This year both of my daughters were several thousand miles away on the that day I consider more important than Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving or any other occasion on which we celebrate the joy of family and togetherness. One daughter lives several thousand miles away and the other is on vacation.
This is the first Mother’s Day that I have not seen at least one of my daughters. While a telephone conversation is lovely, it’s not the same as a physical presence, the real closeness that affirms the celebration of motherhood – the joys, the heartache, the memories, the wonderful feeling of pride that comes from seeing your child mature into a happy, healthy adult.
My husband and I attended our community’s annual Mother’s Day Fly-in on Sunday, and I felt a huge void as I watched moms and grandmas glow with pride as they shared moments with their children and grandchildren.
I felt alienated from those happy moms. I wanted to shout – “I have children, I have grandchildren – they just couldn’t be here”. I imagined a hundred eyes on me, whispering, “poor lady, being at a Mother’s Day event and not having any children.” Up until this Mother’s Day, I never consciously felt the need to parade my motherhood, I never thought I needed affirmation about the wonderfulness of my mothering, and I don’t often brag about my children (out of respect for those whose children aren’t nearly as beautiful, talented or as smart as mine). This past Sunday, I was tested and failed miserably. I needed affirmation – I needed my children.
This Mother’s Day was a lonely day.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Bad Grandma Reflects On April Fools, And Misses Her Children A Little Less Than Usual
April Fool’s Day should be called “Parents Stay On Your Toes Day”.
I don’t think my husband and I were the brightest bulbs on the block, because every year our children caught us with the same tricks. I still chuckle when I remember his yell from the bathroom - “goddammit, it’s all over my shoes” - as he peed into a toilet bowl that had been covered with saran wrap. I didn’t think it was quite so funny when I sat on a toilet seat that had been covered with Vaseline!
You would think that by the time we cleaned ourselves up after the bathroom tricks, we would be more alert, but no! – ‘cause by now, we needed coffee and cigarettes. It's not funny playing hide and seek with cigarettes - hidden by your prankster (and vehemently anti-smoking) children - when you’re jonesing. It’s even less funny, after finding said smokes, to pour yourself what is by now a much needed cup of coffee and discover, after the first huge swallow, that it wasn’t sugar that you put in the cup!
Most days, I miss my daughters. April Fool's Day is not one of those days.
Happy April Fools Day.
I don’t think my husband and I were the brightest bulbs on the block, because every year our children caught us with the same tricks. I still chuckle when I remember his yell from the bathroom - “goddammit, it’s all over my shoes” - as he peed into a toilet bowl that had been covered with saran wrap. I didn’t think it was quite so funny when I sat on a toilet seat that had been covered with Vaseline!
You would think that by the time we cleaned ourselves up after the bathroom tricks, we would be more alert, but no! – ‘cause by now, we needed coffee and cigarettes. It's not funny playing hide and seek with cigarettes - hidden by your prankster (and vehemently anti-smoking) children - when you’re jonesing. It’s even less funny, after finding said smokes, to pour yourself what is by now a much needed cup of coffee and discover, after the first huge swallow, that it wasn’t sugar that you put in the cup!
Most days, I miss my daughters. April Fool's Day is not one of those days.
Happy April Fools Day.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Bad Grandmas Age Gracefully
I watched 70-something Raquel Welch on Oprah yesterday and was immediately very aware of my brillo-pad hands, my fungus feet, my chicken neck, a tummy that even a girdle can’t restrain, and a face that is now covered with what I euphemistically refer to as “huge freckles.”
The theme of the show was glamorous grandmas.
I am sure that there were millions of grandmas who, like me, watched the show and, if their husbands were watching with them (as mine was), kept up a constant stream of commentary along the lines of: “if I had a personal trainer, liposuction and a good plastic surgeon, I’d look like that too!” And: “I could have hair like that if we didn’t have to eat and pay the mortgage.” And then: “you like her makeup? Well, we’ll stop feeding the cats, and you can give up beer.”
My husband quickly told me that he loves me just the way I am. I think it was the beer thing.
The theme of the show was glamorous grandmas.
