The featured photo was taken the day we adopted Noyzi– October 4, 2020.
Looks like it’s going to be another sedate Sunday here in Germany. Today is German Unity Day. It’s also Sunday, which means everything’s closed, anyway. Looks like rain is in the forecast, too. I have a feeling we’ll be chilling at home. Maybe we’ll watch a movie or get hooked on a Netflix show or something…
For now, though, I’d like to take a moment to reflect on the past year. It was a special year for many reasons, mostly because of challenges related to COVID-19, and because some people who were friends and relatives have moved on to the next world. It’s also special because this year, we’ve had Noyzi.
Bill and I adopted Noyzi last year after we lost our sweet beagle, Zane, to lymphoma. We had tried to adopt a dog from a local rescue, but it was during the first days of the pandemic. We weren’t allowed to travel to get him ourselves, so the rescue arranged for a pet taxi to bring him to us. The pet taxi driver who drove him from up north neglected to secure him properly before she took him out of the car. He escaped, and was killed on the Autobahn.
I was heartbroken after both of those dogs died. One day, I mentioned on Facebook that I really wanted another dog. My friend Mary happened to know an American woman who rehomes rescue dogs from Kosovo. Mary put me in touch with Meg, Noyzi’s savior, and we embarked on our journey to bring Noyzi home. It took about six months to get everything set.
First, we had to get a blood test for Noyzi to make sure he was rabies free. Then we had to wait for the borders to open, making travel to Kosovo possible for Meg. Then we had to arrange a weekend when we could meet her halfway and pick up the dog. I chronicled that trip on my travel blog, which you can find here.
Prior to picking up Noyzi in Kranjska Gora, a border resort town in northwestern Slovenia, we had never seen him in person. All I knew about him was what I had seen in pictures and videos of him. A lot of the photos and videos I had seen were of when he was a puppy. Consequently, I didn’t know how big he was before we picked him up. It’s a damned good thing we have a SUV. He had to ride in the back cargo area, because Arran was not too happy about having a new canine pal. The backseat also isn’t quite big enough for Noyzi, either.
Noyzi was petrified when we brought him into our house. He was confused by the glass doors, and bumped into them a few times, thinking that since he could see through the glass, he could just go outside. And when he first went outside, he wanted to stay there. I’m guessing it was because that was what he was used to. In Kosovo, he lived outside with a bunch of other dogs. They had shelter, but they didn’t spend all of their time in the shelter.
Within a couple of days, Noyzi realized that being inside was a good thing. So then he didn’t want to go outside, because it was like he was afraid we were going to make him stay out there all the time. He was afraid of both Bill and me, but he was less afraid of me. He wouldn’t let Bill pet him at first, and then he would only let him pet him if he was lying on his bedding. He would also submissively urinate when Bill made sudden moves, like taking off his belt or a jacket.
After a week, Noyzi got his own bed. It was his safe space. He would stay there about 95 percent of the time, never venturing beyond the immediate area around the bed.
Noyzi also did not know how to walk on a leash. I had to teach him that the harness and leash were his friends. After a few lessons, we trusted him enough to take a walk through the neighborhood. It was quite a thrill when he finally got the hang of it. And now, a year later, he demands walks every day. If I don’t take him out, he’ll bug me. He’ll even bark at me until I get up. Then, while I get dressed, he’ll goose me in the butt.
A few months ago, Noyzi abandoned the bed in the living room, where he’d been spending most of his time. Instead, he gradually moved himself upstairs, finally installing himself on some old bedding in my office. When it became clear that Noyzi wasn’t going to be sleeping downstairs anymore, I moved his big dog bed to my office. He now hangs out there most of the time, but he’s not averse to going to other rooms. He used to be afraid to leave his bed at all.
Noyzi made friends with our next door neighbor’s Labrador, Tommi, who is very young and playful. For awhile, it looked like Tommi might crawl under the fence for a play session!
In the spring, we put up a new fly screen, because the one we had was all torn up and Noyzi had destroyed it even further by pawing at it. Noyzi didn’t know what to make of it. He still comes bounding through it in a panic most days, but it no longer deters him from coming in or going outside.
As I’m writing this, Noyzi just came over for a pat on the head. He’s become such a loving, goofy, funny family member. He’s also remarkably well-behaved. I never even had to house train him. He somehow knew from the beginning not to pee in the house. I’ve only had to clean up a couple of messy accidents caused by dietary indiscretions. He does, on the other hand, shed a lot. Every week, I sweep and vacuum lots of hairy evidence that he’s in our lives.
I have never had a dog like Noyzi. Actually, I could say that about any of our dogs, but I can especially say it about Noyzi. He’s completely different from any dog I’ve ever had. He’s the biggest dog I’ve ever had, and the only one that wasn’t American. Most of my dogs have been hounds. We had a couple of dogs when I was a child who weren’t hounds, but they were small dogs that were easy to handle and move. Noyzi probably weighs about 70 pounds. Thankfully, he’s taught himself to jump into the back of the Volvo, which spares my back.
