horrible person – although he does continue to baffle me. I like to think that I’m pretty ok, too. Yet we were unable to meet one another with complete trust and acceptance. I understand better, knowing what I do about our lives, and that’s where the heartbreak lives for me. Repairs may have – for a brief time – been possible, but we missed the opening.

The scalded nipple incident ended well. I cleaned the wall, wiped the door and watered down the tea so it wouldn’t stain the stone entry. TA and I sat on her deck, enjoyed a beautiful afternoon, and talked about the pitfalls of marriage, the frustration and joy of kids, and that (sometimes) elusive search for purpose and meaning to one’s life. We enjoyed the hot drinks, round two, without episode. And, thankfully, there was no blistering or scarring of my dear left breast.

 

Nesting Like Sweet Birds…Only We’re Not Sweet and None of Us Can Fly

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Without knowing the term, NH and I decided to create a nesting situation for the kids: they stay put in their family house and he and I take turns living there and caring for them. This was an easy move for NH because he had crashed at a divorced friends’ house. I, on the other hand, had to stitch together a crappy living situation. That’s not just me feeling sorry for myself…although I had plenty of those moments. I was a stay-at-home-mom, close friends with other (mostly) stay-at-home-moms, and all intact families. Finding a place to stay wasn’t easy me for because most people didn’t have the room, a few hadn’t told their kids what was happening and didn’t want to answer the inevitable questions, and I had no money to rent a small space or even stay at a hotel. One fearless, dear friend stepped up, though, and offered a place for me, which I did accept. But I didn’t want to impose so I made an effort to break-up where I slept on my “off days”. Because it was summer I was able to stay at several homes while friends were away on vacation.

I know everyone was giving support and love and kindness, and I believe they wanted to help. It was demoralizing, though. I was displaced, in shock over the possibility that my marriage might end, and so deeply hurt about not being with my children. Packing a bag, being told I couldn’t go into my HOME – the place I had literally crafted as our safe haven – was inconceivable. But the “nesting” was my idea and it made sense: keep the kids stationary while we figure out what the hell just happened. I did what all girls do: I sucked it up and put on good public face.

The man  – the other human being – I thought would always be my best friend had completely retreated from me. I couldn’t go in and check on my sleeping children before I turned in for the night. I wasn’t allowed to make their favorite breakfast or plan a fun summer outing on a whim. My heart was in absolute distress and my soul felt like it had been set adrift in unknown territory.

Some background: NH had been home for 4 years, and by that I mean he hadn’t worked. He closed a business after suffering some serious mental/physical health issues (and yes, there was a direct connection between the two), but he did not participate in our day-to-day life. He was a ghost of sorts who walked on the periphery of our world. We did eat dinner together every night, which is something, but he locked himself away and retreated into his own world every other waking minute.

At first, given the foundering of his mental/physical being, I was relieved he had stopped working. The chasm that had opened in his mind and heart was big and I wanted him to tend to it, to find some peace. I ran the house and cared for the kids in all ways imaginable, which was my job, but I had no support from my partner who was literally 20 feet from us at all times of day. He simply didn’t participate.  I had to ask his permission to leave one of the younger kids home if it was raining and I didn’t want to drag them to school pick-up for an older sibling. He usually said yes, but he acted like it was a burden and I had to give very specific information about how long I would be gone…and I better not get delayed because then he would be overtly annoyed. I had to get a dentist who took Saturday appointments because he wouldn’t come out of his home-office Monday-Friday and play with the kids for an hour. He would act put upon to attend school functions like class plays or holiday parties and he often wouldn’t go. The number one reason? It conflicted with his yoga schedule. Dude went to yoga instead of participating a classroom party for one of his kids. Years later, I get it…NOW we’ve been to 500 class parties and taken pictures of a gazillion craft stations that included glitter and glue…but back THEN this was all new and every fucking popsicle stick creation was a masterpiece not to be missed.

One year into his “recovery” I did become resentful. I was afraid and I wasn’t quite sure why. There was the obvious: running the household and raising the kids was becoming more stressful for me. I started realizing that the boundaries we – I have to take some responsibility for what was happening – had established worked against the long-term health of our family unit. NH became less and less available for normal tasks.

About two years into his self-exploration-recovery efforts, I was offered a part-time job. It would have required NH taking care of the kids one to two afternoons a week, maybe 4 hours each time. I would have earned enough to cover the groceries, which is a nice bill to have taken care of given that we all like to eat…as in, we need to eat. Call me crazy for wanting to give my kids food!! NH’s response, “If you’re unhappy being a stay at home mom, go ahead and take the job. I mean, I understand if you just need to get away from your kids. Also, I’m not your babysitter and I won’t watch them when you’re in the office. I have things to do.“ Wow. I was shamed and crushed all once. How’s that for effectively shutting down your partner?? Guess what? I didn’t accept the job.

The reality of shuffling myself in and out of my home and in out of my kids’ lives was torture. I cannot emphasize this enough. I didn’t see it as an opportunity to take an art class or catch up on pleasure reading. I saw it as a big fucking danger sign and my body was in survival mode.

