February 17, 2013

Spinster With Cats

Posted by Unconfirmed Bachelorette under Cats, Love, Marriage, Relationships | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , |
[23] Comments 

I’m turning 50 and I’ve never been married.

spinster_with_catsI never imagined I’d make it to 50 without marrying. Of course, I felt the same at 30. And then 40. Throughout my 40s, I thought surely I’d meet someone and I’d be married by 50. Surely. I had an entire decade, after all. But here I am, 92 days from 50, and living alone with 2.5 cats.

I know being married isn’t necessarily better. I know lots of people who are single at my age, having divorced. Some of them have remarried. (How they found two people to marry, when I haven’t found one, confounds me.) Some prefer to remain single, succumbing to the allure of freedom. And there is a lot to be said for freedom.

If someone were to ask me why I’ve never been married (and this happens all the time), the honest answer is: I have yet to meet the right man for me. I could have been married. But if I had married any of the men I’ve dated long term, for one reason or another, I would have divorced. At times I’ve thought it would be better to have one marriage under my belt so I can say I’ve done it. So I can say I’ve chosen the single life. So I don’t appear to be unlovable. Luckily I realized that’s a stupid reason to marry.

Sometimes I wonder whether I really want to be married. After all, my life is kind of cushy. I’ve got the same list other singles rattle off:

  • I can stay up late reading in bed.
  • I can sleep in when I want.
  • I can travel where and when I want.
  • I can fill the bed with kitties.
  • I can leave dishes in the sink.
  • I can pass gas when I need to.
  • I can spend money how I want.
  • I can meet the girls for happy hour on a moment’s notice.
  • I can spend my time how I want without reporting in.
  • I can write when I want, without interruption.

But what about the benefits of marriage? One of the basic benefits no longer applies to me. I don’t need to marry to have babies. I’m past that, both biologically and emotionally. More financial security would be nice. But who’s to say marriage would provide that? I know a woman whose husband has squandered most of their retirement in an attempt to strike it big. He’s close. So close! He’s been close to striking it big for years. Meanwhile, the account and the security dwindle. I am acquainted with several other women who are providing the financial security in the relationship. I was almost one of them. While marriage may bring financial security, it doesn’t always. Then there’s the fear of being alone. Dying alone. Realistically, the odds are he’ll die first. I’ll be alone, and perhaps die alone, regardless of whether I marry.

I’ve heard marriage can be quite lovely. If you get so lucky as to find the right one. What I want most from a relationship: companionship and intimacy. Maybe I’ll find that by the time I reach 60. After all, I’ve got an entire decade.

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December 9, 2012

The Feeding Tube

Posted by Unconfirmed Bachelorette under Alzheimer's, Dying, Feeding Tube, Love, Marriage, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , |
[2] Comments 

My father had brain surgery on September 18, 2012 to remove a blood clot. In the first few days following surgery, he seemed better. We thought he was going to continue to get better and go home. He was eating, but not much. My mom, my sister, and I took turns feeding him. He couldn’t feed himself. Even before the brain surgery. The dementia had progressed. Utensils were difficult. Even getting the food into his mouth with his hands had become challenging. So now, post surgery, we fed him. His food was puréed. His liquids were thickened. Choking was a concern. We tasted the ICU puréed food. Other than the texture, it was good.

Some days, he ate the food in the ICU. Other days, he refused food. He said he wasn’t hungry. I’d continue to try to get him to take a few bites. “I don’t want any!” he’d say, clamping his mouth shut. My mother would tell me to feed him anyway. He’d get agitated, flailing his arms and threatening to hit me.

We brought ice cream. Vanilla and chocolate. My dad always loved ice cream. He let me feed him a few spoonfuls. My mother was determined that he would eat. She sent me to the store for more ice cream, chocolate pudding, and applesauce.  She said he needed to get his strength back so he would get better. So he could go home.

After ten days in ICU, they discharged my father to a rehabilitation facility (i.e., skilled nursing facility). The doctors who discharged him led us to believe that my father was sent there to slowly recover and ultimately return home. He continued to decline. My mother stayed with him each day, returning home at night to rest. The house was too quiet, she said. His kitty was looking for him.

My parents’ 58th wedding anniversary was on October 2nd. My mom bought my dad a card and took it with her for her daily visit to the rehab facility. She read the card to him, but wasn’t certain he understood. His ability to communicate had diminished markedly since the early days after the surgery.

