Perspectives Reframed: Dating Again

Chris and me at a Scottish restaurant in New York City.
We weren't vegetarians yet and just had our minds blown by haggis.

During our first few correspondences, Chris did not have his photo available for viewing online. Regardless, we clicked right away, and soon it became clear that he was different compared with other's I'd been involved with before. He brought out a side of me that was more comfortable. Mind you, "comfortable" is generally not a term I use to describe myself very often. But Chris was (and still is) very easy to talk to about everything that I went through with Roman. Also being a talented musician who once taught Latin, he was educated, articulate, and funny. With those qualities, I was willing to wait a little while on his photo. Truthfully though, I was really dying to see what he looked like.

In retrospect I was still very vulnerable, though I did not admit it to myself at the time. I think it was a shift in my priorities, along with some intangible guidance from above that protected me from potential emotional annihilation. Potential negatives like a bruising rejection or a tangled rebound could have been crippling, though I reasoned that nobody new could hurt me half as badly as Roman had. So even though I was aware of the emotional tightrope I walked by dating quickly after his death, it was my sense of protection that empowered me to focus and keep moving forward steadily.

With my change in priorities, I considered the qualities of new people only to the degree that they affected me. I knew that the guy I ended up with did not have to be perfect, he just needed to be right for me. Never again would I invest my energy into a relationship with someone who did not bring out the best in me, or vice versa. It was a logical way of thinking that also required a great deal of trust in my intuition to make the right choices. But even so soon after his death, I had already learned a lot about my past mistakes.

Roman's lack of communication and ongoing platitudes made me feel quietly neurotic. Since his behavior on the surface was as it should have been however, I was often vexed over my own reactions. Roman went through all of the motions perfectly. He courted me when we dated. He called, pursued me, put a ring on my finger, and constantly told me what I wanted to hear. In return I was good to him; yet he still cheated. But at the end of the day, his actions were not a reflection of me or my worth. Now I get that.

Communicating his thoughts without turning things into a joke, a debate, or simply stopping cold was difficult for Roman. My attempts to address it only made him more standoffish. And because of differences in how we communicated, Roman probably needed someone less attuned, while I in turn needed someone more emotionally available. Looking back, it's really no wonder he hit it off with Erica. She validated the side of his character that I disliked. To her, the same traits that I considered weaknesses, she considered attractive. Her angle complimented him better than mine. But Roman didn't necessarily do it for me either. It wasn't until after he died, that I realized why.

Working on forgiveness showed me that our incompatibility was not personal; we simply were not right for one another at the onset. We never really brought out the best in each other and should never have gotten married to begin with. Roman and I both felt trapped at times. Trying to see various perspectives helped me better understand myself and Roman in order to heal some of my lingering heartbreak.

Old lady or young?

I was, and still am a caring, conscientious, and intuitive person. However, when that side of my personality is not validated, it could be viewed in other, less complimentary ways. Depending on the other person's viewpoint, those same traits could seem intense and neurotic. When I care, I can be very focused. That attention can feel warm and fuzzy to some or uncomfortable and piercing to others.

Both views are probably correct depending on the point of view being taken. It's like the famous Gestalt picture of the old lady and young lady... They both exist. Though I am hardly alone. Most human traits could be viewed as strengths or weaknesses, simply by the light that is cast upon them. Perception is subjective. Attractiveness is simply dependent on the lens of the person doing the viewing.

So as I started meeting new people in the days after Roman died, I kept perspective in mind and also shifted my thinking about myself. Instead of feeling bad about my quirks, I reframed them into strengths in my mind and looked for a person who would also view them accordingly.

With that, the instant a new guy said something that rang of poor communication or of subtle criticism like Roman's frequent words, "ahhhh Sunny, you worry too much.." I politely moved on...

...Next!

I trusted my instincts, opting to invest only in a relationship where both of our characteristics would be complimented positively by the other person. And as it turned out, Chris fit the bill. Luckily too, I liked what I saw when I finally saw his picture.

I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't terrified over pursuing a relationship with him. But I'm stubborn resilient, and have consciously refused to stop growing or be defined by loss. However, I also know that denying my prior ordeal is no more beneficial than perseverating on it. Like it or not, my scars are still there. Thankfully, my relationship with Chris over the past few years has helped me accept my experience as a whole. My grief is the same, I'm just more comfortable with it today because perspective has to helped transform my loss into something useful.

The 1st photo I saw of Chris after I met him on eHarmony.
"Yay," I thought, "He's cute AND he likes animals!"

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Forgiveness Part 2: Actions In Retrospect

Getting our marriage licence the day before we got married. The looks on our faces say it all.
"We're doing what..??"

"Cold feet" is a good way to sum up my feelings about my wedding day.

I was anxious and doubtful. Of course, I was always anxious and doubtful, not just when it came to marrying Roman. I suppose that is why I ignored the voice in my head that screamed at me to consider what a potentially huge mistake I was making. That stupid voice was always chattering on about something though, so I had gotten pretty good at tuning it out when I felt that another person's logic was better suited to the situation. I did not trust myself.

Roman was so smart and rational; he was very easy to trust when it came to reason. Although, in retrospect, when looking at this picture of Roman and I taking an oath when applying for our marriage licence, I think it's safe to say that I was not the only one with doubts.

But we both had our roles in the relationship. I was the worry wart. Roman was the problem solver.