I am sure that there were millions of grandmas who, like me, watched the show and, if their husbands were watching with them (as mine was), kept up a constant stream of commentary along the lines of: “if I had a personal trainer, liposuction and a good plastic surgeon, I’d look like that too!” And: “I could have hair like that if we didn’t have to eat and pay the mortgage.” And then: “you like her makeup? Well, we’ll stop feeding the cats, and you can give up beer.”
My husband quickly told me that he loves me just the way I am. I think it was the beer thing.
Monday, March 29, 2010
A Blessing A Day Keeps The Darkness Away
Today is a new day. I am putting behind me the heartbreaking events of last year. It has been a long time since I have truly counted my blessings. Blessings are loved ones and feel-good things. I have so many blessings.
Some of the things that I consider blessings are simple: an e-mail from my granddaughter simply saying, “I love you, Grandma”, a telephone call from same granddaughter because she has a knock-knock joke to tell me, being alive to enjoy the very funny trials and tribulations of my eldest daughter as she is out-manoeuvred, on a regular basis, by my precocious granddaughter (that’s karma!!), my disabled grandson’s sense of humor and his huge capacity for enjoying life and his good-natured acceptance of what is.
I am going to strive to make every day a celebration of life. I am ready to, once again, marvel at the wonders of nature surrounding me – an osprey feeding her young, eagles showing their offspring how to use the air currents, the sound of grouse in the hills, the occasional yip of a coyote.
I am going to revel in the pleasures of decadent desserts and a good Shiraz. No worries, no guilt.
I am going to give thanks every day for my children, my grandchildren, my husband, my friends, my life.
The light is so bright when you leave the darkness.
Some of the things that I consider blessings are simple: an e-mail from my granddaughter simply saying, “I love you, Grandma”, a telephone call from same granddaughter because she has a knock-knock joke to tell me, being alive to enjoy the very funny trials and tribulations of my eldest daughter as she is out-manoeuvred, on a regular basis, by my precocious granddaughter (that’s karma!!), my disabled grandson’s sense of humor and his huge capacity for enjoying life and his good-natured acceptance of what is.
I am going to strive to make every day a celebration of life. I am ready to, once again, marvel at the wonders of nature surrounding me – an osprey feeding her young, eagles showing their offspring how to use the air currents, the sound of grouse in the hills, the occasional yip of a coyote.
I am going to revel in the pleasures of decadent desserts and a good Shiraz. No worries, no guilt.
I am going to give thanks every day for my children, my grandchildren, my husband, my friends, my life.
The light is so bright when you leave the darkness.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Bad Family
At the urging of my daughter, I have decided to try and break my writer’s block by writing about what has been crippling me for the past several months. It wasn’t the death of my former husband, nor was it the death of my father. It has been the perfidy of my brother, and the consequent destruction of our extended family. I can’t find enough adjectives to describe his duplicity, or to describe my hurt.
My brother, who is four years younger than me, has always been my hero, my protector. We did crazy things together and he was always there for me – through my first pregnancy when I wasn’t married, through the heart-wrenching breakup of my 25-year marriage, through my rebound second marriage to a not-nice man, and he was one of the few people who was delighted when I married my third, and present, husband. When our mother died, my brother and I grieved together and when our father remarried, my brother and I shared our feelings of dismay.
During the forty years of our parents’ marriage and until our father remarried, we were a close family and our parents doted on my brother and me and, subsequently, our children, their grandchildren. That changed when Dad remarried – my brother and I became somewhat estranged from our father, and our children (who by this time were young adults), though not estranged, did not have the same relationship with him as before. When our father’s wife sustained a serious brain injury after falling while drunk and was subsequently institutionalized, our relationship with our father got back on track. In the meantime, I had moved 400 miles away from my father, Cathy had moved 6000 miles away and Chrissie had moved 450 miles away, so our contact was mainly by telephone although in Cathy’s case (Cathy remained close to him) there was regular contact by telephone, e-mail and mail.
One and one-half years ago, our father moved into a managed independent living facility because he was getting too forgetful to manage on his own. My brother arranged things because he was in Vancouver and I wasn’t. During this period, my brother and sister-in-law were spending a lot of time with us because they were in the process of building a house just 14 kilometers away.