Noyzi has really made a lot of progress from the shy, terrified, pariah dog he was a year ago. Now, he’s much more confident and happy to be part of a family. He’s even made some progress with his fear of men. He will come up to Bill for snacks, and when the plumber was here a few days ago, Noyzi bowed down to be petted. Just a few weeks ago, he would not have done that. It’s so rewarding to watch him evolve, and let go of all of those fears he’s had for so long. I think we were meant to have him… and having him has taught us so much.
Below are some photos that show Noyzi’s journey…
I’m so glad we adopted Noyzi. I have never regretted taking in any of our dogs, but having him has been especially rewarding and educational, on so many levels. He’s taught us so much about survival, trust, love, and Kosovo, which I will admit is a country I knew almost nothing about before we met Noyzi and Meg. He really is a wonderful family member. Even ol’ Arran is coming around to loving him as much as Bill and I do.
I still have a bit of writer’s block today… Well, maybe I don’t have writer’s block per se. There’s a lot I could write about. I just don’t feel like getting into what’s on everyone’s minds right now. I would rather complain about something else. Today’s topic is not as much of a problem as it once was. In some ways it’s a relief. In other ways, it’s kinda sad. The title of today’s post is recycled, but the content is mostly fresh.
I grew up with a large, extended family on my dad’s side. I have three sisters, and we all have the same parents. My sisters are much older than I am, though, so in some ways, they seemed more like my aunts. My father had eight brothers and sisters, and seven of them made it to adulthood. My aunts and uncles each had either 2 or 4 children, so there are 22 grandchildren– 11 males and 11 females.
When I was growing up, I thought I had a really awesome family. And, I guess I do… except for the fact that I feel like I no longer belong. Looking back on it, though, I realize that I probably never really belonged. I used to fight with my younger cousins a lot. Now that we’re adults, I’ve found that I’m a lot more liberal than most of my family members are. I didn’t used to be this way. I used to identify as a Republican. I now realize that was because I didn’t know a thing about politics or politicians. I simply voted the way my family and a lot of my friends did. It took leaving the nest to find my own views. And it’s taken several more years for me to have the conviction and confidence to defend my opinions. Sadly, I think that’s taken a toll on some of my relationships.
Today’s blog post title was originally used on a post I wrote in 2016 about certain members of my extended family mindlessly sending me falsely attributed emails that parroted their conservative views. On the original post, I wrote about how one of my favorite relatives, now sadly deceased, had sent me an email supposedly written by the late Andy Rooney. I grew up watching Mr. Rooney on 60 Minutes. He was famously cranky, curmudgeonly, and witty. Sometimes, he had controversial opinions. Still, I couldn’t believe that Andy Rooney would have written an email that espoused the racist views in the email sent to me by my relatives. I checked Snopes, and sure enough, my hunch was correct.
In my 2016 post, I wrote that I was sad for a couple of reasons that I had received that forwarded email. Rooney was a talented writer and expressed himself gracefully. Would he have really written something along the lines of “It doesn’t take a whole village to raise a child right, but it does take a parent to stand up to the kid and smack their little ass when necessary and say ‘NO.’?” And even if Andy Rooney had written the email and did agree with its sentiments, why on earth would people in my family think I would appreciate or agree with that tripe? I figured they must not know me very well. I wrote:
I could sit here and dissect that email forward for its very hateful messages. Instead, I’m just going to make a comment to the people who actually know me and follow this blog (or the other two). First of all, I am not a political conservative. I don’t agree with a lot of conservative views. I am probably more of a centrist than anything else. While I am generally not a fan of political correctness being forced down people’s throats and I place a high value on the freedom of expression, I also appreciate civility and empathy. I try really hard not to be cruel to people, even when I feel angry enough to be cruel. While I would never say that I’m a bleeding heart liberal, neither am I a crusty conservative. And I would never align myself with the attitude presented in the email forward I received last night.
What really surprises me is that the people who forwarded that email to me are a couple of my favorite relatives. They have always been good to me… probably even better to me than my own parents ever were. They are genuinely kind to everyone. I hesitate to send a negative response to them, even in a loving tone, because despite hating the constant forwarded emails, I do love them very much and don’t want to offend them, even though they’ve offended me. I respect them as my elders and as people who helped make me who I am.
I ended my post wondering what I should do. I didn’t want to be offensive, but that email was offensive to me. It didn’t speak to me. And while I’m sure I could have crafted a kind response to them and a request not to mindlessly forward conservative political bullshit to me, I’m not sure that would have been received in a spirit of fun or goodwill. I wrote this in my 2016 post:
Part of me thinks it’s easiest to just ignore and delete the emails. Another part of me feels like I should say something about them. I’m torn between not wanting to upset people and feeling like I need to call bullshit. I wonder if it’s worth the hassle and if my saying anything would change anything. It’s not that I don’t want to hear from my family members. It’s just that 99.9% of the forwards, even if they aren’t hateful and racist, are just plain useless and/or stupid.