If he expressed his doubts to me about getting married, well then, he would have been stepping out of his designated space. Who knows how I would have reacted. He probably knew that, so he carried on with the plan and maintained his duty as the steady one in the relationship. I too carried on with the plan, choosing to ignore my own uncertain inklings, which I simply chalked up as irrational.

In retrospect now, I see that was not being neurotic. My fears were valid.

Roman and I had some serious communication issues that I couldn't put my finger on in the beginning. It wasn't until a couple years into the marriage that I really saw our disconnect clearly. But by then, I was invested...It was too late to walk away. Counseling was an option we had discussed, but never pursued. We had become complacent and I had gotten masterful at ignoring my better judgement. Which brings me to the point of this post.

They say that how a person copes with change depends greatly on what they were like before the event took place. I think about that a lot as I wonder about how I handled news of Roman's affair. While I have always been a reserved, shy, outwardly stoic person, I have never had trouble expressing my pointed anger to anybody who crossed me.

Two instances come to mind offhand. One was in high school when I confronted my neighbor for spreading rumors about me around campus. He lied and told people that he could hear me having sex with my boyfriend in my room, which was adjacent to his bedroom by just a few feet. After enough friends at school told me what he was saying, I went next door to tell him to stop. Only, when he was face to face with me, he wouldn't admit to his actions, so I slapped him in a fury right across his lying face. I slapped him so hard that my hand stung. He started to cry as he ran into his house. He also never said a word again about me at school.

Another instance that comes to mind is my pointed way of breaking up with a long-term boyfriend whom I'd dated before I met Roman. Without going into tremendous detail, we went out for about two years on and off. I never felt that I had his full attention, so during one phone conversation when I'd had enough of feeling ignored by him, I snapped angrily "Fuck you!" as I slammed down the phone. With that, the relationship was officially done. We didn't speak again until six years later, after Roman died, when I called him to apologize for my lack of tact in ending things with him.

At the time though, a reaction like that was not unusual for me. Reacting with force to people who upset me was how I ensured that my reserve would not be mistaken for weakness. It was not a tactic I used often, but when I did, my words and ensuing actions were definitely felt by my target. I was like that up until the day Roman died.

So for me to decide quickly that I wanted to part ways with Roman amicably, even after knowing that he was unfaithful, and knowing in my gut that he was still lying, it came as a surprise even to me. My tongue could be sharp and my precisely chosen words could cut. Yet, even on the night that he dropped the bomb about his indiscretion, I was angry and I let him know, but I didn't lash out at him like I would have in the past.

For some reason, I held back.

And what's even more vexing is why I turned the other cheek so quickly after I finished expressing my hurt. The ego can be a monster that could have easily allowed me to become an angry, bitter, betrayed ex-wife at that time. But that was not how I was nudged to respond. In fact, quite the opposite was my inclination. The last time that I saw Roman, I told him I loved him. I told him I was going to be okay. I wished him well. I wanted to hug him but didn't out of fear of looking weak. Perhaps I had simply matured and recognized my ability to react with kindness as a strength.

But why then?

Why that day?

For me, that is where the larger plan comes into focus and that little voice that was in my head, which I long ignored as irrational and neurotic, suddenly found it's place in my daily being.

Grief Part 8: The Lesser Known Stages of Grief - Guilt, Regret, and Unbridled Rage

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Orestes Pursued By The Furies. John Singer Sargent. 1921

Roman was five years my junior and as I mentioned in an earlier post, I was initially reluctant to begin a relationship with him. He was a funny friend whom I had met at school. I liked having him as a friend. He was always reliable for a laugh. So as things started becoming serious and he boldly proclaimed his intent to marry me, I was cautious. After all, he was so young, just 23 at the time. Often I expressed my reservations that he was too young and that my focus on grad school would be too hard on our relationship. Many times I suggested that we wait to get married until after I finished school.  With each utterance of concern though, Roman logically assured me that as long as we stuck to a budget and managed our resources responsibly, and as long as I stopped worrying so much, we would be okay.  I agreed, but deep down I still was anxious. And in retrospect, I don't think I ever really overcame that. Nonetheless, I ignored my reserve in favor of his judgment, reasoning that his genius intellect was wiser than my doubt. I rationalized that his intelligence was sufficient and outweighed the wisdom that comes from life experience. He was young, true, but I trusted him. So I pressed on with plan, even though it was harder at times than we both anticipated at first. Especially when it came to facing the challenges that emerged after I finished grad school, once I began working. And I felt tremendous remorse in the days following his death because of that.

Planning Roman's funeral brought up a slew of sadness as one might expect. But a less obvious reaction that dominated me during those days, was a sensation of bone crushing guilt. It came in waves when random flashbacks popped into my mind. Each wave hit me like a rogue tsunami. Every return brought with it swirling questions, doubt, and sinking regret regarding some of my own actions from the beginning of our relationship up until the days leading up to his passing. In retrospect, I see that none of my actions were particularly rotten or horrible; never had I consciously set out to hurt Roman. But the dawning realization that nothing could be repaired now that he was gone, was a very sobering and painful pill to swallow. Consequently, I became fixated on the agonizing desideratum of knowing weather or not he died happy. I recognized that I could not possibly know for sure, yet still, it consumed me. The thought was like a skipping record in my head, "Did he have a peaceful mind when he left this life? And if not, was I to blame?"