By the time my father died, last June, my brother and his wife had sold their house on the Coast and moved to our area, living in their RV until their house here was finished. When my father died, my brother and I made the funeral arrangements.
A few days before the funeral my brother came to our house. We had coffee and chatted – he seemed a little distant, but I didn’t think too much about it. Later that day, we heard squealing tires out front and the next thing my brother came storming up our driveway, sat down on the patio and said it was time I knew what was in my father’s will and I wasn’t going to be happy (my father had a very, very high net worth). By this time he was extremely agitated and confrontational. My husband and I were stunned – I had never seen my brother like that. He started by telling me that Dad had signed over all of his assets to him and I was not getting anything because my father did not want me to have anything. The proceeds from the sale of my father’s house, my father’s boat and vehicles were all his. When I told him that was not fair, he said, “too bad – everybody in this world has to look after themselves, and I am looking after me – Dad signed them over to me, that makes the proceeds of sales mine.” The more he talked, the louder he got. He was so loud that our next-door neighbors came outside to see if everything was okay. After he had finished telling me about his disposal of Dad’s assets, he proceeded to tell me I was stupid, stupid bitch, I had no backbone, I never knew what it was like to work hard because I had a “cushy” government job for twenty years (I was the director of an alcohol and drug treatment program for adolescents operated by a not-for-profit society – hardly “cushy”). The fact that I was married three times proved that I lacked good judgment and that’s why my father gave everything to him, my brother. He then moved on to my children – he said Catherine thought she was intelligent and successful, but in fact she was a stupid, lying, egocentric bitch and Chrissie was a selfish, deceitful c**t! and all their lives they had been spoiled bitches who thought they were princesses. Then he started on my grandchildren – he didn’t give a flying fuck that Zachary almost died the previous summer, and he didn’t care that Tanner is disabled and terminally ill because they were nothing to him! Every bitter phrase he used was laced with profanity; every phrase was laced with hate.
By the time he finished with my grandchildren – I was so debilitated that I just cried and begged him to stop. He stomped off and I was in shock. I could not believe that my brother, with whom I had never had a harsh word, the brother who I trusted more than anyone else in the world could, out of nowhere, attack me with such hurtful, hateful words.
Two days later, he walked into our house and said he shouldn’t have said the things he did. My husband told him he was no longer welcome in our house and to leave. I couldn’t say one word because when I saw him, the pain I felt, because of our now shattered relationship, was too much. My heart hurt.
I began to dwell, incessantly, on the things my brother had said to me. While I knew I could never forgive him for the things he said about my children and his cold-heartedness about Tanner, but I began to have doubts about who I really was. Was there some truth in the cruel things he said about me? I knew I wasn’t stupid, but did I lack backbone and good judgment? Was I flighty? Was I incapable of dealing with issues in life? Did I just carry one, blithely unaware of the rest of the world? I knew that I had been a well-respected professional who worked hard, was compassionate and caring. Was there some defect in me that my brother saw in me that no one else did, after all he had know me for over sixty years – longer than anyone else (except my father who was now dead). Did my father really think I was so stupid and fickle that I should be virtually cut off? If all of that was true, then my whole life with my family was a lie and if that was the case – then I really was as stupid as my brother said.
Shortly after my father’s funeral, I received a letter from the lawyer who was probating the estate. I was to receive 25% of the assets that were left, and my children and my grandchildren were not mentioned. My brother was named Executor (which I had known for years and had always been comfortable with because I mistakenly believed he had our collective best interests at heart). Then came the cruelest shock: my father changed his will recently– in the event of my brother’s death, my sister-in-law became executrix. If they both died, the duties passed to my nephew and then my niece. I didn’t exist, nor did my children. Neither my father nor my brother told me. This was the final blow. All of the doubts I had about who I was became fact. My father felt the same way about me and my children and grandchildren as my brother did. I was now beyond hurt, not only for me but for my children and grandchildren, particularly Catherine who had a closer relationship to her grandfather than anyone else. How could I shatter that? How could I explain that our branch of the family meant nothing? How could I tell them that he left his cleaning lady $5,000.00, but couldn’t find it in his heart to provide something that would give Tanner some joy or some comfort? That some of the heirlooms that were meant to be passed down on the maternal side of the family were given to their uncle?
