Wild Woman

I got a peek back at my old self the other day. I miss that woman.

A dear friend was over for lunch, and began regaling mutual friends with stories of me in my past life. She used to go on trips with John's company as a client, so she had a birds-eye-view of what I was like as a corporate wife. My ears perked up, because I never knew what clients thought of me. I never put on airs or tried to be sophisticated, and I had no idea if Honest Diana was good enough for Corporate America.

"My favorite memory is when we were all eating dinner together, and they served a Caesar salad with anchovies," she said. "You suddenly announced, 'Oh my God, there's a vagina in my salad.' You picked it up and dangled it from your fork, and it looked exactly like a vagina. Everybody cracked up."

Both my friend and another woman who frequented those trips said everyone loved me, because I was so authentic and refreshing, and that I furthered John's career just by being myself. I have no idea if that is really true or if they were just blowing smoke up my keister-- I KNOW most corporate wives do a far better job than I ever did. But the conversation made me miss the Carefree, Smart-Ass me. So did a card my best friend and old college roommate just gave me for my birthday. It showed a tall woman on the street dressed in an outlandish outfit, and it bore a favorite Oscar Wilde quote,"Be yourself-- everybody else is taken." Inside, Carole had written, "I bought this card because the girl on the front reminded me of you--daring and bold while others watched in awe. You need to get that feeling back, because it is the real you."

No one would ever call me daring and bold these days, or think I was funny or refreshing or full of chutzpah. I am the turd in the swimming pool these days, the Downer who is a visual reminder that life can change in a heartbeat.

I know this because one of my best friends recently insinuated that I am a tad too needy lately. It's probably true, although I resist that label with everything that is in me, because it's not my nature. In the past, I was always the one who was there for other people. I hate wearing my pain like bad perfume. It is a scent that can clear a room.

I know it because my own father told me the last two times we spoke that I am acting like a victim. I have not told my parents everything that happened, and I have only burdened them with my blinding pain several times over the past two awful years. It hurts, because there is something inside of me that wants my Daddy to say to John, "How dare you? Don't you ever treat my little girl like that again," instead of giving me the clear message I need to buck up. I know my dad probably said it because men are notorious for being unduly frustrated by problems they can't fix. But we all yearn for our parents to be a soft place to land, for them to be more nurturing than we are to ourselves.

Such psychological labels are confusing, because when it comes right down to it, I AM a victim. Would he say that to someone who had been raped or nearly murdered? Because I have learned there is more than one way to rape or murder someone. You can rape someone's psyche. You can murder her soul.

Believe me, I get the general idea. It is annoying to be around someone who acts like a victim. We all love people who endure horrific pain and keep it all inside. It's so much easier for the rest of us, and it doesn't solve anything to wallow in self-pity anyway. It is far healthier to be a survivor, and that is how I think of myself. I do not want The Tragedy to be my life's story. Eventually I will stand tall and handle this with grit, style and resilience. I will reach out and help other people through their own version of Hell, and I will know whereof I speak.

But this is the way I see it: I loved John with my entire being. I handed him my heart with the innocence and pure enthusiasm of a puppy. All I ever wanted was to have an intact, healthy family, and because I cared the most, in the end I was left with the least power. For 30 years I thought I was living the dream, and when the duplicity was finally revealed it took my breath away. It will take as long as it takes to get over it and start breathing again.

In the meantime, I look forward to meeting that bold, plucky, wild woman in the mirror again one day. I can't wait to hear what she has to say.

Birthday musings

Fifty-three years ago today I was born. My mother was 24, the same age my son is now. She already had a one-year-old, and would give birth to five more. On this day, I am filled to the brim with love and worry intertwined for my own children, the same way I know my mother has always been for us. The love and worry are like two strands from the same skein of yarn, and I wonder if a child has ever been knitted without that twin strand.

I was an amiable baby. My mother put me in a playpen to get things done-- she was always starting big projects she seldom finished-- leading my Southern grandma to wryly drawl," Honey, if that child didn't cry once in a while, she would never get picked up."