During our last conversation, Roman told me he wanted to start counseling so that he could understand what caused him to cheat. He said he wanted to give me the answers I deserved. It was quite a step for Roman, being that he had never been an emotionally connected person. True to his word, he indeed met with a therapist the next day - on the afternoon before the run that took his life. And his therapist became the one person who could possibly help subdue my guilt. I found her name by finding the microfilm of the check he had written to her for his co-payment. I called and left her a message that must have sounded crazy. Sobbing like a loon on her voice mail, I explained that he had passed away.  I recall blubbering about needing to know if he was happy when he died...about needing to know what he told her on the last day of his life. She was kind when she returned my call, but she would not tell me what he talked about with her specifically. All she would say was that he was "confused," claiming "confidentiality" prohibited her from telling me. She said the "estate holder" has rights to confidentiality after a client dies and was unsure about what she could say. She and I both knew that as his wife, I was his next of kin and accordingly, was also the "estate holder" by default. But I did not push her to tell me. I must have sensed her intention to protect me. From what, I did not know at the time. She tried to comfort me by focusing on the positive conversation we had before he died. She confirmed that Roman spoke to her about feeling good when he left my apartment. That is all she would say though, so I was left to my own devices.

The thought that Roman spent what turned out to be the end of his life, in an unhappy marriage to me, was agonizing. I worried that I had cheated him out of his youth when I knew better than to marry him so young. Graduate school took up so much of my energy during most of our marriage and I felt terrible guilt that I had neglected his needs; that I had been distant - that I had been a bad wife. Especially during times when I found his lack of social prowess off putting. And the doubts that I held all along, started feeling like the cause for the chaos that had entered into my life. What's more, in assembling the photo montage for Roman's service, I stumbled across a box of old notes and letters that he had written to me over the years. Most of which, I had long forgotten, but one of which made my blood run cold when I read Roman's words that said he felt ignored by me at times. It was a note he had written to me after we had a rare argument just before we got married.

Reading that note in the days after his death felt like I was communicating with his lonely ghost. Just as I had casually said to Roman the day before he died, I now felt as though I was actually being haunted by his ghost. His was a ghost I could not quell. It was a ghost that brought me to such a state of despair after I processed his letter, that my mom literally hugged me and rocked me as I sobbed. Grief had regressed me back to that complete helplessness...like an infant. And my tears were powered by sadness and guilt that was so incontestable, that I thought I could somehow use it to will Roman back to life. I was desperate for his reassurance, but the ghost that taunted me was intangible. I knew I would never get the kind of comfort that I sought, and because of that, I thought I might die - right then and there. I wanted to die in those moments. I felt undeserving of life. My thinking was not suicidal, but was certainly illogical. I was immersed in grief. And my anger toward Roman for his affair flipped inward. I blamed myself for everything. The hours that followed my discovery of his notes were the most sorrowful of my entire life. I am grateful now that my mom was with me when I found them. She talked sense into me as she held me. Sense that I had all but lost in the haze of the moment.

So having gone through such a painful period of self blaming and regret, the anger that I emerged when Roman's co-workers snubbed me at his memorial party was palpable. What's more, when Roman's Cingular bill arrived four days after his funeral - after I had just poured my heart into his eulogy and sobbed uncontrollably with regret, to the point of being rocked like a baby by my mom - and I saw the phone calls to and from Roman's cellphone, by and from a number I did not recognize...when I read the bill closely and saw that he had made and received calls lasting anywhere from two to five hours long...when I saw that he made a call to this number just before arriving at my door - just before I noticed the look of love on his face...when I saw that he made a call to that number minutes before going on the run that he never returned from.

I knew.

I turned inside out...again.

Further, after I called the number and spoke to the person on the other end, I raged. The fury that enveloped me once I hung up from that call was unlike anything I had yet experienced; or have experienced since. It was anger that boiled my blood to the point that I could not stand still. Now, having gone through it, I know for sure that spontaneous human combustion does not exist. Because if it did, I would have burst into flames right there from the fuel ignited by my own internal detonator.

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Grief Part 7: Beginning To Connect The Dots

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Immediately following Roman's memorial, guests joined us for food and low key pleasantries at his brother Don's house. In a small tribute to Roman, I prepared roasted red pepper sandwiches for the guests. Coming up with meals that were meatless, but hearty, and good enough to entice even a meat eating carnivore, became an interest of mine during our marriage. Roman was a vegetarian but I was not yet at that time, so I spent a good deal of effort honing my culinary skills so that we could both share in good meals at home. And it turns out, I was pretty good. Roman loved my cooking.  It was one thing I did that always brought out the best in him.

When I was dabbling in pizza making, Roman would often make impromptu calls to my voice mail and leave me messages about what kinds of pizza toppings he wanted to try next. He was particularly enthusiastic when I started exploring bread making and could combine the two, to make French bread pizza. Simple rustic recipes always got his attention, so my roasted red pepper, fresh mozzarella, and homemade pesto sandwiches were a hit every time. They seemed like an appropriate meal choice for a party meant to honor Roman's life. And I am happy to report that they were also a hit with the guests at the memorial too.