He ate less and less as the days passed. My mother became alarmed. She called me on a Thursday afternoon three weeks after the surgery and told me she was considering having a feeding tube put in. She said we’d talk about it when I arrived on Saturday. I’d read about feeding tubes and Alzheimer’s patients. They’re often inserted when hand-feeding is the only option. The nursing staff aren’t inclined to spend time hand feeding the residents. They’re understaffed. Surgically implant a tube, hang a bag, and on to the next.

I didn’t like the idea of putting my father through yet another surgery, potentially fraught with complications, including the possibility of restraints if he became agitated and tried to pull the tube out. My father had always been stalwart, fearless, in control. I knew he wouldn’t have wanted a feeding tube. He would have wanted the doctors, nurses, and aides to get their damn hands off him and leave him in peace to die on his own terms. I needed to find a way to stop this. Or at least buy some time.

I thought if I could just find some palatable puréed foods, maybe he would eat. The food at the rehab facility was vile. Much worse than the ICU. So I searched the Internet and found a company in California that makes gourmet puréed food, Blossom Foods. I called and placed an expedited order, making sure it would arrive within two days. (Despite assurances, the food would not arrive until the following Monday, two days after my father took his last bite of ice cream.) My mother agreed she would hold off on the feeding tube until we’d had a chance to see if he’d eat the food I’d ordered. She was insistent that my father needed to eat to get his strength back so he could get better.

No one had told us my father was refusing to eat because he was dying.

Two weeks after my father entered the rehab facility, the doctor broke the news to my mother. My father was very sick. He was not going to get better. I called the doctor and asked about my father’s condition. I took notes on a legal pad. The notes are still in that pad, in between pages of work notes: “Very sick. Won’t rehabilitate. Won’t get better. Kidneys failing.” I can’t bear to tear that sheet off and throw it in the trash. I don’t know why.

I asked the doctor if a feeding tube made sense, given my father’s death was imminent. She said it was a very personal decision that the family would have to make. She sensed I was against the tube and was looking for something to make my case with my family. She said if it was her father, she would not have the tube put in. It would only prolong the inevitable.

I asked the doctor if I waited until morning to come, would I get there in time.

“I think so,” she answered.

“Is it time for Hospice?,” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

In the morning I threw some clothes and toiletries into a bag and drove to Houston. When I got to the rehabilitation facility, we had a family meeting about the feeding tube. My mother, my sister, and my brother still were in favor of the tube so my dad could get stronger. There was no way he could get better if he wouldn’t eat. None of them were ready to agree to Hospice. Hospice meant all hope was lost. My mother still had hope, despite what the doctor had told her. She wanted more time with her husband of 58 years. The man she married when she was just 18. I was outnumbered and felt I had to go along to give my mother peace of mind. Even though I also felt I was betraying my father. But still my mother agreed to try the food I’d ordered before authorizing the trip to the ER to have the tube surgically inserted.

The doctor called again shortly after we left the rehab facility that night, all of us emotionally exhausted. She delivered her message more forcefully, hoping my mother would hear her.

My dad didn’t have much time. Days.

My mother sat in her chair and sobbed.

“I don’t want to lose him! I love him so much. I don’t want to live without him. I can’t!”

I held her as the sobs wracked her body. My sister tried to stop her crying. She insisted my mother was strong and could live without my father. Ignoring my sister, I held my mother, and I cried with her.

We agreed we would call Hospice in the morning. But my mother was still intent on the feeding tube. She wanted more time with my dad, even if he was dying.

Later that day, two weeks after my father entered the rehabilitation facility, we met with the Hospice volunteer. She explained how Hospice worked and that my father probably would qualify for in-patient care. My mother brought up the feeding tube. She wanted to have it done before he was moved to Hospice. (It could not be done once my father was in hospice because it was not palliative care.) The Hospice worker explained to my mother that the tube might give him a few more days; but because his body was shutting down, he couldn’t digest what he was eating, which would make him more uncomfortable. Aspiration pneumonia was also a concern. And then there was the question of what my father would have wanted. My mother sat quietly for several minutes. Her shoulders sagged.

“He wouldn’t have wanted a feeding tube.”

My mother did what my father would have wanted. My father entered in-patient Hospice without the tube.

In the days that followed, my mother asked me several times if she had done the right thing. I assured her that she had. I knew that she had.

“But he has to eat!” she’d say. And the Hospice doctor would explain to her again that he did not need to eat. And that eating would hurt him if we forced him.