Over the past eight months, as I have struggled with my feelings about what transpired, I have had many discussions with my children and it has become very clear that my brother, presumably driven by greed, influenced my father, who had become very forgetful and dependent on him, because my brother had power-of-attorney and total control. I have to believe that, because to think that my father, knowingly, could be that cruel and dismissive of the love that I and my daughters had for him would be too much to bear. If my daughters and I can’t trust the memories we have, it will change our family history forever. My brother has already destroyed the wonderful memories of him. My brother is dead to me. I don’t want the memories I have of my father to be dead also.
My husband, my friends, and my children, have said that I have to let it go – that I should ask God’s help in forgiving my brother if I am ever to find peace in my soul. I have done a lot of soul searching about that. I have had a lot of conversations with God – probably one-way, because I am not prepared to listen to what I know he would say. I have decided that I will never forgive my brother. He is now dead to me. I do not have a brother.
None of my turmoil has been about money, it was never mine to begin with and I never expected anything, except my mother’s gold chain which has been passed down to the eldest daughter for almost 200 years. My brother refuses to give it to me, to pass on to Cathy, as my mother wanted. I know my mother is spinning in her grave.
I have put a curse on my brother, not only because of his deceit, but because he kept the gold chain. My ancestry is Irish and Scottish, on the maternal side. The chain comes from my Irish great-great-great-grandmother. I have put an ancient, Irish curse on him and his family. And I have written this post.
I hope, now, that I can put this horror behind me and move on.
My brother, who is four years younger than me, has always been my hero, my protector. We did crazy things together and he was always there for me – through my first pregnancy when I wasn’t married, through the heart-wrenching breakup of my 25-year marriage, through my rebound second marriage to a not-nice man, and he was one of the few people who was delighted when I married my third, and present, husband. When our mother died, my brother and I grieved together and when our father remarried, my brother and I shared our feelings of dismay.
During the forty years of our parents’ marriage and until our father remarried, we were a close family and our parents doted on my brother and me and, subsequently, our children, their grandchildren. That changed when Dad remarried – my brother and I became somewhat estranged from our father, and our children (who by this time were young adults), though not estranged, did not have the same relationship with him as before. When our father’s wife sustained a serious brain injury after falling while drunk and was subsequently institutionalized, our relationship with our father got back on track. In the meantime, I had moved 400 miles away from my father, Cathy had moved 6000 miles away and Chrissie had moved 450 miles away, so our contact was mainly by telephone although in Cathy’s case (Cathy remained close to him) there was regular contact by telephone, e-mail and mail.
One and one-half years ago, our father moved into a managed independent living facility because he was getting too forgetful to manage on his own. My brother arranged things because he was in Vancouver and I wasn’t. During this period, my brother and sister-in-law were spending a lot of time with us because they were in the process of building a house just 14 kilometers away.
By the time my father died, last June, my brother and his wife had sold their house on the Coast and moved to our area, living in their RV until their house here was finished. When my father died, my brother and I made the funeral arrangements.
A few days before the funeral my brother came to our house. We had coffee and chatted – he seemed a little distant, but I didn’t think too much about it. Later that day, we heard squealing tires out front and the next thing my brother came storming up our driveway, sat down on the patio and said it was time I knew what was in my father’s will and I wasn’t going to be happy (my father had a very, very high net worth). By this time he was extremely agitated and confrontational. My husband and I were stunned – I had never seen my brother like that. He started by telling me that Dad had signed over all of his assets to him and I was not getting anything because my father did not want me to have anything. The proceeds from the sale of my father’s house, my father’s boat and vehicles were all his. When I told him that was not fair, he said, “too bad – everybody in this world has to look after themselves, and I am looking after me – Dad signed them over to me, that makes the proceeds of sales mine.” The more he talked, the louder he got. He was so loud that our next-door neighbors came outside to see if everything was okay. After he had finished telling me about his disposal of Dad’s assets, he proceeded to tell me I was stupid, stupid bitch, I had no backbone, I never knew what it was like to work hard because I had a “cushy” government job for twenty years (I was the director of an alcohol and drug treatment program for adolescents operated by a not-for-profit society – hardly “cushy”). The fact that I was married three times proved that I lacked good judgment and that’s why my father gave everything to him, my brother. He then moved on to my children – he said Catherine thought she was intelligent and successful, but in fact she was a stupid, lying, egocentric bitch and Chrissie was a selfish, deceitful c**t! and all their lives they had been spoiled bitches who thought they were princesses. Then he started on my grandchildren – he didn’t give a flying fuck that Zachary almost died the previous summer, and he didn’t care that Tanner is disabled and terminally ill because they were nothing to him! Every bitter phrase he used was laced with profanity; every phrase was laced with hate.