Among the people in attendance at the reception that evening were Roman's coworkers.  He worked at their company for about a year or so. I had not met any of them previously, except for the human resources manager, Terri. When I called his workplace to break the news of his death, it was Terri with whom I spoke. Later in the day after she and I talked, Terri stopped by Roman's mother's house to bring us food from Boston Market. It was a nice gesture that came courtesy of the owner of the company. While she was there, she also brought me Roman's last paycheck and an additional check for his unused vacation time.  Unfortunately, Roman never took any vacation days, so the check was enough to cover his funeral costs. It was heartbreaking. I would rather have gone on vacation than use it to pay for his death expenses, yet I was grateful that I was able to cover it all. Funeral costs are expensive and until I received that check, I was unsure how I would pay for it. Terri, Roman's mom, and I chatted for a bit about our collective sadness, but she did not stay long. When she left, I was again surprised at her friendliness and warmth, as Roman never spoke kindly of her to me. Still, I knew to consider his words with caution, so at that time, I felt good about any future dealings I may have with her.

About ten of Roman's coworkers made it over to the house for the party. They all congregated at a patio table outside while they ate. And once I finished serving my sandwiches and began to socialize with the guests, I noticed palpable vibe from them. They did not interact much with anyone outside of their group after they finished eating, but that part did not seem unusual. It was that none of them would look at me or speak to me. Only Scott, the coworker who spoke at the service, approached me to introduce himself, but even his demeanor was strange. Terri did not approach me even though we had met the prior week. In fact, not only did they seem to avoid me - they acted like they actually disliked me. It was so noticeable in fact, that a friend of mine pulled me aside to ask me what was going on with them, without me mentioning a word about what I was feeling. It struck me as strangely passive aggressive behavior. Here were a group of people behaving coldly toward the widow of their deceased colleague. To the widow they had never met previously - they behaved aloof and cliquish at their coworker's memorial. They overtly shunned me, and truth be told, it stung. I did not understand it.

Finally about an hour into the party, I took a deep breath and I made the effort to approach their table. Somehow, I convinced myself that maybe their coldness was in my head, and thought that perhaps once I broke the ice, things would be more comfortable. Yet, as I introduced myself, I was greeted by half hearted smiles and cold stares, if that; some of them completely avoided eye contact all together. Everyone but Scott, who was generally kind, and warm toward me, acted distant. But even Scott presented a notably awkward discomfort toward me.

Still, I continued my attempt at friendliness as I stood at their table looking down at them as they avoided my gaze. Though, I remember thinking it was interesting to finally put faces to names, since I had heard about most of them at one time or another. Scott being the only person out of the group that Roman generally spoke of with consistently high regard. The others were either not worth mentioning or were abysmal failures according to Roman's disparaging reports.

As I stood, Terri said hello and casually mentioned that she had asked Stu to come by earlier that week to clean out Roman's belongings. Terri knew I was Roman's wife and was his next of kin, so I was vexed over why she asked Stu to take his belongings. Her attitude was notably distant and not nearly as considerate as she was when she brought over the food. And before I knew it, in a flash, Roman's nickname for her, "big fat Terri" sauntered into my head. His name for her was mean, but it was nonetheless, what he called her. She upset me with her actions and her demeanor. I felt let down by her...I had been rooting for her, in spite of what I had heard.  Thats the only reason I can imagine his words popped into my head like that. But I did not utter them, I just thought them, then disregarded them as I moved onto next new face at the table.

As I connected faces to the names I had heard from Roman, I thought things like, "Oh okay, yeah, you must be Rachel...the 'useless' and 'stupid' manager who holds too many meetings.." For all but one or two people there, I could recall Roman's harsh descriptions verbatim.

And then it hit me like a slap in the face...I knew why they disliked me.

It was Roman.

Roman must have had an ugly nickname for his wife too. Of course! He never had a kind word for anyone else...why would I expect to be any different? After all, he had cheated on me. Surely, he must have felt justified by making me out to be a complete asshole like he did with everyone else. Never mind that I was his wife and had done nothing to deserve such an outright betrayal. He even affirmed to me the day before he died, that I did not deserve this. But apparently, he never passed the memo onto his workplace bulletin board. I wondered what they knew about his affair...I wondered what exactly he had said about me to make them act that way.

At that moment, their cold gazes made more sense to me. They did not know Roman like I did. They did not know how he operated. They did not know that his put downs were always to be taken with a grain of salt. Roman clearly had few nice things to say about me at the office and these people did not like me accordingly. They too were putting a face to whatever disparaging name he had given to me. And once the thought really settled into my consciousness and the reality made its way into my mind, I began to seethe.

In an instant I was so furious that I fought back tears of rage and humiliation. In an instant, I hated Roman. I hated Roman for putting me through this. I hated him for making these people think I am someone to look down on. I hated him for betraying me. I wanted to leave right then and there. I wanted out. I needed to escape. No longer did I want to play the widow role. I felt like a fraud and it hurt me down to my core.

Yet, I showed restraint and instead of leaving the house in a raging frenzy, or cornering his coworkers and demanding answers about their visible chill, I continued on with the party after a brief sob session onto the sleeve of Roman's brother Don. I labored my way through the rest of the party, but I decided that day, that I was ready to put the widow thing away for a while. I was angry and getting angrier by the minute.

The slow seeping anger brought my hostility about his cheating back on my radar...front and center. And I knew, I had to know the truth. I had to know or else the endless questions would drive me crazy. I knew the truth may well push me over an unforeseen precipice too, but I did not care. It was no longer a choice. I needed to know.  And eventually, I indeed found out.