It is hard to accept that feeding someone is not always a loving act.

On the Sunday after my father died, I was at my mother’s house with my niece, going through insurance papers and looking for my parents’ wills. I found them in a file cabinet in a spare room upstairs. Both my parents’ wills were in a large envelope bearing their lawyer’s letterhead. I thumbed through the papers, and stopped. There was a single sheet not bundled with the rest. I pulled it out. It was my father’s medical directive, signed 13 years earlier.

My father had declined all life-sustaining measures, including artificial feeding and hydration, should his death become imminent.

I rushed downstairs and told my niece and mother to come quickly, I had something to show them. We sat down at the kitchen table.

“Oh, you found the wills,” my mom said.

“Yes, and I found something else.”

I held her hand and read the directive to her.

“You knew you did the right thing, Mom. You knew what Dad would have wanted. But now you never have to doubt you made the right decision.”

The three of us, my niece, my mother, and I, cried at the kitchen table, the directive lying in front of us. This time, they were tears of solace.

 

October 16, 2012

Vigil

Posted by Unconfirmed Bachelorette under Alzheimer's, Death and Grief, Dementia, Dying, Elderly Parents, Grief, Grieving, Healing, Letting Go, Love, Marriage, Stages of Grief | Tags: , , , , , , , |
[9] Comments 

The sun is beginning to rise following the third night of my vigil. The days spent in my father’s Hospice room with family and friends are precious. But it is the nights I spend alone with him that I find to be the most precious gift. Caring for him, protecting him, comforting him, like he did for me in so many ways over the past 49 years.

I love to hold his hand and tell him stories. Paint him pictures of the time we spent together. The weekends we spent sailing on the Gulf. His passionate instruction on how to point into the wind just right for the optimal speed, the bow slicing through the water. When he corrected me, and I’d turn the tiller to head into or off the wind, I often heard, “You’re over-correcting!” That’s a lesson I never got quite right, in many aspects of my life. But I vow to keep trying. I spoke to him of Galveston, Ontario, each of his Black Labs, in turn:  Rebel, his dog we got in North Carolina. (Although my brother claims Rebel was his dog because he waited to see him before he passed.)  Then came Nugget, named by my mother with the idea that he was black gold. Nugget loved to dive to the bottom of the deep end of the pool to fetch his conch shell. And then he’d bark relentlessly until you threw it again. The game could go on for hours, interrupting my sunbathing when he’d jump in with a splash, and then shake the water off on me when he got out. It was a game, and I know he did it on purpose. Last was Lacy, Dad’s first female, and his favorite. He’d lay on the floor with her and cuddle, saying, “Who’s Daddy’s little girl?” When she got old and arthritic, he had an acupuncturist come to the house once a week and treat her. His heart broke when she passed a few years back. I knew Dad needed another pet, so I arranged a cat adoption for him from a Houston rescue organization as a Christmas gift. The cat he chose (and he was by then a young cat, not a kitten) was a Snowshoe my mother named Spotty, although I always insisted his name was Spot. Spot is a cat’s cat; strong and powerful (and, yes, a wee bit chubby). He likes to throw his toy mouse into the air and catch it, and then wrestle with it while rolling around on the floor. Like my dad, that cat oozes character. He’s got more character than any cat of mine. (But they are better cuddlers.)

I also tell Dad how much I love him, how much I’ve always loved him, how I’ll always be his little girl. His baby. His Puddle Duck. I tell him, between sobs, how much I’ll miss him. I promise to take good care of my mother (a job I haven’t done too well in the past) and Spotty. (Yes, I’ll call him Spotty for my mother.)

I feel lucky. This time with my father is the most precious gift. There is no where else in the world I want to be right now. I won’t leave. I’m staying beside him until he’s ready to go.

There was a shift last night. I feel he’s preparing to let go. My mother’s greatest task today, she knows, is to tell him it’s okay, she’ll be okay, he can let go.

 

October 14, 2012

Inpatient Hospice

Posted by Unconfirmed Bachelorette under Alzheimer's, Death and Grief, Dementia, Dying, Elderly Parents, Grief, Grieving, Letting Go, Living Life, Love, Marriage, Stages of Grief, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , |
[9] Comments 

Dad is now in inpatient hospice. We moved just down the hall from his rehab room at the nursing home. Hospice has a small wing here, so the move was only minimally stressful.