I have heard people say that when you get a forwarded email from someone, you should take it as a sign they were thinking of you. If that’s true, how am I supposed to take it when I get an email that really doesn’t connect with my beliefs or world view at all? And it’s not even something my relative wrote from the heart– it’s ripped off crap written by some anonymous identity thieving hack. If I had received an original email from a family member that contained the same sentiments in the so-called Andy Rooney hack job, I probably still wouldn’t appreciate it much. But at least I’d know the email was somewhat original and written for me. I would at least have a sign that the family member was communicating with me personally and not just poking me with rehashed crap that has already been spread to the masses. What the hell is the point of forwarding shit that has been forwarded ad nauseam for over a decade and identified as not being authentic?
As I’ve mentioned before on this blog, I’ve been trained to be “nice”. I grew up with a father who believed in “smacking my ‘little’ ass” whenever he felt it was warranted. Of course, when he did that, he was usually angry and sometimes intoxicated. So his judgment about whether or not physical discipline was required was probably a bit skewed. The end result was that when my father died in 2014, I was kind of ambivalent. If I’m honest, I have to admit that I don’t miss him very much, even though I thought I loved him when he was alive.
Yesterday, Bill and I were talking about his dad, who died last November. I never got a chance to know my father-in-law well. I saw him in person a handful of times. I always thought he was a nice man, albeit a little bit simple. I say “simple”, but that doesn’t mean I think he was “simple-minded”. He was just not one to fuss with complexities. He had a tendency to be nice to a fault, and he let people steamroll him… to include Bill’s ex wife. He didn’t know Bill that well, because he and Bill’s mom divorced when Bill was very young. Bill visited his dad, but due to the nature of visitation, it was hard for them to bond or have a relationship in which there was more than a “vacation” mindset. Then Bill’s mom moved to Arizona and later, Texas, while Bill’s dad lived in Tennessee. So that made it even harder for them to really bond.
Bill missed his father’s funeral, thanks to COVID-19. He did manage to tell him he loved him, thanks to Skype. Bill’s dad’s last words were a request for Bill to be kind to his wife, Bill’s stepmother. The one thing Bill’s dad said to me, during the few times I met him, was that Bill had exceeded his expectations. He said that he hadn’t thought Bill was tough enough to be in the Army. But Bill had proven him wrong. I think he meant it as an expression of pride, but it was actually kind of a backhanded compliment. But at least Bill’s dad wasn’t a believer in physical violence to get his point across, as my father was. I wish they had known each other better before time ran out.
Nowadays, I don’t get those forwards from my relatives. What ended up happening is that another relative went way too far. And I got really mad and cussed him out. It happened in February 2017, when Bill and I were vacationing in France. My uncle sent a pro Trump/Pence forward to me. Feeling a bit saucy, and more than a little fed up by the constant political bullshit, I sent a polite response. Seriously, it initially WAS polite. I simply wrote back that I wasn’t impressed with either Trump or Pence and thought they both needed to go. In a blog post from that time, I wrote this:
My uncle came back and accused me of being a “nut case”. He said that in two years, I’ll be “cheering” for Trump. He assumes I voted for Hillary Clinton. I didn’t vote for Mrs. Clinton, but I would much prefer her to Trump. At least she’s competent and knows enough not to act like a goddamn psychopath on Twitter.
So anyway, being called a nutcase by my uncle pissed me the fuck right off. So I wrote back to him and said, “No, Ed, I really will not [be cheering]. You need to stop sending me this crap. Unless you want a verbal ass kicking, you’ll take me off your email list.”
My sister saw what I wrote and said, “Oh no, now you’ve done it.” I explained to her that I’m rapidly reaching a point at which I am about to disassociate with people who resort to mean spirited personal insults over politics, even if it’s a family member. She implored me to calm down, probably realizing that since I live overseas and don’t miss anyone, it would be all too easy for me to simply drop out of the family fold altogether.
He responded and once again called me crazy. He also said “GET OVER IT!” Just like that.
I wonder, does he really expect me to just “get over it”? He knows where I come from. I have a lot of the same qualities he has. In fact, being outspoken is what makes me a family member of his.
Anyway… I wrote back and said, “Ed, I’m warning you. Leave me alone. Stop sending me political bullshit.”
He may write back today, after he’s had a few belts. If he does, I will probably shred him.
As I recall, Ed did send me a few more political emails, but there were fewer of them. And now I don’t get so many anymore, partly because some of the worst offenders are now dead. And partly because I finally got angry and told the still living ones to knock it off. But now I don’t really hear much from them anymore…
Yesterday, I told Bill that I still love my family, but I don’t feel like I can go home again. I don’t think I want to spend a holiday with them like I used to, when I was younger and more pliant. The political forwards weren’t always bad, though. Sometimes, they inspired me to be creative. My uncle sent me the below forwarded poem back in January 2018. Try not to gag (even though of COURSE I honor our vets– I am married to one).