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Running A Race In Lead Boots, Wearing Goggles Smeared With Vaseline

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Today I came across a forgotten journal that I started about a year or so after Roman's death.  There are only a few rambling entries, but there are two that I think are relevant and coherent enough to share.

February 12, 2008

Ever since my life changed last year, I have avoided sitting down to write about it.  Probably because it is something so painful that I don't want to think about it, even though I think about it all the time.  Also, because it is so big and tangled, I don't know if I will ever understand or really be at peace.  For the most part, life has moved on for me and good things have come.  But still somehow I feel damaged and I do not quite know how to make it better.

Now sometimes life feels really hard.  I had issues before Roman died, but it was never this hard and scary and overwhelming.  It feels like there are so many things that are controllable in my life now, but I do not know how to control them anymore.

From the outside looking in, its probably simple...Just do this or say that.  But sometimes, most of the time, I feel so tired and foggy and overwhelmed that I feel stuck.  Like I'm running in a race with lead boots wearing goggles smeared with Vaseline.  Joy is something that I have truly come to value, but now I am not sure what brings me joy.

Now here I am, describing the after effects of what happened, but have not gone into what came first.  I don't like to talk about it, because I don't want to be defined by it.  And because I get so sick of people looking at me with pity. While they are well intentioned, they have no idea what I am really dealing with.  I don't know why, but I always seem compelled to put them at ease by sharing a few details about Roman - to help them feel validated for reaching out, I suppose.  The details I share appear to be the whole story, but they are not.

Its too big, too painful, and too overwhelming to be shared in passing. Not something that can be brought up during social pleasantries or that can be fixed easily with platitudes, pity, or advice.  People mean well, but they don't know how to act toward me just with the knowledge of Roman's death.  But his death is only part of what consumes me.  And I am beginning to despise the saying "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger."  Bullshit. Ever hear of PTSD?  Hardly the outcome of a person made stronger.  Sometimes I really just want to climb out of my skin.  

February 15, 2008

All in all, today was a good day - with the exception of waking up with another cold.  Maybe its good.  It keeps my system working.  I don't know, but it seems that I get sick regularly ever since I started getting serious about school; way back when I was working full time and going to school full time.  Its like I reached a stress threshold that my system can't keep up with.  But its strange, because I really don't feel particularly stressed.  Maybe its just all I know, so I cannot tell the difference anymore.

Roman never had so much as a headache and he dropped dead.  I remember him feeling a little under the weather once, shortly after we got married. He rested on the couch briefly.  He used to tell me that I would not get sick anymore if I became a vegetarian.  I never bought that, because I practically was one when I was with him and I always got sick anyway.

Another time I remember him getting freaked out about a minor ailment.  He started to cry as we lay in bed in the dark because he thought he had cancer.  The prior summer he had a lump on his leg that turned out to be a strained muscle.  But from my understanding, there was initial fear by his doctor that it was cancer.  That night, I remember being annoyed at first that he reacted so strongly, because his symptom was something very minor, but then I realized that he was really scared.  I remember reassuring him and telling him in no uncertain terms that there was no way he had cancer.  I thought it was ridiculous.  Impossible.  I remembered that night after Roman died, but I hadn't paid much attention to it at the time.

Roman never cried.  I wonder now if he feared - or somehow knew - that he would die young.

Once when we went to the zoo, when we were in that primate behavior class together, he was wary of my driving, which apparently was erratic.  He let me know several times, by half joking in his usual dead pan tone "uh, I don't want to die today, okay...Take it easy."  That was the first time we spent time alone together.  He spoke openly with me about a lot of things during that drive.  Thoughts about growing up feeling ignored, his general irritation with people, frustration over being perceived as 'mean,' etc.  We clicked instantly.  But I didn't know him well enough at that time, to know that it was out of character for him to be so forthcoming.

And I find it strange now, like he had some premonition when he said he did not want to die.  True, he appeared to be joking, but in hindsight, its chilling.  Besides, if he had a sense of his fate, why would he return to running after his first collapse?  But I guess, even with that said, he was cautious about running again.  He waited a year before actively resuming.

For a time, when we moved to our new apartment, we took advantage of the bike trails in the area.  Roman would jog and I would ride my bike.  It was a nice, brief time in our relationship.  For a short time, we shared something healthy that we could both enjoy.  But being the athlete, or lack there of, that I am, I quickly lost interest even though Roman did not.

Of course, he didn't bother to tell me that until the night he dropped the bomb on me.  On some level though, I knew he was disappointed.  But I do think I would have made more of an effort if I knew it really meant something to him. He just came off so stoic and arrogant; like feelings - disappointment, fears, and wants were beneath him.  As though, they were something that only others were burdened by - but never him.

I always had my thoughts about what made him tick.  But in truth, I could not have truly known, because he did not know himself.  He was a constantly moving target.  He just seemed to be beginning to try to understand himself at the time of his death.  I feel cheated for him that he did not live long enough to get answers.  But then again, knowing Roman, who knows how long he would have searched?