By the time he finished with my grandchildren – I was so debilitated that I just cried and begged him to stop. He stomped off and I was in shock. I could not believe that my brother, with whom I had never had a harsh word, the brother who I trusted more than anyone else in the world could, out of nowhere, attack me with such hurtful, hateful words.
Two days later, he walked into our house and said he shouldn’t have said the things he did. My husband told him he was no longer welcome in our house and to leave. I couldn’t say one word because when I saw him, the pain I felt, because of our now shattered relationship, was too much. My heart hurt.
I began to dwell, incessantly, on the things my brother had said to me. While I knew I could never forgive him for the things he said about my children and his cold-heartedness about Tanner, but I began to have doubts about who I really was. Was there some truth in the cruel things he said about me? I knew I wasn’t stupid, but did I lack backbone and good judgment? Was I flighty? Was I incapable of dealing with issues in life? Did I just carry one, blithely unaware of the rest of the world? I knew that I had been a well-respected professional who worked hard, was compassionate and caring. Was there some defect in me that my brother saw in me that no one else did, after all he had know me for over sixty years – longer than anyone else (except my father who was now dead). Did my father really think I was so stupid and fickle that I should be virtually cut off? If all of that was true, then my whole life with my family was a lie and if that was the case – then I really was as stupid as my brother said.
Shortly after my father’s funeral, I received a letter from the lawyer who was probating the estate. I was to receive 25% of the assets that were left, and my children and my grandchildren were not mentioned. My brother was named Executor (which I had known for years and had always been comfortable with because I mistakenly believed he had our collective best interests at heart). Then came the cruelest shock: my father changed his will recently– in the event of my brother’s death, my sister-in-law became executrix. If they both died, the duties passed to my nephew and then my niece. I didn’t exist, nor did my children. Neither my father nor my brother told me. This was the final blow. All of the doubts I had about who I was became fact. My father felt the same way about me and my children and grandchildren as my brother did. I was now beyond hurt, not only for me but for my children and grandchildren, particularly Catherine who had a closer relationship to her grandfather than anyone else. How could I shatter that? How could I explain that our branch of the family meant nothing? How could I tell them that he left his cleaning lady $5,000.00, but couldn’t find it in his heart to provide something that would give Tanner some joy or some comfort? That some of the heirlooms that were meant to be passed down on the maternal side of the family were given to their uncle?
Over the past eight months, as I have struggled with my feelings about what transpired, I have had many discussions with my children and it has become very clear that my brother, presumably driven by greed, influenced my father, who had become very forgetful and dependent on him, because my brother had power-of-attorney and total control. I have to believe that, because to think that my father, knowingly, could be that cruel and dismissive of the love that I and my daughters had for him would be too much to bear. If my daughters and I can’t trust the memories we have, it will change our family history forever. My brother has already destroyed the wonderful memories of him. My brother is dead to me. I don’t want the memories I have of my father to be dead also.
My husband, my friends, and my children, have said that I have to let it go – that I should ask God’s help in forgiving my brother if I am ever to find peace in my soul. I have done a lot of soul searching about that. I have had a lot of conversations with God – probably one-way, because I am not prepared to listen to what I know he would say. I have decided that I will never forgive my brother. He is now dead to me. I do not have a brother.