Re: Fwd: Fw: A TERRIFIC POEM /Our Vets.
I’m honored to have the opportunity to pass this well-written poem along.
He was getting old and paunchy And his hair was falling fast, And he sat around the Legion, Telling stories of the past.
Of a war that he once fought in And the deeds that he had done, In his exploits with his buddies; They were heroes, every one.
And ‘tho sometimes to his neighbors His tales became a joke, All his buddies listened quietly For they knew where of he spoke.
But we’ll hear his tales no longer, For ol’ Joe has passed away, And the world’s a little poorer For a Veteran died today.
He won’t be mourned by many, Just his children and his wife. For he lived an ordinary, Very quiet sort of life.
He held a job and raised a family, Going quietly on his way; And the world won’t note his passing, ‘Tho a Veteran died today.
When politicians leave this earth, Their bodies lie in state, While thousands note their passing, And proclaim that they were great.
Papers tell of their life stories From the time that they were young, But the passing of a Veteran Goes unnoticed, and unsung.
Is the greatest contribution To the welfare of our land, Some jerk who breaks his promise And cons his fellow man?
Or the ordinary fellow Who in times of war and strife, Goes off to serve his country And offers up his life?
The politician’s stipend And the style in which he lives, Are often disproportionate, To the service that he gives.
While the ordinary Veteran, Who offered up his all, Is paid off with a medal And perhaps a pension, small.
It is not the politicians With their compromise and ploys, Who won for us the freedom That our country now enjoys.
Should you find yourself in danger, With your enemies at hand, Would you really want some cop-out, With his ever-waffling stand?
Or would you want a Veteran His home, his country, his kin, Just a common Veteran, Who would fight until the end.
He was just a common Veteran, And his ranks are growing thin, But his presence should remind us We may need his likes again.
For when countries are in conflict, We find the Veteran’s part, Is to clean up all the troubles That the politicians start.
If we cannot do him honor While he’s here to hear the praise, Then at least let’s give him homage At the ending of his days.
Perhaps just a simple headline In the paper that might say: “OUR COUNTRY IS IN MOURNING, A VETERAN DIED TODAY.”
PLEASE, If you are proud of our Vets, then pass this on.
I was so tired of my uncle’s conservative political forwards that I decided to rewrite this “well-written” poem… I don’t remember if I sent it to him. I probably didn’t, since I was trained to be “nice”.
He was getting old and senile And his mind was failing fast, Uncle Ed sat by his computer, Sending emails from the past.
Of politicians he agreed with And decisions they had made, Of their exploits within Washington; Slashing Social Security and Medicaid.
And ‘tho to some of his relatives Ed’s emails were mostly bunk, They resolved to just ignore them Cuz’ they figured he was drunk.
Sometimes the emails are racist and often they offend, And my mood’s a little poorer when Uncle Ed hits “send”.
He’s worked and raised a family, And managed his travails; Yet on the day he passes, I’ll only recall his emails.
Although I’ve always loved him, his children, and his wife. I tire of his political bullshit; which often causes strife.
For many politicians are selfish, And people think they’re fake, Others forecast their passing, And the policies they’ll make.
The media tells how their choices Badly affect the old and the young, And the way they screw the veterans Goes unnoticed, and unsung.
Is the greatest contribution To the welfare of our land, An uncle who sends political emails And disturbs his fellow man?
Or the ordinary housewife Whose nerves are worn and frayed, Fighting hard to still the impulse that make her words cut like blades?
The hapless housewife’s stipend And the style in which she lives, Are often disproportionate, To the lack of a shit she gives.
About her uncle’s politics, Republican and all, His insights regarding morality, And how America will fall.
It is not the lowly relative With patience, grace, and poise, Who wins respect and gratitude When her drunken uncle annoys.
Should she find herself angry, The latest missive on her screen, Wouldn’t she like to respond, To his ever-venting spleen?
Or would she just sit quietly Again holding her piece, As her dad, Ed’s big brother Bill, Taught Ed’s very clever niece.
She’s just a common cousin, Daughter, sister, niece, and female, But her life is worth just enough– To receive masses of forwarded email.
For when old men are online, In the darkest hours of the night, One never knows what bullshit They’ll send via kilobyte.
She cannot block his postings And he will not volunteer, To stop forwarding ridiculous emails, That won’t inspire cheer…
Perhaps in a simple reprimand her response will someday be: “I’M TIRED OF YOUR FORWARDS. STOP SENDING THAT CRAP TO ME.”
PLEASE… If you are sick of mindless email forwards full of conservative politics, then pass this on.
Maybe it’s kind of mean to be rewriting this classic piece of poetry that so touched my uncle’s heart. However, I think I’ve historically generally been pretty patient with him. At the time I posted this, I asked him to stop sending me this shit a year prior, and yet he persisted. I might as well have a little fun with it. After all, a gift for words is something passed down from his side of the family. It’s like being related to a bunch of southern styled Archie Bunkers.