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A Sharp U-Turn Onto The Highroad Of Wifedom Causes Emotional Whiplash

Image by Horia Varlan via Flickr

After the police cleared the scene the night of his death, Roman's mom, brother and I headed back to the house nearby.  Steadily over the next hour or so, Roman's other siblings and in-laws also filtered in.  Roman had successfully kept me at arms length from his family during our marriage, so sitting amongst them that night felt like I was in the company of strangers.  Likewise, there I was, a virtual stranger, present in a state of shared disbelief, attempting to comprehend the seemingly impossible events that brought us together in the childhood bedroom that Roman recently made his own again.  We sat with a palpable, yet imperceptible division between us.


Separated by metaphoric glass walls, it was as though we were all watching the same movie.  We were connected by our relations to Roman and connected by our collective shock over his sudden death; but also oddly, we were also somehow connected by our own personal disconnects from Roman.  Dynamics I was obviously aware of between Roman and me, but that I did not fully grasp the extent of between Roman and his family prior to that night.

Hesitantly, as we sat together processing the incredulity of his death, Roman’s family sought answers about the abrupt unraveling of our superficially stable union.  Their questioning came as a surprise, as I assumed they were already privy to the specific details - if not directly from Roman himself, then at least by way of the family grapevine.  But being that they were in the dark to the extent that they were, it become clear that I was not the only person in Roman’s life who experienced disconnect from him.

Certain family members knew parts of the story, while others knew nothing of our separation until the night of his passing.  Roman shared bits and pieces casually with his mom and brother Stu during the week that he was home, but neither his mother nor his five siblings were comfortable probing for details surrounding the breakdown of our marriage.

What’s more, those in the know were not at ease talking about circumstances with others in the family; preferring instead to let it come from Roman himself.  And apparently, Roman was offering up little on his own.  My willingness to answer their questions with direct candor seemed to relieve some of the isolated strain between us.  Further, it also quelled their initial concern about how I might behave toward them in the coming days.

As we began tossing around considerations for memorial arrangements, Roman’s family appeared unsure if my feelings surrounding Roman’s infidelity would cloud my willingness to make decisions that would be in line with Roman’s wishes (although as it turns out, none of us were exactly sure what his wishes were).  Apprehension from them was understandable at the time, given their unfamiliarity with my character thanks to Roman successfully distancing me from them during the tenure of our marriage.  In response, I attempted to put them at ease by reiterating my intention to work closely with Roman’s mom to do right by him.

My words were sincere, as I truly wanted to do the “right thing,” whatever that may turn out to be.  It was important to me that his family not be punished during their time of grief by any passive aggressive attempts from me, in a misguided effort to get back at Roman, by undermining his memorial.  Passive aggression is generally not my forte anyway and I understood that even if I were so inclined to act out angrily, my efforts would not affect Roman in the least, since he was now gone.
  
Unfortunately, however, instruction manuals and shortcuts for such situations are nonexistent, so my only option was simply to trust myself to get it right.  And it turned out that doing right by everyone meant taking the high road, ignoring my feelings about Roman’s affair, and putting my personal ambivalence about his character aside.

Without a doubt, I was conflicted about taking on such dedicated responsibilities for someone who had betrayed me, but there was a part of me remaining that felt like I was still Roman’s wife.  Given that it had been a mere 14 days since I was suddenly made aware of his infidelity, and it had been an even shorter seven days since he had left our apartment to stay with his mom, it was relatively easy for me to reinstate my wifely role after Roman died.
  
Consequently though, I realize the shift back to wifehood came at a personal cost, now that I consider it in retrospect.  Occurring after sudden stream of numerous life-altering trials that I was already dealing with at that point, the impromptu 180-degree mental switch into reverse produced an emotional whiplash, which coupled with profound grief and the subsequent discovery of Roman’s mistress, eventually led to a type of breakdown in functioning that I can only describe as a “psychological concussion.”  But I digress…

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Grief Part 2: Speak Now Or Forever Hold Your Peace

Image by CarbonNYC via Flickr

For the second part of this entry, I will begin to refer to my husband under the pseudonym "Roman." Readers who know me personally may quiz at that choice of name, but it actually is a natural one - though admittedly, nothing close to his given moniker.  We used to joke about his name being "Roman," after I had an unsettling dream before our wedding, where I dreamed that Roman was his real name. In the dream, I was upset to learn that I was fooled into thinking he had a different name all along, when everyone else but me knew his name was really Roman. Strange choice of names for my subconscious to decide upon, though looking back, I must have sensed early on, that he kept secrets; little did I dream at the time, that his name would be turn out to be the least of my worries...

Sunday came, and as expected, so too did my recently estranged husband for our planned visit. He came to the door and knocked, which really struck me, as just in the span of two weeks, he went from my husband who shared a life with me, to being to a visitor knocking at my door.

He was smiling when I answered the door; he seemed happy. There was a spring in his step and a certain look in his eye. It had been a while since I'd seen it, but I knew it well once. He had the giddiness and excitement of a person who recently found new love. Only, this time, it was not with me.  It was obvious; he reeked of it. But I decided in that moment, that I had not called him over to press him again to come out with it, which he clearly had no intention of doing - so I focused rather, on what had been my original purpose for calling him - that being simply to talk and have him collect his personal possessions.

I wanted things to be amicable, no matter what the outcome. That much I knew for sure.  And Roman was relieved when I expressed my goal of maintaining civility.  Of course, knowing what I know now, he had reason to fear another potentially volatile reaction from me, if I had known the whole truth at that time.

