communication, condescending twatbags, healthcare, mental health

My personal triggers from Amy Silverstein’s heart transplant saga…

Good morning, people. It’s about 10:00 AM, and I’ve already been kind of busy. My day started at about 5:00 AM, which is when I usually wake up nowadays. I can’t believe there was a time when I could sleep until noon. That sure isn’t the case today!

I got up to do my usual morning routine, then did laundry, to include washing the sheets. I have a love/hate relationship with washing the sheets. I love how fresh sheets feel, but I hate the process of washing them and putting them on the bed. I never got the hang of making hospital corners. Bill is home today and could help; he is an expert at hospital corners! But he’s teleworking, because he was kind enough to take Noyzi to the vet for a dental. I didn’t want to bother him. He did come up and help me put the pillow cases on, which of course is the easiest part of that chore. I decided not to do the duvet covers today, because that’s the most annoying task related to washing the bedding. I’m just not in the mood to fool with it today.

After that was done, I moved more of my massive music collection to the new computer. I got through the Ks, although it sure wasn’t easy. Went from Keb’ Mo’ to Laura Branigan. That took a couple of frustrating hours. Then I forced myself to stop, so I could write a blog post. When I did that, I realized I had a pretty good case of writer’s block, and nothing was urging me to write today. Too bad I don’t have that feeling more often, since I often feel like my blog posts cause a lot of avoidable problems… like strained family relations and unpleasant interactions with strangers. But then I realize that I have my supporters, too. Yesterday, one of them, regular reader “dle”, left me a comment on my review of Amy Silverstein’s book, My Glory Was I Had Such Friends.

In my brief comment exchange with dle, I mentioned a few parts of Amy’s book about her second heart transplant that triggered me a bit. I had wanted to address them in the review itself, but decided not to, because my review was pretty long. I had included comments about Silverstein’s first book, Sick Girl, that I thought were important. I know that sometimes I have issues with brevity, and people only have so much time and attention span to dedicate to blog posts. So I didn’t comment on the parts of Silverstein’s story that really disturbed me a bit and made me feel a lot of empathy for her situation. I guess I’ll do that today, since I have a bit of writer’s block.

In this blog, I have mentioned on more than one occasion that I have a real problem trusting healthcare providers. I experienced some traumas at the hands of doctors that have left me very nervous at the prospect of seeing them for treatment. I know it’s crazy, given my educational background. I used to work with doctors before I became an overeducated housewife. A couple of them were also my classmates in my public health graduate program. But there’s a difference between being “colleagues” with medical doctors and submitting to them for care. I know intellectually that most doctors are responsible and decent and do their best to provide excellent care. However, I have run into a couple of them that left me with lingering issues. Being in Amy Silverstein’s medical situation would be a special kind of hell for me. I probably would have given up on life many years before she finally succumbed.

The first part of My Glory Was I Had Such Friends that “triggered” me a bit was Silverstein’s story about how she needed a pacemaker. Because of her vast experiences with medical procedures over decades of care, Silverstein had an aversion to the drug, Versed. She didn’t want to be “put out” for most of her procedures. Getting the pacemaker was no exception. She wanted to be conscious for it. Her physician, Dr. Wayne, was vehemently against the idea. From the book:

She nods and turns to greet the doctor who’s just come in—a small, quick-moving man with wiry gray hair.

“I am Dr. Wayne. Hello, Mrs. Silverstein.”

“You can call me by my first name if you like. I’m Amy.”

“Hello, Mimi.”

“No, it’s Amy,” I say, and then immediately think to correct myself for fear that he might call me “Itsamy.”

Dr. Wayne’s speech is choppy, perhaps due to his jittery manner.

“Today I will put in a pacemaker.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s what you gotta do.”

“I’ll give you medicine for sleep . . .”

“I’m not going to sleep.”

“Not really sleep. Just very, very relaxed. Like sleep.”

“Nope. No sedation at all. I do everything without sedation unless it’s a surgery. This isn’t a surgery, is it?”

“Not exactly surgery, but—”

“Good then. No sedation.”

The doctor whirls away from the exam table and mumbles under his breath loud enough for the nurse and me to hear: “No sedation! For a pacemaker! Sheesh . . .” He heads into the hallway to scrub up. The nurse remains behind, tending to an array of syringes and small metal utensils.

“I don’t want to give anyone a hard time,” I tell her, “but I’ve had lots of experience staying awake through hard stuff. And I don’t like being put out.”

“You wouldn’t really be out. Just relaxed. We’d be giving you some Versed . . .”

Versed! No way. I’d like to ask her how many times she’s had Versed, because I’ve had it plenty and it’s a nasty sedative. Instead, I press my lips closed. Check your attitude, Amy.

Silverstein, Amy. My Glory Was I Had Such Friends (pp. 89-90). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

Amy has had enough experience with Versed to know that she really, really does not like it. And it’s her body that’s being worked on; her comfort should be paramount. However, the doctor turns out to be a nasty piece of work. Continued from the book:

That’s what Scott told me just before we headed out to LA. We had a long talk one evening, mulling the challenges we knew would be coming and trying to anticipate what else we might face. “If you’re going to die,” Scott said, “and let’s be honest, you might—you need to think about how you want to act at Cedars, how you want to hold yourself in the end. With your friends—do you want to be loving, or bitter and angry? And with the doctors and nurses—do you want to earn their respect for the way you’ve lived these twenty-five transplant years, or do you want to show how you’ve been wrecked by them? It’s all about how you want to be remembered,” he said.

