Three years ago next month, I lost my husband. Three years ago next month, I gained a father.
My parent’s divorce occurred when I was in elementary school. My dad then relocated across the country shortly after I turned 11. We did not see much of each other for the rest of my childhood or throughout my twenties. In fact, we didn’t really know each other.
Three years ago next month, I went to visit my dad for the first time in several years. I think we were both a little nervous, as were trying to learn the choreography of our adult relationship. I was with him when I received the text that ended my marriage. In that instant, I gained a father in the truest sense of the word.
With no hesitation, I became his little girl again. He moved into action immediately, doing what he could . He held my hand for the endless trip back to Atlanta, not even letting go when he drifted off to sleep on the plane. He made the phone calls I couldn’t and stayed in the house with the dogs when I wasn’t able. He cried with me and cursed with me. He hurt with me and he healed with me.
Three years ago next month, I gained a father. A guide. A cheerleader. A mentor. A friend.
Sometimes, it takes a loss to realize what you have. You win some when you lose some. Dad, I’m glad I won you:)
It was a happy accident. My mom was talking about how she met the goal of improving her blood work (cholesterol, glucose, etc.) and needed a new motivation to continue to eat right and exercise. I was feeling the travel bug biting hard and my unused passport in my maiden name was growing restless. And, somehow, some way, the topic of Italy came up.
She mentioned that it was her dream destination. The top contender on the bucket list. I casually mentioned, “Why don’t we do it together.” I heard her face light up over the phone. She grew excited. Giddy. We only had a few minutes until I had to go, so we quickly talked through some basics. I had made the trip to Italy once before with a high school group, so I had some idea of what I wanted to do on this trip. I thought of the places I had gone and what I wanted to share with her. I took off like a rocket.
Rome, of course. The history there. Piazza Navona and that little gelato place. Vatican museum. That place was amazing. Famous artwork even lined the hallways to the bathrooms. All those cathedrals. The Coliseum. I wonder if it’s still full of cats? The Pantheon. That one caught me by surprise. The beauty and unexpected joy of the rain pouring through the occulus. Florence. The Uffizi Gallery. Oh my god, those statues were amazing. Pompeii. I still dream of that place. Inspiring and haunting all at once. All the images came tumbling back.
I never made it north of Florence. She began to speak wistfully of Venice and the lake country. We would have to include those, as well.
When? We set a date. Summer of 2013.
All of this occurred in under 20 minutes. A trip sketched out. A dream laid.
Good thing I tossed a coin in here 20 years ago!
I had a busy evening with friends that night. She had a busy evening too; purchasing travel and Italy apps, buying books, and beginning research. I could tell she was thrilled. Even better, I could tell she was motivated to stay healthy to be able to handle the rigors of Italy. I am excited to be able to do this trip together: mother and daughter. We will have our challenges, but they are known ones and mainly due to our different paces. It’s a good thing that I have mellowed somewhat and that my Vibram running shoes pack down small:) I am looking forward to showing her the sights that made such an impact on me 20 years ago and seeing the look on her face as she visits the locals of her dreams.
This was just a few short weeks ago. Since then, she has mapped out the itinerary and started researching hostels. I have begun the process of figuring out how to feed myself while there (luckily, it looks like gluten free will be easy, but I remember them all too clearly calling me a “sadomasochist” for being vegetarian when I was a teenager). I’ve been inundated with Italy-themed emails and the first “mom” package of books has arrived. I love it. I get to see my mom excited and, for me, I get to obtain the first stamp on the passport of my new life.
Look out Verona, these two ladies are coming your way!
The Ronald McDonald House is an organization that provides free or low-cost housing for families who have a child undergoing treatment in a hospital in a city away from their hometown. The homes are designed to be welcoming and comfortable, providing a haven for the family while they are dealing with stress and uncertainty.
I think that same model could work for the recently separated.
When my ex left, I found myself with I home a could not afford (literally or emotionally), no family in the city where I was employed, and I knew that I should not live alone (not that I was in any shape to go apartment hunting). I was fortunate. Very fortunate. A friend and her husband immediately offered their spare bedroom, even though they had just brought home an adopted preemie that had problems of her own. I went from 2000 square feet to 200. It was perfect.
That home, which I was in for a year, was a key component of my healing. It was a safe place, filled with the sounds and energy of family. It was space where I could cry, scream, and curse. It was a house that provided normalcy, as my friend and I engaged in our usual debates. It was a place for gaining strength, the baby and I both placed on weight-gaining diets. It was a home that welcomed me, as I was.