Ah well… We’ll see if and when I ever go home again. Maybe I’m better off over here with Bill. Maybe it’s a lucky thing that I see things more clearly now than I used to, even if my eyes get more myopic and astigmatic by the day. It’s probably true that you can never really go home again. And sometimes, even your relatives don’t really know you.
Yesterday, someone wrote an off topic post on the Recovery from Mormonism messageboard. Or, she’d labeled it as OT. Personally, I didn’t think it was an off topic post at all. I’m sure a lot of people who are ex members of the LDS church can relate to the ultimate breach of trust and lack of respect she describes with this post.
I was aware of my husband’s previous marriage. What I didn’t know, until I recently discovered it, is that I’m actually wife #4, not #2, I thought. We discussed previous relationships before we got married, but he referred to them as relationships, not marriages. I also pulled out our marriage license application where you have to declare which marriage this is…he wrote “second”.
When asked why he did this, he replied, “it was along time ago, the marriages were so short, I thought you may not marry me, you didn’t ask”.
I’m really struggling with this. It feels kinda like discovering hidden church stuff all over again.
This lady’s post was up for several hours before someone responded to it. I happened to be that person. My comment to her was this:
I don’t blame you for being upset. I would wonder what else I wasn’t told in that situation. It’s a breach of trust.
I could have written more, but I was on my iPad and it’s a pain to type on the iPad. Also, I really just wanted her to feel heard and validated without having to wade through too much. Her instincts are correct. Her husband lied to her, and that’s a major betrayal. I’m not an ex Mormon, but Bill is. When we met, he claimed to be a devout church believer. However, we met in a place not typically frequented by church types. After awhile, I realized he was trying to convince himself that he was a believer. He wanted to save his first marriage– felt it was his duty to try to save it, even though it was a relationship built on bullshit. Those kinds of relationships pretty much never last.
A couple of hours later, another nevermo regular poster also replied. She agreed with me. Then, came the somewhat inappropriate responses from men. One guy wrote:
“Everyone with the ability to speak ‘edits’ their life story.”
That may be true… but glossing over two previous marriages is a bit extreme, in my view, even if they were super short and “meaningless”. At the very least, it means that her spouse once had little regard for the institution of marriage. He obviously didn’t take it seriously a couple of times in his life. I would have a hard time regaining trust for my husband if it turned out he’d hidden something this significant. I also think it says something when the spouse who lies by omission says something like “I was afraid you wouldn’t marry me if you knew the whole truth about me.” Cover ups are almost always worse than the truth. At least if you tell someone the truth, they have the ability to decide for themselves about the right thing to do .
Consider this. If you’ve been reading this blog for any time, you know that I love my husband with all my heart. This year, we will have been happily married for 19 years. But if I’d relied only on my common sense, I never would have married him. He had a lot of baggage that would have sent a lot of women packing. Here’s a list of his “shortcomings” from those early days, over twenty years ago.
He had bad credit. He and Ex had gone through both a foreclosure and a bankruptcy. After getting to know him, I realized that Bill wasn’t the one with the problem handling money. But if I had been exercising common sense, I wouldn’t have gotten involved with him because of his financial issues.
He was broke. After his divorce, Bill was paying over half his salary to Ex in child support and alimony. It was really tough going for awhile, but I realized it was a time limited issue. And, based on our lifestyle, you can see that I was right.
His ex wife was (and still is) legitimately “crazy”. Those of you who have followed my blogs probably already know how crazy. She has no compunction about making insane demands on people and smearing them to others. She withheld visitation with the kids from Bill and completely alienated them after he married me. I strongly suspect she has a character disorder.
He’d had a vasectomy. Bill is not only my first husband; he’s also the only man I’ve ever been intimate with. I wanted to have children, and he’d already had them with Ex, who then asked him to have a vasectomy. He obliged. However, he was willing to have it reversed for me. That was enough for me, even though I never managed to have children. Now, I realize maybe not having children was a good thing, given how complicated his situation with Ex and their kids has been.
He was involved in a “weird” religion. Not everyone thinks Mormonism is “weird”, but coming from the South, where most people are Protestants, it was certainly different to me. Fortunately, Bill wasn’t that committed to Mormonism, nor did he feel compelled to convert me. If he had, our relationship probably would not have worked. I can tell you right now, I would never willingly be involved in a faith that dictates what undergarments I wear or what beverages I choose to drink. Other people’s mileages vary, of course.
I met him on the Internet in a chat room! I might as well have met him in a bar!
So why has our relationship worked, given all of these “obvious” shortcomings? It’s worked because Bill was completely honest with me. Three months after we started chatting, he sent me a long email explaining everything, even though he worried that I might reject him. Also, he stayed platonic in his conversations with me until he was legally divorced. He even wore his wedding ring until his split was official. We didn’t meet in person until about a year after his divorce was official. Even after the divorce was official, he wasn’t inappropriate with me. I realized that he was a decent, honest person and I could trust him. He also eventually learned that he could trust me, despite what he’d been through in his first marriage.