This was not the first time that Scott had attempted to remind me of my better nature. There had been plenty of instances through the years when frustration and fear overtook me, transforming qualities like self-advocacy, determination, and attention to detail into alienating misbehaviors. The constancy and complexity of transplant-related illnesses would crescendo from time to time, to a point where it felt unbearable—and where it would imbue me with a distorted sense of self-righteousness: Give me a break—I can’t be bothered with decorum. I’m too sick. And then I would rage against Dr. Davis’s missteps, calling him inane, or I wouldn’t pick up the phone for days when friends called to check in, or I’d yell at Scott for no reason at all and then cry and cry and cry. Then came the heavy regret: “Scotty, I’m just so, so sorry . . .” and he would close his eyes and shake his head. “You’re dealing with unbelievably scary stuff, I know. But you’ve got to find a way to stop taking it out on the people around you.” If I didn’t, he said, I would send everyone scurrying away.

I tried to do better. With each successive medical crisis, I got a little more adept at keeping my fear from spiraling into anger and spurring me to lash out. But I found that the success of my efforts was only proportional to the health challenge at hand: the more life-threatening it was, the less I was able to contain my angst. What degree of self-control, then, would I manage to exert in the face of this retransplant? I was yet to find out. But it spooked me to notice that, in light of what awaited us in California, Scott had rephrased his usual advice about how I might carry myself in the hardest of circumstances. For the first time ever, he was framing his words in a context of finality, asking me not about how I might want to be perceived but rather remembered.

I just want to be remembered without everyone misunderstanding me. I know this doesn’t speak to the self-reflection Scott hoped for. But right now, this is what comes to mind as I contemplate how I might explain to this nurse my aversion to Versed. I know my stance is unusual; when patients hear that they’re getting a drug to help them relax before an invasive procedure, they see no reason to object. But long, hard-earned experience has taught me this: Versed messes with your mind. It’s a powerful, tricky sedative that makes you think you’ve slept through the procedure when actually you were awake the whole time. Versed is, simply, a forgetting drug, but its powers of erasure are imperfect. Somewhere in your mind (and certainly in your body) there is a flicker of awareness that something happened to you (for instance, you might have been screaming in pain throughout the procedure), but you can’t quite get at it, so an anxious ambiguity scratches at you and festers. There is a cost to not being able to access and process our own pain and suffering—some might call this post-traumatic stress. I’ve experienced it myself, and this is why I’ve come to insist on keeping things where I can see and process them—without Versed.

I share my thinking with the nurse.

She walks from the tray to my stretcher and lowers her voice. “I agree with you. And too much Versed isn’t good for your brain cells either.” She taps her head. “But Amy, I’ve never seen a patient do a pacemaker implantation without sedation. It’s going to be rough.”

“I hope you’re wrong. But thank you.”

Silverstein, Amy. My Glory Was I Had Such Friends (pp. 90-91). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

Then, comes the assault by the doctor. This was the part that set me on edge, although I feel pretty sure that if I were Amy, I’d want the drugs. I’d rather be out cold for these kinds of procedures. Or, at least I think I would prefer to be. So far, I’ve been blessed with pretty good health and haven’t needed this kind of “care”.

Dr. Wayne stomps back in and comes to a stop by my left shoulder. “I’m going to have to give you a lot. Of lidocaine. Because you said no sedation. Sheesh.”

“Fine with me.” I don’t mind multiple lidocaine shots. I’ve accumulated three or four hundred of them for localized numbing in all the biopsies and angiograms I’ve had. From experience, I know that if the doctor gives the first shot slowly—alternating a bit of needle with a bit of lidocaine—subsequent injections will become quickly pain free.

BANG!

Dr. Wayne slams the first shot into the left side of my collarbone.

“Ow!”

“That hurt you,” he says.

“My gosh, yes. Ow. In New York, the doctor gives a little bit of lidocaine at a time so . . .”

“I said you would need a lot of shots. Because of no sedation.”

BANG!

This one feels like it has vengeance behind it. I clench my teeth, determined not to give in. BANG and BANG—two more in rapid succession.

That’s it.

Silverstein, Amy. My Glory Was I Had Such Friends (pp. 91-92). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

Imagine having a doctor who is noticeably ANGRY because a patient stood up for herself. And instead of realizing that it’s her body and her healthcare at stake, the doctor is cruel and deliberately causes pain, rather than trying to work with the patient and respect her wishes about how her body is treated… or at least trying to assuage her valid anxieties about the procedure. The story continues:

“Ow! Ow! Oh my God! I can’t take it!” I’m weeping now, and I can’t believe I’m crumbling this way. I don’t cry from pain. What pierces my armor this time is the frightening vulnerability I feel at the gruff hands of a masked stranger in a cath lab far from the one I’ve known for twenty-six years. Reciting poetry couldn’t possibly combat what is looming over my body at this moment. A nurse’s tender glance would bring me no ease. The reassuring touch points I’ve come to rely on give way to stabs of surprise—each one of them another fiery agony. I have never known cath lab procedures to be scenes of horror, but I feel myself here in the grip of a ghoul.