We decided to go for a walk and proceeded down a neighborhood path we had taken many times before. It was a nice sunny day and we talked easily as we walked.  He showed a maturity that day, which I'd often sought before, but never found.  Concern for his siblings, or any family for that matter, was never something he expressed openly until he brought it up along the way.  One brother in particular, Stuart, was on his mind.  Stuart was probably the sibling he was closest with and was the sibling who was most like Roman in personality.

At that time, Stu was still living at home with their mom, well into his 30's, without any apparent ambition to move forward.  Roman said he hoped to take some time to get to know Stu better, now that they were both home with mom, and further said he hoped to perhaps help Stu get better established in the grown up world. It was nice to see that side of Roman, since one of my primary issues in our marriage was his lack of regard for family - be it mine, his, or our potential future family together. But that day he showed he cared, and it saddened me that I was only now being privy to this side of him.  Nonetheless, I continued forward with our rare, connected conversation, instead of pausing to bemoan my personal disappointment over what would have been, or could have been, but turned out not to be.

We finished our walk and ended up back in the kitchen of my apartment.  In the past, I often held back initiation of conversations based on emotion with Roman, because he was generally so clinical in his thinking, and therefore critical of me in response.  Though, on this particular day, I didn't care what he thought of me; I had some things to say and I wanted him to listen, like it or not. During the week that he was away, I reflected a lot on my role in the breakdown of our marriage.  I told him accordingly, that I was sorry if I was withdrawn at times, sorry if I took him for granted, sorry if I made him feel small, sorry for stressing out so much about school, and sorry for worrying so much when we didn't have a lot of money in the beginning.

Initially, as expected, he tried to shut me down, saying he "screwed up our marriage" alone and that I had "nothing to be sorry for." And though, while I accepted and appreciated his words, I persisted in grabbing at MY opportunity to clear MY conscience of any wrong doing, even though I previously did so at the time without consciously knowing it.  I went on and explained that his time away during the week had given me new perspective on things, which was comforting because it affirmed to me that I was going to be okay starting a new life without him.  Lightheartedly, I then joked that seeing his clothes in the apartment all week, began to make me feel "haunted by his ghost."  A remark I made that would actually end up haunting me to this day.  Of all phrases to choose...little could I know.

Roman listened at my insistence and said he understood where I was coming from, then thanked me for my sincerity.  In response, he continued with the expression he began a moment before when he tried to silence my words of remorse. "No need for you to be sorry," he reiterated, then went on, "you were good to me, Sunny. You did not deserve this. I'm sorry...I'd like to see a therapist to help me understand why I did all this...why I did this to you..."

Fighting back tears, I nodded and said, "We had something good once, I'm just really sorry you no longer saw its value." Roman paused, nodded, and said, "I love you...I'm sorry."  I told him I loved him too and said I was grateful for this opportunity to talk candidly, unlike we'd done much before. He agreed. In that moment I wanted to hug him, but I didn't do it for fear of seeming weak and needy. He then proceeded to pack up some of his belongings, while I began making dinner for myself.

It took Roman about 45 minutes to pack most of his things into his car.  At about the same time that he finished, I was just sitting down to eat my dinner. Being polite, I reluctantly offered him a serving, though I felt it was no longer my wifely duty to care.  And in truth, at the time, I didn't want him to share the meal I had prepared.  No matter, he declined my offer anyway, saying, "I haven't had much of an appetite these last couple days...I actually lost four pounds this week."

In that instance, I actually thought nothing of his reply, but later that statement would bring me to my knees with guilt for secretly not really wanting to share a dinner at the time and over not insisting he eat something anyway.  He was thin as a rail already, I should have been alarmed that he was loosing weight so rapidly; but logically, I know now that there was no way I could have anticipated at that moment, that he had less than 24 hours to live.  Not in my wildest nightmares.

Looking back, I remember vividly those last moments. I was sitting cross legged on the floor, with my home made pizza on a plate before me on the coffee table; looking up at him as he spoke. He was tall, thin, and scruffy; he hadn't shaved in a few days at least.  Wearing a pair of camouflage shorts and a light blue t-shirt I had recently purchased for him on my credit card before he dropped a bombshell on me, he turned and headed for the door.

I told him to call me during the week so we could work out how to pay for his counseling co-payments, since our bank account was still joined. And once more, as I watched him leave, I successfully fought back the urge to get up and hug him before he left. Upon reaching for the door, Roman looked back at me, said okay about getting in touch later that week, said bye, and left.  It was the last time I saw him alive.  I wish I would have hugged him like I wanted to...but how could I have known that I would never get the chance again?

He died the next evening while out for a routine jog after work.  While learning of his sudden death, everything I had come to terms with up to that point, was instantly scrapped and cast aside. And all that I thought lay ahead for me in my new life, once again, changed in a flash...Lifted, without warning, like the cash rich wallet of a disoriented tourist, straight into the thieving hands of gypsies. Poof! Just like that....Gone.

I found myself again, in a now familiar feeling of autonomic chaos within my body and mind.  Bracing myself for impact once more, after answering the phone and processing the brevity of the devastating news being sprung upon me; I thought it could not be real.  I thought it was a sick joke...It had to be a sick joke.  But nobody was laughing - and for the second time in two weeks, I was again a helpless passenger going down with the plane.  Only this time the tailspin was worse than anything I'd ever known before.  No, this was much, much, much worse...