It took about five years before Bill completely trusted me with finances. He finally gave me access to his bank account when he deployed to Iraq and I had to handle the household bills. While he was gone, I made a point of paying off all of the horrible, high interest credit cards he had because he’d trusted his ex wife to pay the bills and she hadn’t. A year later, USAA, which had taken a loss in his bankruptcy, granted him a new credit card. PenFed let him refinance a car loan, saving us hundreds of dollars. He’s never missed paying a bill the whole time we’ve been together. He now has an excellent credit score.
When Bill goes on business trips, he is incredibly reliable about contacting me. In fact, it’s almost annoying… I’ll be watching a movie or something and he’ll want to chat. But I appreciate it, because I know he’s thinking of me and is faithful. I don’t worry about him fucking around when he goes TDY. He is extremely respectful and faithful, and I knew he was when he was still married to his ex wife. Meanwhile, she was shacking up with her now third husband in the house Bill was paying for and she later let go into foreclosure. I was certain he was trustworthy when I met him, and so far, he’s proven me right.
Over the years, Bill has been incredibly brave about telling me pretty much everything about his life, even some things that are completely embarrassing and potentially humiliating. And he has had quite a life… and a lot of weird stuff has happened to him. He could write a book. Every day, I’m amazed at how balanced, reliable, and decent he is, despite everything that has happened in his past. He could have chosen not to tell me about the embarrassing things in his past and risked being rejected by me. But, it turns out I was willing to trust my instincts, rather than common sense. I knew he was the best kind of person, and I was right. It would devastate me if he’d hidden something as major as prior marriages, no matter how short. It would mean he didn’t trust me, and that would make me wonder if I should be trusting him.
I don’t think strong relationships start with deception, either outright untruths or lies by omission. When I married Bill, I was taking on a new relative. That means he’s family… family I CHOSE. I wouldn’t voluntarily choose to make someone a family member if he didn’t trust me enough to tell me the whole truth about who he is. Likewise, I would expect my partner to know everything there is to know about me. But I also realize that I have been extremely lucky. Bill is an honest person who doesn’t hide skeletons in the closet. I am also an honest person. We told each other the truth. A person who can’t handle hearing the whole truth about serious issues before agreeing to marriage is probably not the best candidate to be husband or wife.
Now… it’s true that I do believe in being completely honest about the major things, like prior marriages, criminal history, health situations, and finances. But that doesn’t mean I think it’s always a good thing to be completely honest about everything. Like, for instance, if Bill thinks my ass looks especially dumpy one day, he doesn’t have to be honest about that and tell me so! That would hurt my feelings unnecessarily, especially since there’s nothing I can immediately do about having a dumpy ass. Fortunately, he’s not the type of guy who is overly hung up on looks. 😉
But yes… if I found out that I was wife #4, rather than wife #2, I would be very hurt and feel betrayed. I think it would be difficult to trust a partner who hid something major like that from me. And I would not think too highly of someone who tried to brush it off by saying the marriages were short or insignificant and, therefore, unworthy of being mentioned. Marriage, to me, is a huge deal. The fact that someone got married twice, but doesn’t see them as significant is a huge red flag, in my opinion. I have a lot of empathy for the lady on RfM who is making this discovery now. I wish her luck and strength. She might even feel like she doesn’t even know this man anymore.
At least at this point, Bill and I are a team. We work together to achieve common goals. He supports what I do, and I support what he does. We trust each other, and, for the most part, we’re completely honest. We don’t hide things. Like… I can say whatever is on my mind and, for the most part, Bill doesn’t judge me for them. The same goes for Bill. Because I think we both know that neither of us wants the other person to be hurt. That being said, though, I also think I hit the husband lottery. Bill is an unusually mature and respectful person. Most people aren’t like him, including myself. I never forget that, and I try not to abuse it.
I have written a few times about my childhood neighbors, people who lived across the dirt road from us in Virginia. In 1980, when we moved to Gloucester, they were a family of four. There was a mother, father, brother and sister. The father did not live at home. He was in his early 30s and lived at the local psychiatric hospital in Williamsburg because he was suffering from Huntington’s Disease. The mother was raising her children, twelve year old Michael and nine year old Leslie, by herself.
In 1980, Michael was also suffering from Huntington’s Disease, having inherited the defective gene and developed the disease much earlier than most people with Huntington’s Disease do. He died in 1982. His and Leslie’s father died a couple of years after that.
I was eight in 1980. I met all of these people when I was a child. Leslie’s mother worked for my dad for several years until Leslie’s paternal grandmother died and Leslie’s mom inherited some money. Leslie’s mom bought her own picture framing business and competed against my dad. The business eventually failed.
Leslie and I weren’t close friends, but we did grow up together. My parents included Leslie and her mom on a couple of family trips. In 1985, I remember we all went to Kitty Hawk, North Carolina together. I seem to remember Leslie and her mom coming with us to Natural Bridge, Virginia once, too. I grew up waiting for the bus with Leslie and used to dog sit for her mom when they’d take trips to the Smoky Mountains. Leslie was bright and talented and probably could have done some great things had she not been doomed to get Huntington’s Disease while still fairly young.