Not everyone undergoing a divorce has the opportunity to be in such a place. But maybe they should. Perhaps we could have transitional homes for those who are leaving one life behind and unsure of what the new life will entail. Homes where discussions of depositions, custody, and infidelity are just normal nighttime ramblings. Spaces where we can scream the anger out and cry the hurt out, until we are ready to leave intact, ready to face the world again.
I don’t see Ronald McDonald taking up this cause, so let’s help each other by creating safe spaces for those navigating the pain of an unanticipated and unwanted major life renovation.
It was a happy accident. My mom was talking about how she met the goal of improving her blood work (cholesterol, glucose, etc.) and needed a new motivation to continue to eat right and exercise. I was feeling the travel bug biting hard and my unused passport in my maiden name was growing restless. And, somehow, some way, the topic of Italy came up.
She mentioned that it was her dream destination. The top contender on the bucket list. I casually mentioned, “Why don’t we do it together.” I heard her face light up over the phone. She grew excited. Giddy. We only had a few minutes until I had to go, so we quickly talked through some basics. I had made the trip to Italy once before with a high school group, so I had some idea of what I wanted to do on this trip. I thought of the places I had gone and what I wanted to share with her. I took off like a rocket.
Rome, of course. The history there. Piazza Navona and that little gelato place. Vatican museum. That place was amazing. Famous artwork even lined the hallways to the bathrooms. All those cathedrals. The Coliseum. I wonder if it’s still full of cats? The Pantheon. That one caught me by surprise. The beauty and unexpected joy of the rain pouring through the occulus. Florence. The Uffizi Gallery. Oh my god, those statues were amazing. Pompeii. I still dream of that place. Inspiring and haunting all at once. All the images came tumbling back.
I never made it north of Florence. She began to speak wistfully of Venice and the lake country. We would have to include those, as well.
When? We set a date. Summer of 2013.
All of this occurred in under 20 minutes. A trip sketched out. A dream laid.
Good thing I tossed a coin in here 20 years ago!
I had a busy evening with friends that night. She had a busy evening too; purchasing travel and Italy apps, buying books, and beginning research. I could tell she was thrilled. Even better, I could tell she was motivated to stay healthy to be able to handle the rigors of Italy. I am excited to be able to do this trip together: mother and daughter. We will have our challenges, but they are known ones and mainly due to our different paces. It’s a good thing that I have mellowed somewhat and that my Vibram running shoes pack down small:) I am looking forward to showing her the sights that made such an impact on me 20 years ago and seeing the look on her face as she visits the locals of her dreams.
This was just a few short weeks ago. Since then, she has mapped out the itinerary and started researching hostels. I have begun the process of figuring out how to feed myself while there (luckily, it looks like gluten free will be easy, but I remember them all too clearly calling me a “sadomasochist” for being vegetarian when I was a teenager). I’ve been inundated with Italy-themed emails and the first “mom” package of books has arrived. I love it. I get to see my mom excited and, for me, I get to obtain the first stamp on the passport of my new life.
Look out Verona, these two ladies are coming your way!
My grandmother loves pictures. Her entire house is a scrapbook, a display of photographs spanning decades, cataloging the lives of those she loves. Her fridge is the ever-changing display of the pictures she wants to look at most. I don’t get to grandma’s nearly as often as I would like, but when I do, I always look at the pictures on the fridge to quickly catch up.
It has been interesting to see my own picture evolve over the years, especially the ones taken with others. When I was a child, many of my pictures contained one or both of my parents or one of my grandparents. Later, many of them featured my cousins. In my latter teenage years, my ex began to enter the pictures. I remember two of her fridge in particular: one taken in the airport when we were departing from a trip to visit my grandmother and another from when I was awarded teacher of the year.
When he left, obviously those pictures had to be replaced.
The first replacement was taken with the police officer who arrested my ex-husband. It was somewhat surreal to see that photo surrounded by pictures of family. But that man became family of a sort that summer, as he looked out for me as family would. This picture was taken less than two weeks after he left. My ex was in jail at the time of the photo.
The next replacement was a picture taken with my current partner (at a baseball game, one of my new passions) after we had only been seeing each other a few weeks.
“Grandma, I exclaimed!,” shocked at seeing his face up there so soon. “It has only been a few weeks; isn’t it kind of soon to have his picture up.”
“It’s not like it’s up there with glue,” she calmly replied with a sly smile.
That day I received a bit of Zen wisdom from my grandmother and her fridge. Nothing is permanent; everything will change.
I am happy to report that almost four years later, the picture has been replaced, but the man in it has not.
Lessons From the End of a Marriage 