A Shattered Life

DECEMBER 2008

DECEMBER 2008The lights fade on the oversized screen behind me as I cross the stage, my presentation almost complete. A single cone of white light shines downward onto a podium, and as I enter its orb, the glare of the whiteness blackens my surroundings. I am now in a cocoon, protected and safe, isolated from the auditorium filled with people. Their energy motivates me, encouraging me to continue, but I see only emptiness.

“. . . When grief continues to be intense for more than a year, it is complicated grief. It is different than depression and needs an accurate diagnosis so appropriate treatment can be started. Thank you.”

The house lights come on and, once again, I see the audience. I hope they find me entertaining as well as informative, but I’m never sure. Years as a psychotherapist have given me confidence, but that experience has yet to cure my performance anxiety. Complicated grief is something I’ve experienced, but it’s easier for me to talk with others about theirs rather than solve the problem within me. I wonder if the audience can see through the smoke and mirrors.

I know my husband, Mark, is sitting out there in the audience. His approval, which was once all I ever needed, is no longer the driver behind my vision. I want the audience’s level of energy to validate my effectiveness and success.

When my talk is finished, a few people linger behind to ask additional questions. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mark move to the far side of the stage where he can observe but remain unseen. He watches me as I interact with each person, taking time to clarify my remarks and comment on any inquiries. Mark tells me I have the grace of a Tai Chi master, the strength of a dancer, and the intellect of an Einstein. He loves me, so he says those things. He sees through my protective façade and understands the deep, horrible pain we both went through with the death of our son. Mark was able to put it aside and move on, while I have continued to sink into a depression that leaves me dead inside.

After everyone leaves, Mark greets me with his usual optimism. “Great job,” he says, giving me an obligatory hug. “I know this has been a difficult topic for you, but just the way you presented the material—wow!”

I gather my notes, ignoring his flattery. Turning away, I say, “I hope I had an impact on the audience.”

“You are a charismatic speaker,” continues Mark. “There were a lot of questions which means you engaged the audience and made them think.”

“I don’t know,” I respond, controlling my agitation. How can he be so overly optimistic? “I don’t really know if I got through to anyone.”

“You did.” Mark looks at his watch. “Let’s go back to the hotel.”

We are in New York City where I am a guest speaker at a symposium on mental health. Mark took vacation time from his consulting practice to accompany me so we could enjoy a couple of days in the city that never sleeps, even though our idea of a vacation involves a lot of sleep. I don’t know if Mark came with me because he wanted the vacation or if his real motive was to be my caretaker in the city where so many conflicting emotions live in my mind. Memories of pain and pleasure, happiness and depression, family and loss are all part of my makeup when I enter New York. I am longing for a balance between these conflicts, but I don’t seem to be able to find it.

As we walk along 9th Avenue to the Hudson Hotel, the sidewalks are crammed with people of every ethnic variety, all headed into the maze of New York City. We snake our way through the mix, skirting around the slow walkers and accelerating when trying to beat the walk signs at every corner. At ten p.m. on a weeknight, the city bustles with excitement. Smells waft over us—waves of beer from open-air bars, roasted food from sidewalk vendors, the stale smell of garbage not yet collected are unlike our hometown of Milwaukee.

New York is unique, unlike any other big city. It twinkles at night and never allows silence to enter my mind. The electricity of the city energizes me. The whirling sound of a bicyclist passing, the digital screens illuminating Broadway, and the smell of ethnic food grilling on a food truck all revive good memories. But there are also other memories, painful memories, resurfacing at random moments. Walking in the park with Billy, moving Billy into an apartment, just being with Billy are memories I have buried deep inside, until some sight, some sound, some smell triggers them. The ghosts of New York are with me; I cannot shake their presence.

I wasn’t always like this. Mark and I came here long before Billy was born, both of us filled with the joy of anticipating a bright future. It was the jumping-off point of our lives together, as Mark had just taken a position at an actuarial consulting firm and I was an associate professor at our local university. Now I look back and remember the young, idealistic me, confident with the knowledge my life was on the right trajectory.

“Do you want to stop at Maison-Kayser for some dessert?” Mark asks, bringing me back into the present as we reach Columbus Circle.