None of my turmoil has been about money, it was never mine to begin with and I never expected anything, except my mother’s gold chain which has been passed down to the eldest daughter for almost 200 years. My brother refuses to give it to me, to pass on to Cathy, as my mother wanted. I know my mother is spinning in her grave.
I have put a curse on my brother, not only because of his deceit, but because he kept the gold chain. My ancestry is Irish and Scottish, on the maternal side. The chain comes from my Irish great-great-great-grandmother. I have put an ancient, Irish curse on him and his family. And I have written this post.
I hope, now, that I can put this horror behind me and move on.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
A Goddess And A Warrior, In Granny Form
It’s been a while since I have felt motivated to write anything.
Reading my daughter’s blog today gave me much pause for reflection.
In my heart, I was a feminist when feminism was a dirty word. I strove to raise my daughters to be strong, independent women, fearless women who would take on the world without fear. I wanted them to be all they wanted to be and live life without regrets. But I didn’t know how to be truly independent – that independence was finding myself, being true to myself, being confident in myself, loving myself. I only knew that I wanted more for them, as women, than I had.
The focus of my daughter’s recent blog was social justice and the power that we have to effect action and change. I have spent the better portion of my life, and am still very active, in the pursuit of social justice and change. But, I believe, with every fibre of my being, that we cannot effectively advocate for others unless the true spirit of feminism burns within us. I believe a feminist is a Goddess and a Warrior.
As I have already stated, I have spent a major portion of my life advocating for those marginalized members of our society, but, in retrospect, I was not coming from a point of inner strength and confidence – I was doing it because I felt a moral obligation to help those less fortunate than myself. Helping others filled a void in my life and helped me justify my existence.
Selfish reasons.
I am not saying that activism for self-serving purposes negates the accomplishments. I am saying, for me, being a feminist is not feeling the need to justify your place in this world. Being a Goddess and a Warrior means moving through this world with compassion, with courage, and great love for yourself and your fellow (wo)man.
Justice will surely follow.
My journey, over the past sixty-seven years, has been challenging and the flame, for most of those years, has been weak, but now it burns brightly and today I am a Goddess and a Warrior.
Reading my daughter’s blog today gave me much pause for reflection.
In my heart, I was a feminist when feminism was a dirty word. I strove to raise my daughters to be strong, independent women, fearless women who would take on the world without fear. I wanted them to be all they wanted to be and live life without regrets. But I didn’t know how to be truly independent – that independence was finding myself, being true to myself, being confident in myself, loving myself. I only knew that I wanted more for them, as women, than I had.
The focus of my daughter’s recent blog was social justice and the power that we have to effect action and change. I have spent the better portion of my life, and am still very active, in the pursuit of social justice and change. But, I believe, with every fibre of my being, that we cannot effectively advocate for others unless the true spirit of feminism burns within us. I believe a feminist is a Goddess and a Warrior.
As I have already stated, I have spent a major portion of my life advocating for those marginalized members of our society, but, in retrospect, I was not coming from a point of inner strength and confidence – I was doing it because I felt a moral obligation to help those less fortunate than myself. Helping others filled a void in my life and helped me justify my existence.
Selfish reasons.
I am not saying that activism for self-serving purposes negates the accomplishments. I am saying, for me, being a feminist is not feeling the need to justify your place in this world. Being a Goddess and a Warrior means moving through this world with compassion, with courage, and great love for yourself and your fellow (wo)man.
Justice will surely follow.
My journey, over the past sixty-seven years, has been challenging and the flame, for most of those years, has been weak, but now it burns brightly and today I am a Goddess and a Warrior.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Death Of Dreams
This is my first post in over two months. I have been emotionally crippled by the events of this summer and have, until now, been unable to organize my thoughts in any coherent way. Even now, I am not too sure where this will go.
The death of my father, at the end of June, was sudden and unexpected, but he was eighty-six and lived a very full life. The tragedy of my father’s passing was not his death, but the perfidy of my brother. I suffered two losses on June 26th– my father and my brother. (At some time, when I have sorted out my feelings about the betrayal, I may elaborate).