Yesterday, before the hospice room was ready, Dad had lots of visitors. My favorite visitor was Freddie, my niece’s 7-month miniature long-hair Dachshund. Freddie got in bed with Dad, and Dad and he cuddled. Dad loves animals more than any man I’ve ever known. He passed that love on to me.

When we got the news that inpatient hospice had accepted Dad, my sister cried for the first time. Death is imminent. Her husband comforted her, and in that moment I remembered the man I knew before my niece told me what he’d done to her. I understand the conflicting feelings everyone has about him. I didn’t want to, but it was there. Things were easier when all I saw was the man who’d hurt his daughter, my niece. But this is not about him. This is about my father.

I walked next to him in his bed as the orderly wheeled him down the hall from rehab to hospice, and I felt that the nurses I passed knew I was walking toward the end. “Dead man rolling,” I thought. And then, “What a horrible thought to have.” I held back the tears until we got situated in the room and the orderly left. My mom came shortly thereafter with most of his things. I went down the hall and picked up the rest. The man who was sharing the room with us has a wonderful private nurse that we’ve gotten to know over the past few days. She was instrumental in giving my mom the straight scoop on the feeding tube. Because she’s a private nurse, she could speak frankly. I was so grateful she did not equivocate, like everyone else is required to do. As I left with the last of my father’s things, she said, “Good luck.” It struck me as an odd thing to say when you’re on your way to be with your loved one while he leaves this earth. But what is right in these situations? There are no rules.

I stayed with my father last night while my mom went home to get some rest. Being the youngest, I’ve always loved those moments with my father when it was just the two of us. Last night was no different. I held his hand and told him about my kitties’ new mouse toy, How Sadie gets upset when I stop playing mouse. How she carries mouse in her mouth, upstairs into bed. I told him of the mocking birds outside the window in trees, of the wind blowing through the leaves, the storm clouds rolling in. As we talked, I held his hand and stroked his face. The nurses are taking very good care of him, making him comfortable with morphine and Ativan. I’m learning how to read his signals, when he’s in pain, when he’s anxious. And then the nurse comes in and gives him what he needs. Hospice is a godsend.

Visitors are beginning to arrive. My niece is bringing her puppy again.

 

October 12, 2012

Coming Home

Posted by Unconfirmed Bachelorette under Alzheimer's, Death and Grief, Dementia, Dying, Elderly Parents, Grief, Grieving, Healing, Letting Go, Living Life, Love, Marriage, Stages of Grief, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , |
[11] Comments 

My mother is a strong, brave woman. She set aside her desire to have my father here a little longer, and decided against the feeding tube. She said he wouldn’t have wanted it.But when we met with hospice, she couldn’t decide what to do. Tonight, after we left, they called and told us his kidneys are shutting down. We needed to have him sent to the hospital or choose hospice. My mother broke down. I held her and we cried. And then she thought of my father, the man she’s been married to for 58 years, and knew he would not want to go to the hospital. He’d want to come home. She chose hospice. I hope they can arrange things for him to come home in time.

My mother is right. My Daddy would want to come home. I am filled with admiration for her.

 

October 11, 2012

Hospice

Posted by Unconfirmed Bachelorette under Alzheimer's, Death and Grief, Dementia, Dying, Elderly Parents, Grief, Grieving, Love, Stages of Grief | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , |
[9] Comments 

My Dad is dying. I spoke with the doctor today. He’d be gone within days, but my mother and siblings want a feeding tube. For now. So I pretended I want it, too. But I told them I’m worried “for now” will extend into something hideous. The doctor told me she thinks the tube won’t extend things for more than a few days. So I slid in line, and let them feel the decision was unanimous. Maybe I should be advocating for no tube. Advocating for my Dad. I wish I knew what he’s thinking. Or if he’s not thinking, what he’s feeling. But I don’t know what it feels like to be dying. I don’t know if I’d want a feeding tube so I could be here a bit longer. To give everyone time to say goodbye. If it’s only for a little while, am I being a coward for not advocating more strongly for no tube? Is it okay to pretend I’m on board if I’m only compromising for a few days of tube feeding?

The concession was, they agreed to hospice. They’ll take him with or without the tube, the doctor says. so I called tonight and made arrangements for hospice to evaluate my Dad tomorrow. And so I travel to Houston in the morning to meet with them. I’m secretly hoping that after we meet with hospice, they’ll change their minds about the tube.