I hesitate, not sure if I’m in the mood for sweets, although my real concern is whether I want to talk to Mark any further. “Let’s just call it a night. I’m tired.”

“Okay,” Mark says. “Maybe tomorrow we can treat ourselves.”

Back at the hotel, I remain silent, lost in thought. I think about my earlier talk at the symposium and look for an honest opinion from Mark. “What did you really think about my speech at the conference?”

Mark’s brows knit into a frown and he looks at me through veiled eyes. “I thought you were great. I already told you I knew you were talking from your heart, and you made strong points.”

The air becomes so brittle it could snap, or maybe it is me that will snap. Mark’s expressions do not sync with his words and the tension it creates surges through me like a low voltage shock. This is our typical conversation—Mark is complimentary but never tells me what he really thinks. I clench my fists in frustration. I’m tired of him placating me when what I really want is to have an honest talk, one where the pain comes out instead of staying hidden. We haven’t had a meaningful discussion in years. I brace myself for what’s up ahead.

“Mark, stop telling me what you think I want to hear,” I say. “I know you’re afraid of spending the next three days with me brooding, but you don’t have to try and make me feel better to avoid that.”

“Kim, that’s so far from the truth it’s ridiculous,” Mark says. His anger rises as he turns away from me and pretends to look for some reading material.

“But that is the truth, and you know it,” I retort, circling to face him.

A chilling look edges itself into Mark’s face as a storm surges within him. “Whenever I say anything critical, I have to suffer the consequences. So yes, I don’t want to say anything.” He looks away from me, trying to end what he considers a foolish argument.

I won’t let it go. “You were happiest,” I blurt out bringing up a long-forgotten issue, “when I gave up my career to take care of Billy. You just don’t want to admit it.” My voice is loud and terse, my grace faltering.

This time it is Mark who clenches his fists as the volume of his voice rises. “You wanted to stay home and put your career on hold. We agreed. Why are we talking about something from twenty years ago? I can’t deal with your issues. I’m tired.”

“I don’t have issues. I want your honesty, not pandering.”

Mark stiffens his back as he glares at me. “I never stopped you from doing whatever you wanted to do. I knew you would do it anyway. You always do.”

“Are you criticizing me for wanting a life of my own? Are you saying I wasn’t a good mother? I protected Billy as best I could.” I storm off into the bathroom to brush my teeth, anything to get away from Mark.

“Dammit, don’t ignore me,” Mark demands. “You always start these arguments and then leave when I don’t agree with you. And this has nothing to do with you being a good mother.”

I am shaking with anger. “But you blame me. Every time. Our life together is meaningless. We are going through the motions of the happily married couple, but we aren’t.”

The piercing ring of a phone interrupts our argument. Mark answers, is silent for a moment, and says, “Sorry, no problem.”

“Who’s calling?” I ask.

He shakes his head in shame. “We’re making too much noise and the people next door can’t sleep.”

“It’s only eleven o’clock. I thought this was the city that never sleeps. Whatever.” I slam the bathroom door and am alone.

I take a couple of deep breaths and look at myself in the mirror. Anger is not a pretty sight on my face. My eyebrows bump together, my nose widens, my lips press into a thin line, and the fine lines around my eyes are now deep crevasses. I never meant for the argument to happen, but now the words are out, and I am afraid of the consequences.

I cannot look in the mirror any longer, so I step into the shower and turn the shiny chrome dial to let the hot water flow over me in an everlasting waterfall. The steam calms me, and rivulets of water drip down my side as my mind begins to slow down. I want to stay under its healing magic forever.

The next few days, Mark and I pretend like the argument never happened. We treat each other with extreme politeness. We do all the New York things we like: a play, a walk through the village, dinner at fabulous restaurants, all totally normal New York things to do. We are once again the couple that has it all. The mask is in place.

Once home in Milwaukee, we settle into our normal pattern of living, except nothing is normal. Going out to eat, we argue about which exit to take off the expressway. When we get to a restaurant, we argue about where to park the car. When ordering food, we cannot reach an agreement on whether to share our dinners or order separately. Tension fills our lives every day. Sometimes simply being in the same room provokes an argument.