The death of my former husband - the father of my children, the man to whom I was married to for 25 years, and my best friend – is another matter. Steven and I had a unique relationship. We never stopped loving each other, but we could never live together. It was enough that we could care deeply and know that we were there for each other. Steven could not handle the stress of the responsibilities that go along with a marriage and I could never handle the stress of worrying about his mental health. For my daughter, Catherine, Steven’s death was the turning point in her journey to maturity. Her fondest wish was that her father and I would overcome all obstacles, openly declare our love for each other and renew our marital relationship. In spite of our love for each other, that would never happen. His death was a great tragedy. I loved this man with all of my heart and soul. My heart used to leap when I saw him coming up the driveway and when we separated I did not think it was possible for a person to survive the pain. I felt that someone had taken a knife to my body and slashed it to bits.
How could I not die from the loss of blood?
I threw myself into casual sex, and then one marriage and then another. I needed affirmation that I was desirable, valued and worthy of a man’s love. Steven’s rejection of me thoroughly fucked me up. I knew he was having an affair – my children did not. It hurt me deeply when I read my daughter’s blog wherein she stated that she had kept the letters from Steven’s mistress because it “was part of my father’s life”, even knowing that it was a part of his life that he regretted. I spent over a month with my daughter, in Salmon Arm, going through her father’s things. To Catherine, everything was a sacred memory of her father – to me it was being slashed over and over again and Cathy didn’t even see the blood! Children must realize that their memories are only a small bit of reality.
I have wept and wept and wept for what might have been – for the loss of my dream. I have lost, forever, my dream, my one and only true love.
I am so thankful that we were able to get past the first messy years after our divorce and move into a relationship that was so special for both of us – a relationship that only he and I understood
I don’t know how long it will take me to come to grips with the fact the I will never see Steven again, that he is no longer there for me. I don’t know – it is so painful.
My daughters lost a father, and he is irreplaceable – but, I lost the father of my children, my best friend, my protector, my dreams.
Rest in Peace, my Love.
The death of my father, at the end of June, was sudden and unexpected, but he was eighty-six and lived a very full life. The tragedy of my father’s passing was not his death, but the perfidy of my brother. I suffered two losses on June 26th– my father and my brother. (At some time, when I have sorted out my feelings about the betrayal, I may elaborate).
The death of my former husband - the father of my children, the man to whom I was married to for 25 years, and my best friend – is another matter. Steven and I had a unique relationship. We never stopped loving each other, but we could never live together. It was enough that we could care deeply and know that we were there for each other. Steven could not handle the stress of the responsibilities that go along with a marriage and I could never handle the stress of worrying about his mental health. For my daughter, Catherine, Steven’s death was the turning point in her journey to maturity. Her fondest wish was that her father and I would overcome all obstacles, openly declare our love for each other and renew our marital relationship. In spite of our love for each other, that would never happen. His death was a great tragedy. I loved this man with all of my heart and soul. My heart used to leap when I saw him coming up the driveway and when we separated I did not think it was possible for a person to survive the pain. I felt that someone had taken a knife to my body and slashed it to bits.
How could I not die from the loss of blood?
I threw myself into casual sex, and then one marriage and then another. I needed affirmation that I was desirable, valued and worthy of a man’s love. Steven’s rejection of me thoroughly fucked me up. I knew he was having an affair – my children did not. It hurt me deeply when I read my daughter’s blog wherein she stated that she had kept the letters from Steven’s mistress because it “was part of my father’s life”, even knowing that it was a part of his life that he regretted. I spent over a month with my daughter, in Salmon Arm, going through her father’s things. To Catherine, everything was a sacred memory of her father – to me it was being slashed over and over again and Cathy didn’t even see the blood! Children must realize that their memories are only a small bit of reality.
I have wept and wept and wept for what might have been – for the loss of my dream. I have lost, forever, my dream, my one and only true love.
I am so thankful that we were able to get past the first messy years after our divorce and move into a relationship that was so special for both of us – a relationship that only he and I understood
I don’t know how long it will take me to come to grips with the fact the I will never see Steven again, that he is no longer there for me. I don’t know – it is so painful.
My daughters lost a father, and he is irreplaceable – but, I lost the father of my children, my best friend, my protector, my dreams.
Rest in Peace, my Love.
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