“It’s too much for you. Right?” Dr. Wayne glares.

“No, I’m strong as hell. I’ve been on a hundred cath lab tables. It’s you! You’ve got terrible hands—has anyone ever told you that? You suck at this! Just give me the damn Versed.” Oh, I’ve really let loose now. I sure don’t want to be remembered like this, but I’ve lost all control.

“Oh, now you want it? I have to call anesthesia. It will take, I don’t know, an hour. For them to get here. Because you said no sedation!”

I pause, taking a few seconds to muster a conversational tone. “You need an anesthesiologist to administer Versed? In my experience, the nurse just puts it in my IV—at least that’s how they do it in New Y—”

“In New York! In New York!” He galumphs away from the exam table, waving his hands over his head. The nurse follows, and I’m alone.

I’ve never been left alone in a cath lab before.

Silverstein, Amy. My Glory Was I Had Such Friends (pp. 92-93). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

What a fucking bastard! I hope she lodged a formal complaint against that man. The story continues, with Amy fretting because she’s alone in the cath lab, with a very flat pillow. Because of her heart condition, she has trouble breathing when she’s lying flat. So there she is, getting “medical care” that has left her traumatized, and will probably put her life in danger (moot now, since she recently passed away). She continues, having explained that she’s feeling woozy:

Within seconds, the green-clad people descend, ghoulish in their masks and puffy caps, gloves and X-ray shields. There are here to slice into my skin, slide their control wires into my heart. One of them pulls back the sheeting from my left shoulder, where scattered injection punctures still ooze blood onto my naked breast.

The Versed sweeps through my IV . . .

Silverstein, Amy. My Glory Was I Had Such Friends (p. 94). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

After the procedure, Amy is deliberately slow to recover, upsetting her friends and husband. She’s traumatized, terrified, and justifiably angry about how she was treated. Her husband’s response, when he realizes that she’s not responding promptly, like a “good girl”, is to get angry with her. But she’s just been assaulted by a “doctor” who deliberately hurt her because she dared to exercise self-determination.

The second part of My Glory Was I Had Such Friends that triggered me was when Amy found out that she had breast cancer and needed surgery. She, very understandably, got angry and upset with her doctor. Rather than listening to the doctor talk about treatment options, Amy stormed out of her office, leading the doctor to worry that Amy might be a danger to herself. Was it childish? Yes… but remember, this is a woman who had been dealing with this shit for decades. She was tired of it. From the book:

The ordeal occurred just three months before the bad-news angiogram (and four months before I headed out to California): a breast sonogram picked up a strange-looking spot in my right breast. I didn’t worry at first because soon after my first transplant, the regimen of immunosuppressive medicines caused benign fibroadenoma masses to grow in my breasts. They were easily spotted on sonograms and sometimes grew so large I had to get them surgically removed. But this particular spot looked different. When I asked the biopsy radiologist if she thought she’d just put a needle into something scary, she threw up her hands. “Gosh, this is a weird-looking one,” she said. “I don’t know what it is.”

It was cancer.

Silverstein, Amy. My Glory Was I Had Such Friends (pp. 145-146). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

Amy’s friend, Lauren, was involved in the drama that followed, after Amy got the news that not only did she need another heart transplant, but she also had breast cancer that would require major surgery. She continues:

When she reached me with the news, I froze. “Oh, come on! With all you’ve been through, this is easy stuff!” my breast doctor implored. She couldn’t have chosen more enraging words. I’d known this doctor since I started growing those golf ball fibroadenomas just after my first transplant, and I liked her a lot. But she was barking up a dangerous tree at a tragic moment by trying to turn my years of illness into a rallying call, when I was seeing it as a signal to raise the white flag.

“I’m not doing it,” I said. “I had a horrid open-heart valve surgery just a few months ago. And, frankly, my heart isn’t feeling so great lately. I’m not taking on breast cancer. I’m . . . I’m out.”

Ooh. Nice. I liked the feel of these words as they rolled off my lips for the first time—I’m out.

“You can’t quit now! You have to fight this. You’re just the kind of person who’s going to do great—”

“I’m out! I’m out! I’m out!” Wow, I loved the sound—and the sentiment. I’m free! I don’t have to do this anymore! For me, taking on an additional life-threatening illness was completely unfathomable. It was so beyond okay or understandable or doable or fair. “I gotta go now . . .”

“Go where?”

And this is where I made a really big mistake. “I’m leaving,” I said. “I’m getting in the car now. I’m not doing this anymore.”

“You can’t. You have to do this. Amy! Let’s talk! Would you come to the city and meet with me? I’ll cancel my afternoon . . .”

“Bye.”

I left. And then I was driving, blindly. My cell phone rang and it was Scott, telling me that my breast doctor called the local police because she’s worried about me. The police were at the house now, he said, and Lauren was on the way to meet them. He told me to go back home. “I’m out!” I cried, and kept driving.