I think back to the early days of our marriage and the passion Mark and I felt. We would be at parties and steal away into the bathroom for “a quickie,” or take a long lunch and just smile at each other, holding hands under the table. He was the only drug I ever needed.

Our life started out like a fairy tale. All I ever wanted from Mark was kisses, hugs, and the smile in his eyes. His long, dark curly hair attracted me from the beginning, although he told me later, he only grew his hair long to counteract the nerd image he had being a math major. He was muscular, clean-shaven, and his casual dress betrayed the conservative businessman within.

Everything about him was soft with an understated joy. He filled me with happiness.

We both had successful careers, a house in the suburbs, and, eventually, a son. Outwardly, we had the perfect marriage, the perfect family, and the perfect life. It’s too bad it took so much effort to create the image, and even more to maintain it. Nobody knows what is revealed once the surface is scratched. The loss of our son propelled me to make meaning out of my pain. I did the only thing that made sense, and the next thing I knew I was giving talks on grief. I don’t see Mark grieving like I do, so I can’t help but feel isolated in my own pain.

Divorce is not an option for me, as Mark is the only person I ever wanted. Our issues are not about love, because I can never love anyone else, but about making our relationship feel right. What I want is to find a way to get past our now-established barrier of non-communication and put our broken pieces back together. It is not an easy job.

“What do you want for dinner tonight?” I ask.

“Do you want to go out to the Bistro?” Mark responds.

“Sure,” I say. “What time?”

“I have a little work first, so how about six p.m.?”

“Sounds good,” I say.

We finish our work and get to the restaurant in time to watch the young bar crowd milling around, trying to impress one another. Once seated, we order our food and stare at other people because we are unable to make conversation with each other.

“How was your day today?” I ask, trying to make conversation.

“It was boring. Nothing really going on. No new mergers in the insurance industry.” Mark says as he sips his glass of wine. “How was your day?”

“Kind of the same. I had one interesting patient who thinks the world is coming to an end because we don’t have a female president, and she wants me to fix it,” I respond with the same lack of enthusiasm. “I think I need to take some time off.”

“You do work hard,” Mark says, looking away from me.

I sigh. “I know when we were in New York last month I felt really anxious. I always get nervous before a presentation, but the nervousness lasted a long time. Maybe New York does strange things to me.”

“Probably,” Mark says, staring at a spot on the table.

Our food arrives, and we put aside thoughts of New York, both of us wordlessly sharing the same sorrow of that city. Neither the savory pasta marinara nor the linguine with clams, not to mention a bottle of red wine, can penetrate our mood or remove the communication barrier between us. Boredom sets in. It is an invitation for my brain to find a new path out of this tedium.

Gazing at the bar once again, I see the patrons talking and laughing. Their energy floats around the room, and I sense their joy, a feeling I seem to lack. My life is missing that joy. Playtime used to involve Mark and Billy, but sadness has intervened and pushed everybody away. Mark was always the light of my life. I know his peace, but it is so distant now I don’t know how I could ever find a way back to him.

Once home, I go upstairs to take a shower to relax. An evening shower prepares me for sleep and quiets my mind, just the opposite of the many people who use a shower to wake them up. I look at my image in the mirror and the reflection shows the aging process at work. My skin is less elastic and mottled, making it look thick. My makeup has worn off, which leaves my skin with a pale texture of veins running across my cheeks like connected rivers. The red bumps of rosacea, now fully visible, look like teenage acne, only I will not grow out of it.

My skin is dry and itchy. I look at my profile and think I have lost weight, usually a welcome happening, but now I look like I’m imploding into myself, with my posture compromised. I step into the shower and the hot water is soothing, masking many of my concerns. I stand there for several minutes, relaxed and calm. I begin to wash myself but stop when I feel a bulge in my armpit. I decide to go a day without shaving them, so I continue to lavish in the luxury of my shower.

Drying off with the soft, fluffy spa towel, I again feel the lump. Once more I look at myself in the mirror, raise my hands high above my head, and see a large protrusion in my armpit. This can’t be good.

“Mark!”