Category Archives: We’re Going to be OK

Anniversary, part two

Posted on by

2

You might want to start at the beginning of the story here.

It was a Thursday, the day I went to the county courthouse. I remember feeling angry – this wasn’t how I imagined my life, contemplating being a single mom, divorcing a man who was spiraling down into the abyss of alcoholism. He wasn’t the man I fell in love with 16 years ago. He wasn’t the man I married almost 10 years ago. Or the man I wanted to have babies with. Or the person I wanted to spend my life with. That guy was gone.

The courthouse was busy that day – or maybe it’s busy everyday. It was the first time I was ever inside. I was a little nervous about running into someone I knew, someone who knew Mike. After all, he was an attorney and had a lot of friends and colleagues who walked those halls daily.

I found the room I needed and waited my turn on a hard wooden bench in the hall. Ten minutes later, I was telling my story to a VERY young woman in flip flops and short shorts. She wasn’t really what the person imagined I would be talking to. I didn’t know what to expect, but she wasn’t it. I wasn’t sure how someone so young was going to be able to help me. Flip Flops asked a lot of questions and filled out several pages of forms.

Then she handed me a brochure with telephone numbers on it. Numbers for abused woman. “I’m not being abused,” I said. “He’s a drunk. He’s never touched me or the kids.”

“Abuse is more than just physical,” she told me. “Those names he’s calling you? The way he’s treating you? It’s not right.”

This all felt very surreal. Of all the things I wanted to remember about that day, the lighting in that tiny, windowless room stands out. It was a pathetic, yellowish lighting coming from way-too-bright overhead fluorescent lights. In a room that is used mostly by women (I assume), the lighting should be better, I thought. In this room, it was unflattering and sad. Someone coming into this room should feel good, but the lighting was any thing but confidence inspiring.

“You’re up next in the courtroom,” the Flip Flops said.

I felt my stomach knot up. Up next? I had to go to court NOW? I hadn’t thought I’d be in a courtroom on the same day as the forms I just filled out with Flip Flop’s help. I wasn’t even dressed for it – in jeans and a tee-shirt. I would have been more “serious” looking if I thought I would be going in front of a judge.

Flip Flops walked with me to the courtroom where she introduced me to an older woman. “This is Elise,” the young woman said. “She’ll be your advocate in the courtroom.”

Elise talked in whispers, walking me through what was going to happen. Then the judge walked in. The judge decided to hear from a couple sitting in the last row of the courtroom first.

I will never forget the couple’s story, that case before mine. The man was here to get visitation taken away from his ex-wife. The kids had visited their mom (his ex) the weekend before and she threw their three-year old daughter across the living room and into a wall. More than once. I felt like throwing up.

“This isn’t my life,” I thought. “Maybe my situation is not so bad.”

I wanted to leave. Instead, I cried, feeling glued to the spot I was told to stand. It was my turn.

I’m a strong woman. I’m not afraid or intimidated by anyone. I’ve worked with CEOs from Fortune 500 companies, celebrities, sports stars. No one gets me rattled. But standing here, in front of the judge, made me feel small and weak. I wondered how women – especially those who aren’t as confident as I (usually) am – do this.

I stood silently as he read the form that Flip Flops filled out. Then he spoke in a booming voice. “Why are you here?” he asked.

My voice seemed to be coming from someone else. It was quiet and I was mumbling. The judge asked me to speak up. In that softer-than-normal voice, I gave a brief overview of my reasons for pursing the order of protection. “Sounds like he’s a lazy husband,” the judge said. “That’s not illegal.”

“It’s more than that,” I said. I told him about the name-calling, the neglect of the kids including driving Ethan around while intoxicated, the destruction of our finances, the collapse of our lives.

“I’m going to grant this to you,” he said after a bit more questioning, “But it’s only good for a few weeks, then you will face him. And you better be ready because he will probably destroy you. I was hard on you today because I need to know you can take it. You can handle this, right?”

I was ushered to the side of the courtroom to wait for the paperwork to be signed. I was told the sheriff would arrive in 24-36 hours to serve the papers to Mike. Then I left.

Moving out (well, thinking about it anyway)

Posted on by

2

“I think I’ll find a duplex or condo soon,” my mom said at dinner last night.

I almost spit out my food – in shock.

My mom has lived with us since October 2010, moving in after my dad died and she sold their property in Tennessee. Lauren has never known life without Grandma RIGHT THERE, and Ethan loves having her close.

Of course, the original intent was never to have my mom live with us full-time forever. She was going to get her own house, close by, when we were in St. Louis. Then, things were bad with Mike, and she didn’t want to leave me (and the kids) alone to deal with his drinking and lying. She moved with me and the kids to Wisconsin and fully intended to get her own place there, but then Mike died and she thought the kids and I needed her close (we did/do).

But now, hearing that she’s actually LOOKING at places and has called an agent to help her search, it’s kind of a shock.

Yes, it’s tough sometimes having my mom live with me, like how she sets hot pans directly on my countertops (pet peeve) or how she doesn’t keep the pantry organized the same way I do (pet peeve). But, hell! She does the kids’ laundry, makes dinner, walks the dog, runs errands for us, keeps the house clean and running smoothly.