 The Smiths - This Night Has Opened My Eyes

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The Grief About Grief, Part One: The Bomb Drops

Image by Tanya Dawn via Flickr

Initially, I began this piece, thinking that it would be just one entry.  However, as I got going,  I realized that while it is continually a topic consuming my thoughts as I endlessly attempt to understand it, I have never actually written about in depth until now.  Due to its complexity and deeply personal challenge, I decided to do it in parts - much as I would if tackling a vexing puzzle like Rubik's Cube.  Though, since I cannot cheat and peel the matching colors away from their originally designated spaces, placing them deceptively together on each side, without every actually solving the puzzle, I decided I'd rather not short circuit my brain's fragile axons, dendrites, and synapses on this activity alone.  No, on the contrary, I'm fairly sure these vital cognitive workhorses will be needed for other activities surfacing tomorrow...and the next day...and the next day. And as such, should be treated with the utmost care.  So with that, here we go...part one of the series:

Yesterday a friend confided in me that she was struggling over her lack of personal sadness from the recent loss of a family member. She came to me knowing that as her friend, I would listen without judgment and would help her make sense of things in a practical way; but also, she came to me because she knew that grief and I are unfortunately well acquainted. In order to shed light on my approach to the advice I gave to my friend, it may help the reader if I explain a little about my own experience with loss...

Nearly four years ago, my husband died suddenly. He was in his late 20's, active, smart, and in perfect health...or so it seemed. Little did we know at the time, that my husband's heart had a deadly congenital defect, which would eventually take his life without warning. I'd like to say that the grief I have experienced since he passed has been simple, linear, predictable, and convenient...however, in truth it has been anything but. Instead of being rooted merely in sadness, as someone blissfully unaffected by loss themselves might expect, my responses have been cluttered - running the gamut from anger, soul erupting rage, sadness, major depression, anxiety, panic, total mental numbness, crippling guilt, confusion and believe it or not...plain old peace and acceptance - sometimes…nay, often - all occurring at once.  However, his life being taken abruptly was in truth, the second assault on any illusion of permanence that I previously believed existed in my life.  The first, occurring two weeks before his passing, when my husband unexpectedly confessed to having engaged in an extramarital indiscretion.

Brought up at random, one Saturday night (four years to the day, as I write this), after asking him what he wanted for dinner, he felt so inclined to clear his conscience.  His words sent my mind into a tailspin. Instead of telling me he wanted spaghetti for dinner as I expected, he said flatly, "we have to talk," then turned off the TV. My heart sank. He never  wanted just to "talk." Talking, in his mind, was pedestrian, dull, and generally beneath him; so intuitively, I already knew what he was about to say next.  I braced myself like a helpless passenger on a doomed flight. And on impact, responded like an injured survivor might - fighting through the shock, confusion, fear, pain, and anger as I wrestled to get my mind around what just happened. Each autonomic continuum of ‘fight or flight’ took full effect inside me at once.  I yelled, cussed, cried, threw things, paced, slammed doors, and told him every-single hurtful thing I could muster, in an attempt to retrieve even an ounce of personal restitution for his deliberate selfishness.

Lord knows…I wasn't perfect, but I was honest and I upheld my wedding vows, even though he was emotionally distant and difficult to live with oftentimes. Instead of revering my loyalty and returning the favor though, he spat on it callously. And as such, I knew, deep down in my core, that he was not being completely honest in his decision to "come clean." My gut told me there was more than one indiscretion, and I called 'bullshit' so many times that I grew to loathe the sound of my own screaming voice. I was so irate and heartbroken that I felt I might disintegrate. But I didn't.

After a few days, the reality set in and it became clearer and clearer that he was still lying about a lot; there was no intention of him coming completely clean. Accordingly, I had no choice but to get real with myself about my own suppressed feelings.  And in doing so, I realized that I was really fucking tired.  No longer did I particularly want to be bound in holy matrimony to an emotionless void, with desperately inept social skills, who lacked any fundamental regard for my feelings. I was sick of trying to get him to let me in, to accept me as an equal, and connect with me in the way I craved and rightfully deserved.  Separation became the obvious next step.  So we did…for one week, while he stayed nearby with family.

During that week, I went about things as usual – never mentioning to friends or colleagues that I was in the midst of marital dissension.  Talking about it casually with others was not yet in my repertoire, as I did not have the acceptance needed to reply to small talk such as, “what’s new with you?” honestly or comfortably.  All told tough, I was doing pretty okay that week, which reassuringly surprised me . Though moments inevitably crept in at times, making me gloomy over the dissipation of the future I once naively thought I’d have with him. They were not crippling moments though, just melancholy - that is, until the Saturday after he left.

For some reason that day was harder and I missed him more than I had all week. His clothes and belongings were all remaining in the apartment, which on that particular day were impossible to ignore.  They were there like ghostly taunting reminders of the deluded marital chimera I had convinced myself of for so long.  They mocked me; I hated them, and I wanted them gone. Then it hit me, “Just call him,” I thought. “It's okay to call him if I miss him...If I'm angry, he should know...he's still my husband...I can call him if I want.” “And besides,” I reasoned, “it's not like he's dead or anything.” So I called, and we made plans to visit the next day, Sunday.

                                                

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