Leslie died in 2010, having battled the disease for several years. She was 39 years old. She’d given birth to three kids. One of them died in a freak accident in 1995. Leslie’s little daughter, just two years old, was accidentally run over by Leslie at the local Walmart. For some reason, Leslie had allowed the little girl to stand up behind the driver’s seat. If I recall correctly, she was just coasting forward to the drink machines and, for whatever reason, decided not to put the kid in a car seat. Leslie had inexplicably left the car door open and the girl fell out and ended up under the car’s tires. Her older child, then just three years old, was also there. In 2012, when he was 21 years old, that child would also die in a car accident. I have to wonder if the accident was really an accident or if the young man had started getting symptoms of Huntington’s Disease and decided to commit suicide.
In 1996, Leslie had her third child, another son. He is the only one of her children still living. I have never met Leslie’s youngest child, but I know his family well. I also know his dad, since he was in my class in school. In the 80s, Gloucester was the kind of place where everyone knew each other. I also knew of Leslie’s older son’s family, since his grandmother used to clean my parents’ house.
Last night, I decided to look up Leslie’s sole surviving son. I see that he recently became a father. I have to wonder how much exposure he got to his mother when she was sick. I didn’t see Leslie during those years because I left our hometown, but I do remember meeting her father and seeing her brother on a daily basis. I remember what Huntington’s Disease looked like at an advanced stage. It’s absolutely devastating.
I just started reading a book about a woman who married into a family with the Huntington’s Disease gene. The woman fell in love with her husband before he knew his mother had Huntington’s Disease. She was dating him when he and his three older sisters found out why their mother wasn’t around when they were growing up. She’d been in a psychiatric hospital. The family patriarch wasn’t much of a father figure, so it was left up to the eldest daughter to take care of everyone. Somehow, the four kids grew up not knowing that their mother had a genetic disorder. I’m probably halfway through the book so far… The author decided to play the odds and have a son with her husband.
I learned in the book I’m reading that famed songwriter, Woody Guthrie, had Huntington’s Disease. He had eight children, five of whom died young. His second of three wives, Marjorie Guthrie, started what would eventually become the Huntington’s Disease Society of America. Marjorie had four children with Woody, including famous singer-songwriter Arlo Guthrie. Woody was married to his third wife for just a year before they split; he died in 1967 at age 55. Woody was never really treated for his disease. People thought he had schizophrenia or was an alcoholic, due to the extreme mood swings the disease caused. Because he was famous, his death brought awareness to Huntington’s Disease. It looks like Arlo and two siblings have escaped their father’s fate. Today, I very much enjoy listening to music by Arlo’s daughter, Cathy, who plays ukulele in the duo, Folk Uke, with Amy Nelson (Willie Nelson’s daughter).
Every child who has a parent with Huntington’s Disease has a fifty percent chance of developing the disease. Huntington’s Disease, although genetically perpetuated, is not like cystic fibrosis. With CF, both parents must have the genetic defect. Even then, a child born to parents carrying the CF gene has a one in four chance of getting cystic fibrosis, a one in four chance of being clear of the gene, and a two in four chance of being a carrier. With Huntington’s Disease, it’s a one in two chance. And if you have the gene, you will get the disease and likely die from it. There is no treatment or cure for Huntington’s Disease.
A few months ago, I wrote a post about the ethics of knowingly passing along defective genes. That post was inspired by Zach and Tori Roloff, stars of the TLC show Little People Big World. They’d just had a baby and some people were saying that they shouldn’t have, since Zach has achondoplasia. Their son, Jackson, also has achondoplasia, which is a type of dwarfism. For the record, I will say that dwarfism is not quite the same thing as something like CF or Huntington’s Disease. A person who has achondoplasia can be basically healthy, though abnormally short. CF and Huntington’s Disease are very serious and debilitating.
I think Huntington’s Disease, in some ways, is crueler than CF is. Many people with CF are sick from babyhood. They grow up sick, although some sufferers are much sicker than others. They often know from a young age whether or not they will be affected by CF.
A person with a family history of Huntington’s Disease can start life completely normal and not get sick until they’re approaching middle age. They can develop lives, start families, have careers, and ultimately be stricken by a disease that makes them lose control of their bodies and their minds. People with Huntington’s Disease grow up wondering if and when it will strike and whether or not they should get tested for the gene. If they get tested, the news could be good. They might not have the gene. Or it can be bad; they have the gene and will eventually get very sick and probably die young.
Leslie’s family was devastated by Huntington’s Disease. It seemed the gene in her family was worse than some others. I remember hearing that her grandfather, whom I never met, had the disease. He’d been adopted and never knew he had a genetic anomaly, so he and his wife, Vashti (whom I did meet), had a family. I know that besides Leslie’s dad, at least one other sibling got the disease and died young.