It would be nice to actually settle down in my house – my office is currently my mom’s bedroom and the guest room is PACKED with my mom’s “stuff.” Right now, my desk is in the dining room and office supplies are scattered in closets and the basement. And I don’t even know where the guest room furniture is… And three-quarters of my garage is filled with her furniture and boxes.

It would be nice to figure out how to be a single mom on my own. Besides, my mom will still be close – she watches Lauren three days a week. And it would probably be good for her to have her own space (and her stuff – which has been in storage or my garage for nearly two years). She needs to figure out how to deal with her own widow-hood.

I know I’m very fortunate to be in this situation with a mom who cares and wants to help (despite her own health and other issues). And a mom whom I can tolerate living under my roof.

It’s just bittersweet to think she’ll get her own place soon.

His Death is Real

Posted on by

2

Know what makes death real?

Reviewing the computer-generated image of the tombstone, or as they call it “cemetery memorial.”

The cemetery gave me a choice of two memorial companies for Mike’s tombstone. I went with the local one – they do everything in same small town as the cemetery. Seemed nice to support a local business that keeps jobs in the community and has been around for 60+ years.

The woman who answered the phone was very nice. I explained what I wanted – simple, cost-effective, not flowery or over designed. Just his name and dates. No chiseled angels or flowers. No fancy shape. No “best dad and husband ever!” Just tombstone-y. Basic.

We settled on a grey stone (cheapest option) with no special carving. Since it was a single grave (meaning, I didn’t buy plots next to him), it was actually much less than I anticipated. Of course, like everything in this death business, there’s a hidden fee. In this case, a $300 cost for  the “foundation” – it’s a cemetery requirement, not even sure what it is, but it’s not negotiable. The sketchy thing is that unlike paying for the grave plot (paid to the city) or the tombstone (paid to the mom-and-pop company), the foundation payment is due to some dude – not a corporation, just a dude.

This whole thing can be done by email and snail mail. Crazy. The company just sent the image by email. Of course, there’s a mistake. Mike’s date of birth is wrong. My fault. Thank goodness for seeing the proof!

Still, even with the wrong date, there’s something final about it. Something more than going to his showing or the funeral mass or burying him. Seeing the image of a grave marker with his name and his dates makes this very, very real. And final.

Guess Who Called

Posted on by

0

This afternoon, I was in a great mood. The new job provides incredible flexibility. Today, I needed to take Ethan to school – day one, show up anytime between noon and 6 p.m. , drop off supplies, meet the teacher, get photos taken, attendance mandatory. It would have been impossible to leave my previous job to do this. I would have had to take a vacation day, spending DAYS beforehand putting together a “plan” for how my team will remain successful for the ONE DAY I would be absent. (Unfortunately, not kidding.)

Tunes pumping. My thoughts racing with syllabus revisions I want to make and test questions I want to write. Huge grin on my face, happy to be able to take Ethan his first day of second grade.

Then, the music muted, and my cell phone rang. Thinking it was my mom, I picked it up quickly, looking at the caller ID screen.

“TXXXXXXX” – it was the last name of my in-laws on my screen. I haven’t talked to them since the funeral in January.

I didn’t answer.

A few minutes later, there was a message. “Jackie, this is Cindy. Would you please give me a call back. We have received some information through the mail that is pertaining to Ethan and they want me to have you contact them. Our number hasn’t changed. It is… Thank you.”

Her tone was cold and sterile. No “how are you” or “hope you and the kids are well.” No “hope you had a good birthday yesterday.” No pleasantries of any kind.

I haven’t called her back. Can’t imagine whatever they’ve received for Ethan is important. Nothing was forwarded to Mike’s address – not even his bills, so it’s probably junk mail. I know I’m going to have to call them back at some point, but damn, really? Now? When things are going so well?

When I do talk to them, I’m going to ask them to sign over access to his storage unit. Whew! Is that situation a mess – a mess that I’m paying rent for every.damn.month…

Searched

Posted on by

2

I was Googled.

I was talking to a new colleague today and she told me that 1) I nailed my interview a month ago, just nailed it, and 2) immediately following the interview, the search team Googled me. One of the first entries: Mike’s obituary.

The colleague couldn’t have been nicer. She didn’t press for information, didn’t ask questions. She just expressed her condolences and offered that this new position should make things easier, scheduling-wise, with the kids. Still, I wasn’t expecting that the loss of my husband would be something discoverable.

I’ve said before that I prefer to establish myself before people get all weird about it. People just don’t know what to say – and there really isn’t anything to say. People can make snap judgements, right or wrong. People assume things, good and bad. I don’t want pity; I don’t want to be a “poor thing.” I just want to be…me.

Again, this colleague was very nice about it, but I wonder how many other colleagues and students will search my name and stumble across his obit (how can they NOT – it’s one of the first entries!). I know that I’m guilty of Googling new people (often), so I have to assume others will search for me. I know that a few students in the department in which I will be teaching have already checked my LinkedIn page – did they see that obituary, too?

And, as my life moves on and I contemplate dating again, I need to prepare myself to be searched. (Afterall, I will be searching, too.)

It’s just a weird feeling that an obit can be found so easily and rank so high. Mike’s death doesn’t define me, but it ranks higher than my Facebook page. It doesn’t tell the whole story – heck, it doesn’t tell much of a story other than he lived and died and left a wife and kids.

But if I want others to get to know the real me, I need to do the same for them. Google only tells part of the tale. The rest is written by each of us.