My daughter and I were alike as toddlers. We were both the type of children who could find a bobby pin on the floor, wrap it with toilet paper, call it a baby doll and croon to it for hours. Maybe it's because we were both second children, but we didn't need to be constantly entertained. We could do that just fine for ourselves, and it made us grow into independent souls.

I know my mother had the same heart-felt dreams for me as I do now for my own children, and that she made the same kind of mistakes. She was just a regular person who did the best she could, the same way I did. We are all just picking our way through this life, thinking we are doing the right thing but looking back with clarity and seeing that sometimes we didn't.

As a mother, I want my children to remember the sterling moments: that I played freeze-tag with them even when I was bone-tired and just wanted to sit zombie-like on the couch, that I read to them cuddling in bed every night until they were teenagers and begged me to stop, that we sat down to a home-cooked meal almost every night and never ate in front of the TV, that I quit my job at a newspaper because I couldn't bear to leave them anymore.

I want my daughter to remember that when she didn't want to get out of bed in the morning for school, I'd lie next to her in bed and rub her back and run my fingers through her hair and tell her all the things I wished we could do that day: make mud-pies, finger-paint, play dress-up all day long. I want her to remember that it was enough just to imagine all that, and then she could go to school all day with a song in her heart.

I want my son to remember that when we were biking home in the pouring rain when he was four and he started to cry, all I had to say was, "Sean, it's an ADVENTURE," and he brightened right up. Forever after, whenever anything bad happened, he would remind me, "Mom, it's an ADVENTURE!" and the bad times just became good stories to tell later.

I want them both to remember our house was always the Kool-Aid house, the house the kids flocked to from the time they were little until well in their teens. We didn't really serve Kool-Aid, but I was the mom who didn't mind the mess of Play-Doh, paints and homemade forts. I was the mom who joined right in with the games, because it made me re-live my own childhood, and I didn't want to miss a second of my kids' growing-up.

Even when we were on an outing, as soon as neighbor kids saw our car turn into the driveway, they would come running like lemmings. Once, I was alone in the house napping and opened my eyes to see the close-up faces of the little children next door peering at me. Another time, I was surprised coming out of the shower, dripping wet and naked, by a six-year-old neighbor.

But I also know that my children remember the wrong things, just like I did. They seem to recall all the times when I lost my temper and screamed like a banshee ("It was YOU!" is a well-worn private joke in our house), rather than the times when I had the patience of a saint. They liked to compare me to other mothers, such as the time when my small daughter instructed me, "You know, Mommy, when Miss Beth makes cookies, she puts sugar, flour and milk in a big bowl instead of just getting a tube out of the refrigerator." There is no one who can tap into a mother's insecurities like her child.

For some ridiculous reason, one of the abiding memories of my own childhood is when a passel of us were folding laundry on the front porch, and my mother wrinkled her nose and inquired, "Who just passed gas?" Another is when she chased me around the kitchen with a broom for a teenaged misdeed. I am sure she wishes I would have preserved better memories.

I do recall my mother always told me I was the kind of person who had the talent to do anything I set my mind to. She always bragged about me to her friends, as she did about all her other children.

I know that when she suspected I was marrying the wrong man, she spent a lot of sleepless nights. Your children are your children, no matter how old they are, and it's true that as the child grows, so do the size of the troubles.

On this day I worry about the tiny aneurysm that is lodged in the head of my beautiful girl. I worry that my son is in an unhealthy relationship that will damage his already fragile psyche beyond repair. My worries were birthed with my children. Like my mother before me, all I can do is couple those worries with love, cover them with prayers that outnumber the stars, and hope that it all doesn't come unraveled.

The Italian Kitchen

Grieving is messy. In the kitchen of life, grieving creates counters over-flowing with crusty pots and baked-on grease. Spaghetti sauce has somehow spread in a massive stain on the ceiling, and spilled flour is everywhere. Every cupboard is yawning open, every drawer is burgeoning with junk. It looks like a grenade has exploded, because it has. I have discovered that I am the Italian Cook of grieving.