I remember my mom telling me, quite emotionally, that Leslie’s mother should have had her daughter’s tubes tied when she was a baby. I explained to my very practical mom that it would have been unethical to tie Leslie’s tubes. What if she had been born clear of the gene? There was a fifty percent chance that she had the defect, but there was also a fifty percent chance she didn’t. She could have lived a completely normal life. In 1971, when Leslie was born, I doubt the technology was there to know. By the time genetic testing was available, I’m sure Leslie didn’t want to know.
I wish Leslie’s grandson much luck. I truly hope he isn’t going to be afflicted by this terrible disease. Life is a crap shoot. He has an aunt and uncle who may or may not have had the genes for Huntington’s Disease and still died very young. Not having the misfortune of being burdened by a genetically passed disease myself, I can’t even know what it’s like to live with the knowledge that I’m doomed. Hopefully, Leslie’s son and grandson have escaped Huntington’s Disease. That disease is a fate I would not wish on my worst enemy. On the other hand, if Woody Guthrie hadn’t had children, we would be missing out on some great music.
I’ll write a review of the book when I’m finished with it. It’s amazing what provides food for thought… And it’s also crazy that I know so much about someone I’ve never met. It’s not the first time this has happened, either.
I originally reviewed this book on September 2, 2017. It appears here “as/is”.
I have mentioned several times on this blog that I once had neighbors whose family was profoundly affected by Huntington’s Disease, a fatal genetic condition that robs the afflicted of their minds and bodies. Last month, I purchased Therese Crutcher-Marin’s 2017 book, Watching Their Dance: Three Sisters, A Genetic Disease and Marrying into a Family At Risk for Huntington’s. I just finished reading the book today.
In the 1970s, author Therese Crutcher-Marin met her husband, John. She fell in love with him and grew to love his three older sisters, Lora, Marcia, and Cindy. John and his sisters had grown up without their mother; she was committed to a psychiatric hospital when they were young. She later died, but it wasn’t until they were adults that they found out she’d had Huntington’s Disease. Compounding the issue was the adult children’s father, Big John, who had never been much of a parent to his kids. Big John had a second wife who was not particularly friendly to them, either.
Every child born to a parent who has Huntington’s Disease has a fifty/fifty chance of inheriting the gene that causes the disease. Every person who has the gene for Huntington’s Disease will eventually get the disease if he or she doesn’t die of something else. It’s not possible to have the gene and simply be a carrier.
Therese loved John, but knowing that he may one day develop a very demanding disease that would eventually kill him at a young age was very difficult for her. Eventually, the author decided that life is a crap shoot anyway. She married John and they launched their careers and started a family, eventually having two children. Meanwhile, each of John’s sisters developed Huntington’s Disease.
This book is mainly about Therese Crutcher-Marin’s experiences watching her beloved sisters-in-law getting sick and eventually dying. The author’s husband opted not to be tested for the gene until after he was already past the age at which symptoms usually appear. Fortunately, he did not have the gene, since he and the author had two children together.
For the most part, I found Watching Their Dance very informative and interesting. It’s well-written and I admired how dedicated Therese Crutcher-Marin was to her husband’s family. However, there were some parts of the book that I felt were a bit extraneous. Sometimes the book read like a very newsy letter home; it included some information that didn’t necessarily seem relevant. Therese does explain that she has problems with obsessive compulsive disorder. She is a meticulous planner. Perhaps that’s why this book seemed a little more detailed than it needed to be about things that weren’t pertinent.
I also feel that although Crutcher-Marin’s writing is mostly very functional and correct, her style isn’t particularly eloquent. Some authors write effortlessly and colorfully. Crutcher-Marin’s writing is serviceable, but not very artistic. I got the sense that writing the story was hard work, although she did the work to high standards.
I did appreciate Crutcher-Marin’s candor about what it’s like to watch loved ones with Huntington’s Disease. It’s a rare disease and a lot of people have never heard of it. I happened to have seen it in person, so much of what she wrote about made sense to me. Sadly, Huntington’s Disease has no treatment or cure. The only thing that can be done is controlling the symptoms. Moreover, it’s very difficult to find adequate care for people with Huntington’s Disease. Those who have the disease do not die of it; instead, they die of complications arising from the disease process. Many sufferers waste away because they can’t eat adequately or they develop an infection, like pneumonia.
I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been for Therese, John, and their children to watch as Lora, Marcia, and Cindy each developed symptoms and eventually died. Each of the sisters suffered in her own way. One sister died quickly after developing a brain bleed after a blow to the head. She had been taking Coumadin. Another sister languished for years with Huntington’s Disease before she finally died. The third sister developed the disease in her 40s, a late onset by most Huntington’s standards. She managed to be independent and travel for some time before she, too, got very sick and died in her fifties.
I think Watching Their Dance is well worth reading, especially for those who know or love someone with Huntington’s Disease. I am not aware of other books about what it’s like to be a caregiver to someone with HD, so this is a valuable book.
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