Silverstein, Amy. My Glory Was I Had Such Friends (pp. 146-147). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

Amy drove some more to let off some steam. Meanwhile, the cops had broken into her house and ransacked her bedroom, even reading her journals. Her friend, Lauren, was there to deal with the cops, who were there to “save” her life from suicide… A woman who had already had one heart transplant, needed a second one, and had just been told she had breast cancer. She wasn’t suicidal. She was FRUSTRATED… and understandably so. But the cops had violated her house, all because her doctor sicced them on her. Granted, the doctor had to make the call, due to the law. If she believed Amy was a danger to herself or others, she had to call the police, or else face potential adverse legal ramifications if Amy came to any harm at her own hands. And yet, the scenario just seemed so ridiculous to me. Her friend Lauren explains:

“I get a call from Lenny and he says to go to your house because the police are coming. I don’t know if you’re there or not, but I race over,” she explains. “I pull up to your house and there are three cop cars and they are on your lawn—why they didn’t park on the driveway, I don’t know. I go to your door, and the police have busted through the window. I walk in and hear them in your bedroom, so I head upstairs and they’re rifling through your closet and drawers—clothes are everywhere. One of them has got your journal and he’s standing there reading it. I think to myself, I have a job to do. I have to protect Amy. And I dive into conversation with those cops, rambling on and on, pretending to be helpful. They ask me what color your car is, and I waste ten minutes saying, Hmmm, I don’t know. They ask if you were likely to head north or south, I tell them north—because I know you’re much more likely to go south . . .”

I get a call from Lauren, and I don’t pick up. Another call, and I don’t pick up.

“I keep trying your cell, but you won’t answer. The cops are asking me, ‘Would she hurt herself?’ and I tell them no. She got some really bad news and she wants to be alone. I know her well. She’s fine. But they tell me I have to call you again because they want you back here. They put an alert out on your car.”

Meanwhile, I call my breast doctor and the receptionist puts me right through. “Why did you call the police!” I shout. “It’s my choice to fight breast cancer or not. You’ve known me so many years, you’ve seen all I’ve been through—how can you force a decision on me? I can’t believe you did this!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’ll call them back. It just sounded like you might do something . . .”

“I’m fine. I’m upset because . . . how many times and in how many ways can I be dying? I’m not going to drive off a bridge, for God’s sake! And even if I did, that would be my business.” I’m shuddering with anger.

“But I’m under legal obligation, Amy. I could get in trouble if I know you are going to hurt yourself and then you do.”

“Well, I’m not going to hurt myself. But I am not going to take on breast cancer either. I just had valve surgery. It’s my choice.”

“I’ll call the police and tell them everything is okay, but you have to come and meet me to talk. I’ll meet you at my house or at Starbucks near my office if you want. I just want to lay out what the treatment would be so you can make an informed choice.”

“Okay, I’ll meet you. Four thirty. Starbucks. Now call the police and tell them I’m fine!”

A few seconds later, Lauren calls again, and this time I pick up. She asks me if I’m all right. “I need time alone. I don’t need another person telling me I have to fight breast cancer, blah blah blah!” I tear at the zipper on my winter coat, tugging it down as I shake my shoulders out from underneath, frenzied. I am boiling with fury.

She tells me the police are there. My doctor hasn’t reached them yet.

“I heard. And I know everyone wants me to come home and be a good little breast cancer–valve surgery–heart transplant patient, just racking up the life-threatening illnesses and their shitty, half-assed treatments—”

Silverstein, Amy. My Glory Was I Had Such Friends (pp. 148-149). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

I know a lot of people think Amy should be grateful to have so many people caring so much about her, but at the same time, I can hardly blame her for this reaction. It almost seems like a farce. She’s in such poor health, yet she has so much strength that people think she might off herself. It’s crazy. Lauren goes on to explain that while Amy is seething, the cops are listening. And she has to act neutral, while Amy is yelling at her, calling her “the worst friend”. Lauren then cleans up the mess and even gets Amy’s window fixed, after the police busted it to “save her life”. All because the breast doctor called the cops.

And finally, the last triggering moment for me was reading about how a pharmacist inadvertently told Amy that she had been enrolled in an experimental protocol to which she’d never consented. It ended with the pharmacist running out of the room in tears… From the book:

She had her eyes straight ahead on the screen, keeping up perfunctory conversation while skimming the dense pages. “We’ll be bringing all your meds into the modern age after your transplant. Now . . . um . . . you asked me about whether you can take . . . Oh, wait a minute . . .” She zooms in on some words that elicit a big smile. “Ooh, I see that you’re going to be part of our eculizumab study . . . wonderful!”

“Ecu-lizumab?”

“Yeah. Name’s a mouthful, right? I don’t blame you if you can’t pronounce it. I’m talking about the experimental treatment for your antibodies. You’re going to be part of our NIH study.”

What?

I’d heard a little bit about the study from Dr. Kobashigawa a few days earlier, and someone from the Cedars medical research team dropped off a thick binder filled with detailed information for my review. But this intravenous drug with the mouthful name was a chemotherapy of sorts and had serious side effects, including a significant risk of meningitis. Were I to participate, these treatments were not imminent (they wouldn’t kick in until the time of my transplant surgery). But I had already undergone another potent antibody remedy when I first arrived in California (bortezomib) that posed a risk of blood infections and death. The bortezomib treatments involved a series of direct injections into my belly and many of hours of antibody-cleansing plasmapheresis (plasma removal and replacement) through a thick catheter in my neck. Last I heard, though, the post-bortezomib state of my antibodies was not much better than before treatment; my chance of matching with a heart donor still remained at an inauspicious 14 percent. Feeling fortunate, though, for having at least evaded the dangers of bortezomib, I was not eager to risk another go-round with a second type of antibody treatment—especially an experimental one.