But in all my intense, messy mourning of a life suddenly gone topsy-turvy, I have noticed that strict rules of society still apply. Dimly, through the haze of my depression, I have worked out the following:

1. It is not O.K. to grieve for too long. A friend once told me that society in general gives you about a week to grieve for a dog, and a year to cry over a lost child. I have obviously already exceeded the limit for my particular problem, which is not easily explained and is not even on the official Richter scale of things to cry about.

2. If you are going to have a crisis, it is necessary that you make it one people can readily relate to. Only celebrities are allowed the luxury of Super Weird Problems-- everyone else has to stick to normal issues. Special exceptions are made for people married to celebrities. If your name is not legally attached to Cher, Tiger Woods, Charlie Sheen, or almost any politician, you must stick to garden-variety problems. Otherwise, you can expect only a brief period of attention while people assemble the facts for gossip-spreading purposes only. Attention is not the same as sympathy, and you must be aware of this.

3. You are only allocated one problem at a time. I learned this the hard way when I discovered my daughter had a brain aneurysm at the same time my marriage was imploding because of alcoholism and my husband had just had a liver transplant. A friend called my daughter a hypochondriac in the middle of a crowded store, and shouted at me. The clear implication was that I was taking up too much of people's valuable time over a second incident. (If the truth be told, I actually had several more problems at the time, which I realize now was completely unacceptable. It's also possible that I was mistaken, and it was only because there were two MEDICAL issues at a time that I was being reprimanded.) Because I am a rule-follower, I quickly apologized for exceeding my allocation of sympathy. I did not realize there is a finite amount of sympathy to go around, and one cannot be greedy.

4. If you are going to cry on your friends' shoulders, then at least have the decency to do what they are POSITIVE they would do in your situation. They HAVE walked in your shoes, they would NOT be the idiot you are being, they certainly would have seen the crisis coming long before you did. If you are obstinate enough to make your own decisions, then you will just have to lie in the bed you made without any help from them.

5. Do not expect that people you helped in the past will help you now. You silly person you! Prepare to be stunned at the people who will cut you off the minute they find out you have the exact same problem. They do not want to be reminded of it, or be lumped in with you now that their problems are behind them. You are really stupid not to understand this.

6. Do not expect to be invited to the same events you were invited to in the past. Haven't you heard the expression, "There is no crying in baseball?" Well, that same rule applies to almost every other occasion. People want to be happy. Do you think they want to listen to you sniffle while they are trying to have fun? Do you think they want to see your sad face while they are partying it up? It's a downer, man! Come on, show some common sense.

There are many other rules I haven't figured out quite yet, which just shows my complete idiocy when it comes to grieving and social intercourse. Luckily, I have also been surrounded by people who dared to break the rules.

I have been invited to family gatherings by dear friends who knew I was lonely and broken-hearted, even though I didn't belong there. Friends who are excellent hikers or yoga enthusiasts urged me to tag along on numerous occasions, even though it meant they didn't get the work-out they needed that day. I woke people up in the middle of the night because I had time zones wrong, and they didn't yell at me. People dropped everything to talk to me, pray with me and dry my tears, even though I had exceeded my limit of sympathy a thousand times over. And last Christmas, a group of friends asked my daughter to pick up tons of thoughtful little gifts they had gathered for me, because they were worried I would find no presents at all under the tree.

Some of the best "givers" during this time were people who had been through the toughest of times themselves. They had logged hours in their own Italian Kitchen of grief. They had dirtied countless pots with the pain of cancer, the death of a child, the murder of a relative, loved ones' addictions, divorce, and a spouse's betrayal.

Grieving is messy, but so is friendship. I am so grateful for the people in my life who broke the rules in order to give me grace when I was too needy. I fervently hope that through my own meandering journey of grief, I have gathered enough strength and wisdom to lift others up and break the rules, too.

Where's the Beef?

Last night I quickly threw together a dinner I had already prepped when I took the same one to Sean the other day. I seared the flank steak, put it aside, tossed fresh veggies in the same pan, poured in a beef sauce I had waiting in a baggie, and added a few handfuls of fresh edamame at the end.