My mother was shocked. She though he was going to get better. She thought he was going to go home and they’d be together for years to come. She honestly thought this. She had no idea he was this bad.

I wonder why I’m the only one who knew. I kept waiting for a doctor, any doctor, to say what I already knew. Finally, tonight the doctor told us.

 

August 5, 2012

I don’t know what normal is.

Posted by Unconfirmed Bachelorette under Abusive Relationships, Better-than-nothing, Commitment, Drama, Liar, Love, Marriage, Mindfucking, Relationships | Tags: , , , , , , |
[16] Comments 

I wrote a post yesterday about getting back on the dating horse. But I’m not so sure I want to. Life is peaceful now. There is no daily drama. I’m not constantly irritated and frustrated. I’m content. In contrast, a little over a year ago, I wrote this:

It’s May 22, 2011. Mack and I have spent my birthday weekend at the beach. His asshole side made an appearance last night, and I did not indulge him. We were singing in the car on the way to getting my oozy chocolate birthday dessert. I thought we were having a good time with it, when suddenly he snapped at me. He said this is his profession and he doesn’t indulge mere amateurs by singing with them whilst driving in a car. He said at first it was fun, but then he found me obnoxious. By this time we were at the restaurant. He got out of the car in a huff, like he had been put upon and was totally justified in being a prick. I got out of the car after some deliberation, and told him I didn’t want to go into the restaurant. He said, “Fine!” We got in the car and as he exited the parking lot, he gunned the engine a little. I told him I’d drive, if he was going to drive like an idiot. Again, “Fine!” So we switched seats and I drove us home. When we got home, he got out of the car and went for a walk on the beach. I wanted to. But since he announced it first, I simply went to bed. He came back a short time later and slammed around in the kitchen, loudly and angrily, making sure he made his ire known. I dozed in and out, and eventually he came into the bedroom, demanding that I wake up. “Why, so you can yell at me some more?” He left me alone after that. Later he came back to bed, and said, “Great, I sleep this way in two beds now.” Realizing what he’d said, he added, “At least I used to.” So, either he still sleeps in bed with Corrine, or he threw it out there erroneously, trying to make a point in the midst of his anger.

He gave up sleeping and went out in the living room to work on my computer. And read about Galveston. He came to bed a couple of hours later. I slept in my clothes.

I arose before he did, and found a note in the kitchen that he’d fixed my laptop. And the coffee was ready, just flip the switch. But there was no apology. At least not an overt one. He got up shortly after I did. I was still in the midst of my first cup. I was out on the deck, typing on my laptop. He asked if my computer was working. I nodded my head that it was. Shortly thereafter I went inside to refill my coffee.

He said, “So what happens now?”

“I’m drinking coffee, enjoying the morning on the deck.” I paused. Refilled my cup. “Unless you want to yell at me some more and tell me how obnoxious I am.”

“Not really.”

I went back out on the deck with my refilled cup and began writing. I imagined him inside. Pouting.

Last night I didn’t like him at all. I knew we were done. I found him unattractive, and I didn’t want him to touch me. This morning, standing there in the middle of the room, he looked young. Vulnerable. Cute. Maybe it’s not over. Maybe you deal with someone being a complete asshole from time to time.

From time to time, I read back over things I wrote back then, and I wonder what in the hell I was thinking.

That kind of assholeishness isn’t normal in a relationship, is it? Is this the way people behave and it’s just swept under the rug and forgotten? I really do not know. Which is how I kept talking myself into staying.

I had no role models growing up for this sort of thing. My role models taught me that you’re honest, you don’t steal, you don’t lie, and you don’t cheat people. You get a good education and you work hard. I was taught the value of a dollar. I was taught that reading books is magical.

But I wasn’t taught that you treat your partner with kindness and respect. My father treated my mother horribly. He ridiculed her constantly. He told her she was fat. He made fun of her when she ate. He’d say things like, “Just keep eating, Joanna, just keep eating!” She never said a word. But I’d defend her. Some of the worst fights I ever had with my father began when I defended my mother. And those fights were always my fault–because I antagonized him.

I once pressed my mother to explain why she never fought back. She said it was much easier to simply ignore him. I asked her how she could possibly ignore the daily onslaughts, the horrible ridicule. She said she’d just learned to tune him out.

And I was tuning out Mack’s bad behavior. Only it didn’t work for me like it worked for my mother. And so I broke free of him. And once I was free, once I could let go of everything I’d bottled up for a year, I fell into a depression.