“You’re sure my name is on the study roster—already?” My voice rises.

She pecks at the keyboard, double-checking. “Yup, here you are!”

I jolt upright in bed. “But how can that be? I haven’t said yes!” Pressing my palms against my temples, I begin to reel. “I can’t believe this! Am I being steamrolled into the study?”

“No, no. But the team has decided—”

“The team? I’m the one who’s supposed to choose.”

“Of course you are, but—”

“I have a voice!”

“I didn’t mean to make you feel—”

“Just because I’m . . . sick . . . it doesn’t mean I don’t . . . have a say!” I’m choking on emotion now. Scott steps toward the bed and puts his hand firmly on my shoulder—Easy, let it go . . .

Not a chance.

Silverstein, Amy. My Glory Was I Had Such Friends (pp. 183-184). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

This part of the book reminded me of a book I’d read years ago, A Taste of My Own Medicine: When the Doctor Is the Patient, by Edward Rosenbaum, a physician who got cancer and suddenly found himself on the other side of the bed. The 1991 movie, The Doctor, starring William Hurt and Christine Lahti, was based on Dr. Rosenbaum’s book. Dr. Rosenbaum explained how scary and demoralizing being a patient can be, and how healthcare providers lose sight of how patients can feel disenfranchised when they submit to medical care. Especially when it’s delivered in a hospital setting.

Amy then explains why she had this reaction. She’d been in an experimental study before, and it led to a significant trauma. From the book:

I’ve come to think of this particular memory as the strawberry shortcut—a lesson that came by way of a pulmonary lab technician who said playfully, “Let’s take the strawberry shortcut,” when escorting me from the waiting room to the exam suite. It was 1988. I was in my second year of law school, and my doctor wanted to rule out all possible causes of my very apparent breathlessness. Heart problems seemed so much less likely than lung problems in a woman in her midtwenties, so he scheduled a progression of tests that began with pulmonary.

As I followed in the wake of the technician’s perfectly pressed white coat, turning and turning again through a seeming maze of narrow hallways, he called back to me over his shoulder a preview of what was to come. Apparently, I would soon be breathing in some—particles? Nuclear particles? I didn’t understand—I’d never had even so much as a strep throat culture in my twenty-five years of life—so I obeyed with some trepidation when he placed the clear plastic contraption over my mouth, nose, and a good portion of both cheeks. “We’re friends here, aren’t we? So just relax into it and breathe deeply,” he cooed, and I tried. But there was nothing about inhaling the particles he administered that made me feel friendly or comfortable. He noted my reluctance at once. “Oh, you’re going to have to go deeper than that, pretty,” he said.

Pretty?

My stomach muscles tightened with angst. I began to shake.

“In . . . and out. In . . . and out,” he coaxed, moving his face closer with each round of inhalation and exhalation until his lips and the tip of his nose were in line with mine, pressing up against the plastic.

I closed my eyes and I felt some tears fall. I’m trapped. My doctor can’t make me better unless I do this test. I’ve got to get through it. Come on, Amy, breathe . . .

“That’s it . . . niiiice,” the technician purred. “And again, for me . . .”

When the test was finished, I hurried off the exam table. “Hey there,” he said, reaching for the door handle before I could. “How about a kiss for the technician?”

“How about a handshake instead!” I snapped, surprising him with a sudden show of nerve. He murmured something about a hot tamale and grasped my hand.

A few days later, I filed a complaint with the hospital and was told there was nothing they could do since I didn’t remember the tech’s name. And besides, they told me, “Maybe he was just trying to help you relax.”

That was the start of my growing a backbone as a patient. Hell, if the same thing were to happen to me now, I’d respond directly with, Kiss? How about you kiss your job good-bye!

Fifty is so much braver than twenty-five, you see.

Silverstein, Amy. My Glory Was I Had Such Friends (pp. 184-186). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

I was never sexually harassed by doctors, but I did have one who left me very traumatized due to her being extremely callous. I wish like hell I had complained about her when the incident happened. I don’t know what would have happened. Probably nothing. But at least I would have done something… and that might have made me feel more empowered. I am fifty now… and I was 22 then. So this story really hit home and left me a little triggered. Amy continued:

Though today’s situation was quite different, it preyed on some of my greatest medical fears, those that had developed out of the strawberry shortcut incident and countless others over the years: feeling a lack of agency, feeling uninformed, and feeling taken advantage of. And this is why I felt no trepidation this morning when telling the transplant pharmacist that I wanted to speak with her supervisor: Dr. Kobashigawa. She logged out of the screen at once and backed away from the computer. “I’m sorry to see you so upset about this.”

“And I’m sorry for these stupid tears, but I can’t help it. I’ve learned the hard way never to turn off my brain and hand myself over. I’m not going to agree to ecu—whatever it’s called—without reading through the whole binder and making my own decision.”

“I understand. But keep in mind we’re just trying to help you, Amy. You’ve got antibodies that are going to pose a danger to any donor heart you might receive. You can’t be transplanted successfully without eculiz—”

“I can’t? Are you saying I don’t have choice? That I never really had a choice? Who told you that? Dr. Kobashigawa?” My fingertips fly to my forehead and I begin tapping, tapping. A rush of panic sweeps through me—Have I been duped?