We ate outside facing the lake on a clear night with a slice of moon. Halfway through the meal, John ventured tentatively, "You know, I think something's missing. A spice, maybe?" I could tell he was afraid of pissing me off, because I have a firm rule that nobody complains about dinner if they haven't made it.

"Yeah, this dish is really bland," I said, bitterly disparaging the magazine I tore the recipe from.

A few minutes later John began clearing up, and informed me he had put the extra beef in the fridge and that it might even make a second meal for tomorrow. Normally I only half-listen to him, because frankly he tends to mumble a lot, but this time my ears perked up.

"Extra beef?" I asked. "There was no extra beef at all-- I gave too much to Sean, so I barely had enough."

It was then I realized that the "something missing" in the meal was the beef. I had made a beef stir fry without the main ingredient. And neither of us could manage to identify that missing item throughout the entire meal.

We have been a couple of dummies lately.

The morning I took the dinners to Sean, I stopped at Starbucks for my chai tea fix. I got into a rousing conversation with the well-dressed woman next to me about men. I told her I was taking dinners to a son who had not felt it necessary to communicate with me more than once since he had moved, and that I thought he could probably go a year without noticing we hadn't talked. We chatted about the differing communication styles of girls and boys, and then moved on to the mystery about why men rule the world. She was a female CEO, and she noted that phenomenon was going to change soon, because more girls are going to college, they are getting their acts together faster after graduation, and the trend is toward more female CEO's.

She was so intelligent and engaging that the conversation really energized me. We gabbed so much that the Starbucks barista assumed we were together. I was in a hurry to get on the road, though, so I paid for my banana and drink and walked out the door. It was only as I was getting in my car and taking a sip from my cup that I realized I had grabbed her coffee and not my chai. It was a particularly stupid mistake, becauseI should have gone to the pick-up counter to wait for my chai. Everyone was gracious about it, but my cheeks were burning.

"Why am I so stupid?" was the refrain in my head.

That same week, John made me feel better about myself when he did something stupid of his own. Our boat wouldn't start one day, so we had to jump the battery off the boat lift. The next day, it wouldn't start again, but this time the jump didn't work. We waited a few days for the mobile marine repairman to come. But when he did, I spent more time chatting to him in the kitchen than it took to fix the boat.

As he and John re-emerged from the boat just a few seconds later, I asked, "Wow, how did you fix it so fast? What turned out to be wrong?"

John sheepishly hung his head. "Um... the boat wasn't in neutral," he confessed.

In analyzing all this, I have to conclude that it feels so good to feel healthy enough to tell embarrassing stories again, instead of playing The Tragic Figure. I have always enjoyed laughing at myself. I hated the fact that people didn't feel comfortable enough anymore to tell me the normal dross of their lives, and that The Horror was my only topic of conversation. I felt so excluded from the ebb and flow of life, so freakish. I was no longer a person anyone could relate to. My problems were too strange and unusual.

I used to be the woman known for her idiotic stories: the time I locked myself out of the house naked and had to hop to the front door in broad daylight wrapped in a sleeping bag from the garage. The time I only realized that I had bypassed the check-out counter in the grocery store when I was piling un-bagged items into the back of my car. The sunny afternoon I was hosting a pool party for John's office when the sales manager's wife asked in hushed tones, "Um... is that white string supposed to be hanging from your bathing suit?" Or the memorable morning when I went for a swim after my jog, and whipped off my shirt in full view of everyone at the pool before I realized I had forgotten to put a bathing suit underneath.

Now I know how Bill Clinton felt. He will never get rid of the stench of having sex with "That Woman," and it overshadows anything else he ever did or will do in his life.

I refuse to let The Horror define me. I refuse to let it be our family's legacy.

Maybe that, among other things, is why I stayed. I want to give John a chance to rebuild his character, so our house has a new foundation. I want to be part of the restoration and the redemption, so the last 30 years won't be in vain.

Yes, I still feel sick inside at everything that has happened, but hope still blooms in me.

I am holding out for the "new normal," when we can again laugh about silly, inconsequential things. I am hoping the restoration has already begun.