And now, here I am, feeling better, and wondering: Do I get involved in another relationship? How do I know he won’t be another Mack? How will I know if he’s a kind, respectful man, and not a man simply on his best behavior for a few months? If he treats me poorly, when do I run? At the first instance? The second? And how poorly does he have to treat me for it to not be normal? I need a role model. Or a book. Is there a book out there that gives examples of what’s acceptable and what isn’t in a relationship?

Is there a book out there telling me what’s normal, and what’s not?

 

August 4, 2012

Time to get back on the horse.

Posted by Unconfirmed Bachelorette under Love, Marriage, Relationships, Starting Over, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , |
[4] Comments 

 

Does anyone know this man? He looks like he might be perfect for me.

 

 

June 23, 2012

Loving a Pedophile

Posted by Unconfirmed Bachelorette under Abusive Relationships, Incest, Marriage, Sexual Abuse | Tags: , , , , , , |
[19] Comments 

I haven’t had a television since Memorial Day. I got rid of my old Sony, and haven’t gotten around to getting a flat-screen replacement. Last night I knew the Sandusky verdict was imminent. It had to be. The man was guilty, and the jury wouldn’t take long. So I turned to Twitter. I typed in Sandusky. My screen flooded with tweets:

The attorney general is at the courthouse.

The lawyers are there now.

Photos posted of Sandusky leaving his home.

Coach is wearing an unfortunate jacket. (That asshat on Fox news keeps referring to Sandusky as “coach.” This sickens me. It’s the coach bit that gave him access to those boys. So stop calling him “coach,” Shep.)

Sandusky is at the courthouse.

The verdict will not be tweeted until all 48 counts are read and court is adjourned.

Surely he’ll be convicted. Surely the jury won’t OJ us. (Yes, OJ is now a verb.)

Surely he’s given up Penn State for the state pen.

Even his own lawyer says he thinks he’ll be convicted. And then the judge calls him into chambers and issues a gag order.

The verdict is coming out five months to the day after Paterno’s death from cancer.

His adopted son Matt was molested, too.

Dottie testified on his behalf. (Oh, I will get back to Dottie.)

The verdict will be read in twenty minutes. Then fifteen.

Then I flip over to live video of the crowd in front of the courthouse. And back to Twitter.

Any minute now.

GUILTY OF 45 OF 48 COUNTS.

Sandusky is being led away to the jail house in handcuffs.

He stood with one hand casually in his left pocket as the verdict was read.

One victim wept.

Sandusky was stoic.

He knew it was coming.

But what about Dottie? What did she know and when did she know it? Public opinion weighs heavily in favor of her knowing what her husband did, was doing, to those boys. How could she not know? It happened in her house. Her basement. Not just once, but dozens of times over a period of years, decades, even. So how could she not know? The wives know. On some level they know. Which means they fucking know.

Case in point. When I was ten or so, we went to visit my grandparents at their house on Lake Huron. The man who lived next door, a Greek, lived there with his wife. I recall their grandchildren often visited when I was there. And he had St. Bernard puppies. He also made homemade wine. My dad loved his wine. So one day, he sent me next door to pick up a bottle of Mr. Greek’s homemade wine. I ran off next door to get the bottle, and he invited me in. He then offered me a taste of the wine. Recall I’m ten. But I tasted the wine anyway. It was sickly sweet. And then he came close. Close enough that I could feel his breath on my cheek. And he started rubbing me on my chest. And breathing on me. As I wriggled away, I saw his wife peering at us from around the corner. She never said a word. She didn’t try to stop him. She just stood and watched. And stayed silent. I escaped his grasp and ran. I ran back to my grandparents’ house and said nothing about what had happened. It felt wrong. But she watched and said nothing. Maybe I was crazy. Maybe I imagined it. I couldn’t tell. No one would believe me. He just rubbed my chest. The wife didn’t stop him. So I kept my mouth shut. Even when my dad made fun of me for running off without the wine because I was seemingly too bashful to go next door and get it.

The wife, having seen everything, stayed silent.

Was she complicit? Was Dottie Sandusky complicit? Was my sister complicit?