She started toward the door, pulling nervously at the ends of her hair. It was apparent that Becky had let on more than I was meant to hear just yet, and that perhaps she might be in trouble for it. “I’ll, um, ask him to come see you.”

But the memory match had already struck and ignited. All of a sudden there were words in the air—my words—and they rang calm and clear at first, but then echoed back to me calamitous and full of smoky black, as if tethered to distant fires. Whatever I was saying was not of this moment; it was cumulative—and ablaze: “Wow, Becky, wow, wow, wow. As if I didn’t feel out of control to begin with, watching my pulse disappear day after day. Thanks a lot. You sure know how to make a dying person feel worse.”

“That wasn’t my . . . Oh, I am sorry!” she squeaked with panic, tears welling in her eyes. She quickly turned away and slipped out the door.

Silverstein, Amy. My Glory Was I Had Such Friends (p. 186). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

I did feel sorry for Becky, the pharmacist. I know she was just trying to be helpful. And I’m sure it’s a tough job, as today’s patients are often better informed and more outspoken. On the other hand, a lot of people would be calling Amy a “karen” (hate that term) for advocating for herself. Clearly, her issues stem from understandable and considerable trauma. And even though I could understand that a lot of people would find her behaviors very “karen-ish”, as someone who has also experienced medical trauma, I could hardly blame Amy for her response. She probably couldn’t help it.

I have had some good experiences with doctors since my last trauma. However, in spite of that, I have a hard time shaking those memories. It’s kind of like how Noyzi, the Kosovar rescue dog, spooks at sudden noises and movements. He’s had good experiences, but still reacts in an automatic way to those triggers. I’m the same way. I get extremely nervous just thinking about going through what Amy went through. So, when I read her book, I thought of her as brave, rather than entitled and ungrateful. She had backbone, even if she came off as abrasive. And again, I could hardly blame her.

In a way, my recent post about body shaming that got me on my relative’s shit list is sort of the same thing. I used to just take that sort of thing without too much comment. I don’t anymore, and some people think it’s offensive. But my reactions come from valid traumas of the past. I’m sorry if some people find my reactions upsetting, but they don’t come from a place of meanness. They come from trauma. I think Amy Silverstein’s reactions were the same thing. So, I kind of felt a kinship with her… and again, realize that she must not have been all bad. After all, she did have such friends. Wish I were so lucky… but at least I have a wonderful husband.

Well, this post has gone on pretty long, so I think I’ll end it and practice guitar for a few minutes. If you managed to wade through this long ass blog entry, I thank you. And if you managed to understand it on any level, I congratulate you. Until tomorrow….

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Bill, marriage, memories, music

Repost: My husband hates the song “Dream Weaver”…

I have a touch of writer’s block today. I’m having trouble coming up with a good topic for the main blog, although I wrote one about our Thanksgiving for the travel blog. When this happens, I typically go to the original version of The Overeducated Housewife and mine for a repost. Sometimes doing that will spawn a fresh topic. And sometimes, I simply find another chestnut to share again… Today is one of the days I’m going to share an oldie. Word to the wise… this is a weird story and may be too TMI for some people. Proceed with caution. This was originally written on November 21, 2018.

Yesterday, one of my Facebook friends shared this video of the song “Dream Weaver” by Gary Wright.

This song was made famous in 1976, when I was a wee lass of about 3 or 4 years old.

In 1976, my dad was the base engineer at Mildenhall Air Force Base in England.  This song was popular, along with a lot of other great songs from the 70s.  I’ve always liked it, although I was a small child when it was a hit.  It still sounds pretty good in 2018, at least to my ears.  I also like Wright’s other big song, “Love Is Alive.”

This video includes the version of “Dream Weaver” I know best.  It says this song comes from 1972, but that’s incorrect.  It was released in 1975 and was a hit the following year.

When Bill and I met, he told me there are a few songs he hates.  For instance, he doesn’t like the songs “Strong Enough” by Sheryl Crow or “Have You Ever Really Loved a Woman” by Bryan Adams, mainly because his ex used to play them as a means of demonstrating to Bill what kind of man she thought he should be.  

If you know my husband (and a few readers do), you know that he is one of those people who bends over backwards to please others.  He’s got a really kind heart and does whatever he can to make other people happy.  To hear that his best efforts weren’t enough for his ex wife was shattering.  The fact that she used music to drive home that point was especially cruel.  She ruined some good music and a lot of children’s books that way.  She was also fond of using books by Dr. Seuss and Shel Silverstein to make her points about Bill’s alleged shortcomings.

So, although I do like “Strong Enough”, I never play it when Bill is around, because I know it reminds him of dark times.  Fortunately, I don’t really like Bryan Adams’ love ode, so we have no problems, there.  For a long time, I avoided playing anything by The Muppets or Kenny Loggins’ wonderful children’s album around Bill because I knew they would make him sad.

Another song Bill hates is “Dream Weaver”, but that’s because of another person in his life– his first stepfather.  When Bill was about ten years old, his mother decided to remarry.  I think remarriage of a parent is hard enough for most youngsters, but it’s especially difficult when the new spouse turns out to be abusive.  The guy Bill’s mom married was a very handsome fellow and talented artist I’ll call B.J.  Actually, B.J. was the name he went by.  Come to think of it, it was probably an inspired nickname.