At All Cost

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Today is 7/23/13. I wrote this passage 4 years ago. It hurts to read it again. Not because I feel the same despair and anger, but because I remember feeling it and I grieve for us and for the difficult journey we were on. I want to go back and deeply embrace us all. I want to give an invisible shoulder to lean on.

I’m a little embarrassed reading this now…and I cringe a weensy bit when I think about posting it. I was so raw and vulnerable and the pain is shocking to look back on. But that’s part of our beauty as human beings; we are such complex and intricately stitched together creatures. Our rough edges and flaws are as legitimate as our gentle, intact and sound parts. And now, here’s what it was like to tell my three children that NH and I were separating.  Ugh.

My children. My dreams and fears. They are all so beautiful. It’s more than the color of their eyes, the way their noses are set or the gentle curve of their chins. They possess that infinite love, hope, and innocence that only a child can. They speak from the heart. They feel intensely and often. They’re bursts of laughter, runaway silliness, and the sweetest of joys. They’re selfish and needy, anxiety ridden at moments and seriously unaware. And I love them immensely, immeasurably and intensely. Their pain is my pain; their bliss is my bliss. And one day we will have to separate, and I will release them fully to the world and to themselves. Today, though, they are mine and I cherish the moment.

I believe fiercely – some could argue foolishly – that there is nothing in this world that compares to a mother’s love. Nothing stronger, more virtuous, more right, more deep than the love a mother has for her children. Yes, fathers love their children and would sacrifice themselves to preserve their offspring. But that’s just it. It’s about preserving an offspring and not cherishing the child. That’s power shaded by love. When you hold a living being inside your flesh and nourish it with your blood, a commitment is forged from the strongest of steels. The need to protect the life is simply pure love.  Life as they know it is threatened now, and I’m in protection mode.  But what am I protecting them from? From NH? From all the uncertainty? From the landslide that our life is in? I don’t want them to know divorce. I don’t want them to question the stability of our life together – not yet, not because of me.

Shortly after NH told me he was leaving, he commented that he would take the girls with him a few days every week. Take them? Why? No, I wasn’t going to have any of that and quickly suggested that he and I take turns being in the house and caring for them. I didn’t really think through how displacing myself would play out; I only knew that my children needed stability. They needed to lay their heads on their pillows, in their beds every night, and they needed to open their eyes every morning and see the only four bedroom walls they had ever known. NH suggested it would be fun and camp-like for them to stay with him at his friend’s house. I could not believe he was serious. Fun? Camp-like? Sleeping on the living room floor of a strangers’ house? This was the beginning of their world being spilt in two, not a fucking trip to Yellowstone. Thankfully, he agreed with me, though, and we set about creating this ridiculous “on-off” parenting arrangement.

It was a Wednesday night at dinner when we explained to the kids that we were having a serious argument and that sometimes when this happens adults need some space from one another (yeah right, real adults wouldn’t run away. Real adults stand and face the onslaught of anger and disappointment. Real adults look one another in the eye and speak from their heart about their experiences, their fears and their needs. Real adults take ownership of the shit they created and real adults do right by their partner. But, hey, I’m not angry or bitter about this separation.) So we were going to create some space and take turns being in the house and caring for them. All of the standard catch phrases were spoken: this isn’t anyone’s fault, we love you more than anything, your world is intact and will stay on course, we will work hard to resolve this and put the pieces back together.

NH did most of the talking. I was truly and utterly broken-hearted. Devastated: verb, destroy or ruin something • cause (someone) severe and overwhelming shock or grief. I was the definition of devastated. I’m not sure if the pain of losing my mother when I was 24 even compares to the pain of knowing I had to leave my children, even if it was only for a few days every week. And after we put them to bed and he prepared to leave the house, I sat at the kitchen table and I asked him what he was going to do to take care of himself. I had witnessed him have, what can only be described as a major emotional breakdown that afternoon during therapy, and I believed he needed serious outside support. He had the nerve, the insensitivity, the pure gall to ask me what I thought he should do. I didn’t have a mirror so I can’t be sure what the look was that I gave him, but I know what the feeling was.  Simple hatred. He tears our children’s life apart because he is incapable of processing his own emotions and being a present, engaged adult, and then he asks me what he should do. Jump off of the bridge, fucker. Crawl in a hole and die. I won’t dance on your grave, but I won’t shed a tear either.

Words do not adequately describe the pain of involuntarily leaving my children, of packing a bag and walking out of my house and leaving my children behind. There is a small piece of hate in my heart reserved just for NH because of this. Now, I know that I need to be very careful to not nurture this hate, and that I will need to process and release it one day soon. But as I write now, it’s there. It has a tiny pulse and although it spends most of the day and night silent, it does breath.

p.s I just remembered that part of NH’s breakdown at therapy included him admitting that he hoped for my plane to crash when I went to visit family. Without the kids. Just me being torn to pieces in a plane crash. Thanks, darling. I hope the UPS truck runs you over, too.