My sister?, you say. Yes, my sister is married to a pedophile. When I was 15, her husband, who was then 29, made a pass at me when he was teaching me how to drive out in the country. He kissed me. A full on wet mouth tongue kiss. It was sickening. And I never told a soul for 20 years. My sister knew, though. Or at least she knew something was wrong. She told him he was spending too much time with me, and it needed to stop. He said he was just teaching me how to drive, because my father was largely absent. He was right. I was vulnerable. I thrived on his attention. Who knows what I would have done had he gone farther. But with me, he didn’t go farther. He saved that for his daughter, my niece. How do I know this? She lived with me briefly when she was in her early twenties. And she told me then what her father had done to her. She told me he molested her from the time she was 6 until she was 16 and finally told a school counselor. He was never prosecuted. And my sister stayed with him. She, to this day, has stayed married to him. She didn’t need him to support her. She worked and made a good salary. She could have supported her two daughters just fine. But she kept his secret and never told anyone, and stayed with him. My niece felt betrayed. She felt her mother had chosen her pedophile father over her. And she was right. This was so confusing for my niece that she still let him walk her down the aisle at her wedding. She let her pedophile father give her away. And my sister watched, beaming with pride. When their second daughter married a year later, I didn’t go to the wedding. I couldn’t watch him pretending to be the doting father, again.

How do these women stay with these men? How do they defend them? How do they ignore the horrific things they’ve done? I asked my sister how she slept in the same bed with a man who molested their daughter. She had no answer other than, “Because I love him.”

She loves him. And Dottie loves Jerry. Ain’t love grand?

I wonder if my sister watched the news of the trial, of the conviction. I wonder if she sat in the same room with her pedophile husband and watched a man get sentenced to life in prison for the same crimes her husband has committed. I wonder if she felt any guilt or remorse for selling her daughter out. Like Dottie Sandusky did with those poor boys.

I did feel his conviction was a bit of a consolation. At least one of these monsters will pay for his crimes. I just wish the women would stand up for the children. And not for the perpetrators.

 

May 6, 2012

The Power of Vodka

Posted by Unconfirmed Bachelorette under Abilify, Abusive Relationships, Alcoholism, Antidepressants, Death and Grief, Death of a sibling, Deplin, Depression, Sexual Abuse, Therapy, Wellbutrin | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , |
[15] Comments 

I’ve been on antidepressants and back in therapy for a little over four months. It’s difficult to remember how tired and apathetic I was. How disinterested. But slowly over the past four months, I’ve begun to emerge from the pit I had dug for myself. Not entirely, though.

You see, the pit has a certain allure. It’s an easy place in which to live. I get to feel numb. Feeling numb is great when you’ve got more shit to deal with than you’d like. Seriously. Who wants to deal with a sister who stayed married to her pedophile husband after he molested their daughter? The whole world seems out of kilter when you’re faced with that shit. Deep dark holes are where it’s at.

But I’m not hunkered down in the hole any more. And the pedophile is still here. He was at my brother’s memorial last weekend. He consoled my mother. I fantasize about choking him. I think I’m making progress, emotionally.

Now that my mother has acknowledged that he’s still wasting space on this earth, he’s exhibiting a sense of entitlement. The man glared at me across the aisle when I turned around to look for my brother, Seth. I kid you not. He glared at me. He glared at me for having the audacity to say out loud what he is. A man who sexually molested his daughter. For years. How dare I tell my mother and brothers what he’d done? You’re supposed to keep that kind of behavior a secret, don’t you know. So he glared at me at my brother’s memorial and made no effort to keep his distance from me. Yes, he’s feeling emboldened. I wanted grab him by the hair and shove his face into the holy water, holding him under until he begged for mercy. And then dunk him again, just to be sure I’d made my point. Yep, the medication and therapy are working.

If he had molested someone elses daughter, he’d be in prison. Not hanging out in churches.

But if I’m shining a light, I may as well shine it on my sister, too. If it wasn’t for her, the man wouldn’t be around any more. What kind of woman stays married to a man who molests their daughter? What kind of mental gymnastics must she perform each day to keep her head from exploding? What does she tell herself? What could she possibly say to justify his behavior, and hers?

My sister is a horrible person. No way around that. And the co-dependent cycle continues with my nieces hiding their father’s secret, as if his shame were theirs. I really don’t get it. I don’t understand how she could stay with him. Does she have her own holy water fantasies? Does she imagine beheading him and putting his head on a spike in the forest for the crows to pluck out his eyeballs? Or does she block it all out with the contents of her plastic travel cup that she carries with her wherever she goes?

I’m guessing she finds her redemption at the bottom of a travel cup.

 

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