At least on the surface, B.J. had a lot going for him. He was tall, blond, athletic and very physically attractive, and he was legitimately and generously blessed with artistic gifts. Although I never met the man myself, I have seen a beautiful portrait he did of my mother-in-law. She kept the artwork, although the marriage was mercifully brief.

Bill and B.J. didn’t really hit it off very well. Evidently, B.J. used to do things like blow cigarette smoke in Bill’s face and tell him that he was “emotionally unavailable”. B.J. once said that talking to Bill was like talking to a brick wall. Bill really took that comment to heart, and it made him feel great shame. I don’t understand where B.J. got the idea that Bill wasn’t easy to talk to. I find him very easy to talk to… but then, B.J. was probably a bit resentful that Bill was around. Bill took away attention from his mother that B.J. probably thought should be directed solely to him.

B.J. was a big fan of Gary Wright’s music, and he especially liked the song “Dream Weaver”. He used to play that song a lot. B.J. also liked wearing women’s clothing and, in fact, was probably transgender. The whole reason B.J. wanted to be married was because he was hoping to learn how to be a woman. He thought maybe Bill’s mom could teach him that. This was not something B.J. had disclosed before he and my mother-in-law tied the knot. Once she found out what his agenda actually was, she made plans and eventually got a divorce. My mother-in-law and B.J. lost touch after that.

I try to be open-minded about most things. I don’t know anything about what it’s like to be transgender. I can only imagine that it’s extremely difficult even today, and was almost certainly much more so in the 1970s, when people had much less understanding and consideration for those who are different. I’m sure B.J. had some traumatic issues that caused him to be the way he was… not necessarily transgender, but mean and abusive. There was some reason B.J. found pleasure in being disrespectful to Bill and saying cruel things that he knew would upset him. Hurting people tend to be hurtful to others. It’s a vicious cycle. B.J.’s status as a transgender person is not what made him mean, although it’s possible that the treatment he received from others, possibly because he was so different, is what led to him being so abusive.

I didn’t know B.J., although I’ve heard some stories about him over the years.  He wasn’t Bill’s stepfather for very long, which is a good thing.  However, even though B.J. was Bill’s stepfather for only a few years, he did leave a lingering calling card, besides that beautiful portrait of Bill’s mother.  Now, whenever the song “Dream Weaver” plays, Bill is reminded of that guy– a man he hasn’t seen in well over forty years.  And although I never knew the man myself, when I hear it, now I’m reminded of the stories I’ve heard about him.

It’s amazing how the most innocuous things can leave a lasting impression.  It might be a piece of music or art.  It might be certain foods or smells.  I have written a few times about how much I hate mushrooms.  I have always hated them.  When I was a child, I was literally phobic of them.  I’m still a bit phobic of mushrooms, though not nearly like I was when I was a young child in England.  In those days, whenever I saw a mushroom growing in the yard, I would freeze and start screaming hysterically.  Today, I still kind of cringe when I see them, but I don’t scream anymore.

My sisters were kind of mean spirited teenagers at that time. In our English backyard, there were a lot of toadstools that grew wild. Sometimes, my sisters would pick them and chase me with them, all the while laughing hysterically at me as I screamed and ran away. One of my sisters went as far as reinforcing the phobia by drawing mean faces and shark teeth on any mushrooms in my coloring books. To this day, when someone posts a picture of a dish with mushrooms on social media or I smell them cooking, I’m reminded of that time when I was a child. It still makes me cringe, even though it’s been years since anyone chased me with a mushroom (one of my cousins did years later, to the same effect). Those experiences are imprinted on my brain, much like certain songs are imprinted on Bill’s.

I thought I was alone in my hatred of mushrooms until one day, I was watching Montel Williams’ talk show, and the topic was phobias. Montel had a guest who was phobic of mushrooms. I watched in amazement as she reacted the very same way I used to when I was very young. To be honest, if someone tried to force me to eat a mushroom or touch one, I’d probably react the same way I did when I was a child. I wrote an article about mycophobia on Associated Content. It generated a lot of hits and was even noticed by the woman who was on Montel Williams. She sent me an email about her experience on the show. Although Montel did get her to touch one and, in fact, kissed her with one between his lips (that would not have worked for me), she said she’s still a bit phobic.

I once entertained the idea of becoming a chef, but abandoned that notion when I realized I couldn’t be a chef and have a mushroom phobia.  Maybe I could have been a pastry chef, but even then, I’d probably still have problems.  And then I worked at a restaurant for awhile and realized that lifestyle wasn’t one I wanted for the rest of my life.  It’s too stressful.

I understand why Bill hates the song “Dream Weaver”, although I like it and probably always will.  He understands why I hate mushrooms, although he loves them and truffles and always will.  He respects my idiosyncrasies and I respect his.  When Bill is around, our house is a Gary Wright free zone.  And when we go out to dinner or eat at someone’s house, Bill is supportive when I have to explain why mushrooms are verboten.  I’m sure more than a couple of waiters have filed away memorable stories about me telling them about my irrational fears.  I guess these things make us more interesting people.

Below are the comments that were left on the original post…

AlexisAR

November 23, 2018 at 11:15 PM

BJ sounds like a real douche. being transgender is surely a difficult way to live, but that obviously doesn’t give him a valid excuse to mistreat anyone. I know I’m preaching to the choir here.

knotty

November 24, 2018 at 5:36 AM

Oh yeah. Both Bill and his mom are such nice people that they attract abusive narcissists. Both have gotten better about telling those people to fuck off, but it never comes without a price.  

I think B.J. is probably dead. My MIL said one time he called her for help after they split up. He was in actual physical danger when he called. I think he was dressed as a woman and about to be beat up or something. So she helped him and then asked him never to contact her again.

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communication, language, lessons learned, love, marriage, relationships

It’s very important to use your words when you have needs…

I woke up this morning feeling oddly quiet. I felt like I just needed to shut up for awhile. And, for the past hour or so, I’ve been staring at the computer screen, wondering what I should write about today. I didn’t really want to write about the topic I’m about to tackle. But then I remember what Bill said to me as he was about to leave for work. He said, “You’ll write about it. It’ll help you process.” Then he gave me one of his meltingly sweet smiles, which never fails to win me over and warm my heart.

Bill and I had a little spat last night. It was kind of a sudden thing, not unlike the brief but intense storm that briefly provided us with a rainbow as the sun was about to set. You can see the rainbow in today’s featured photo, which I took as the rain was falling, but the sun came out. It reminds me of the spat we had last night, and how I feel today.

I didn’t say much to Bill today, when we were getting up. After he got dressed, he came into our bedroom and sincerely apologized to me. I told him I knew he was sorry, and I was sorry for getting so upset with him. I love him very much, and truly don’t want him to feel distressed. He works very hard, and really is one of the good guys. Nobody’s perfect, though.

Bill and I don’t have spats very often because neither of us likes to fight or argue, and we’re usually very compatible about most things. We have tons of chemistry, and seem to get each other remarkably well, even if no one else understands us. But every so often, an issue comes up, and we have a disagreement. There’s a spat– kind of like a storm, or a chemical reaction. And usually, our spats occur in the evening, as Bill is wanting to go to bed, but refuses to just go. He wants me to give him permission, or something.

My husband is very much a day person. He functions best early in the morning. When the sun goes down, so does his brain. Sometimes, he’s much too polite and non confrontational for his own good, and that can cause him to temporarily be a jerk. He doesn’t mean to be a jerk, and sometimes I “overreact”, by many people’s standards. I try not to do that, but sometimes I fail.

Last night, when Bill came home, he casually mentioned to me he needed to write up his dreams for his weekly appointment with Jungian therapist. He also needed to complete his time card for his job. That information went into one ear and out the other, since he always does those tasks without announcing them to me. Consequently, I didn’t realize this was something that was pressing in its importance, nor did I know how long those tasks would take. I’m also not a mindreader.

Most nights, Bill does online German lessons using Duolingo. I used to do those lessons myself, years ago. I quit doing them after a year or so, even though it would do me good to keep studying German. Nevertheless, Bill very diligently does his homework. He’s diligent about most things without input from me. I forgot about what he’d said about the things he needed to do. I assumed he’d already done them.

So, as the evening was winding down, I noticed that Bill was tired. I asked him why he didn’t just go to bed, if he was tired. I’ve told him many times that I hate it when he’s obviously exhausted and continues to sit there at the table, as if I’m obliging him to do so. I find it to be kind of passive-aggressive behavior. He could just get up and go to bed, right? But he insisted on waiting for me to finish my drink, and go upstairs with him. I guess I was taking too long, and talking about some subject that wasn’t interesting to him. Finally, he got up and was turning off lights and edging toward the stairs, backing away from me with a smirk, but still not saying outright that he has things he needs to do, or wants to go to bed. It’s left up to me to officially “call it a night”, as he was non-verbally “calling it a night”.

I said, “What are you doing?”

Bill said, kind of sheepishly, “I told you, I have to write up my dreams and do my time card.”

“Well, why didn’t you just say so?!” I exploded. Much to my surprise, I found myself getting really upset. Like… I actually felt like crying, because my feelings were hurt. And then I said, “This makes me not even want to go on the trip next weekend. I think I’d rather just stay home alone!”

I know that was a hurtful and kind of crazy thing to say, because Bill has planned my birthday trip to Antwerp, and we’ve been looking forward to it, even if it does mean I’m turning 50. But I honestly didn’t want to go anywhere with him for a few minutes last night. I just felt really injured and bewildered… like I was being rejected by someone I never thought would reject me. I know that’s kind of an irrational reaction, but I was honestly triggered by that look on his face, and his non-verbal communication. I legitimately felt disrespected.

I felt like he should feel alright about point blank telling me when he has needs, or wants to excuse himself. I’ve been his wife for about twenty years. I’m not going to be offended. And over the years, I’ve seen so many people giving me that “smirky” look he gave me last night… people who aren’t my husband… people who don’t like me, for whatever reason, and wish I would just shut up and go away. It honestly wounded me to see that look on Bill’s face. So, I got really pissed, and felt like rejecting him in kind. Impulsively telling him I didn’t want to go to Belgium with him was a quick way to do that.

Bill immediately looked extremely sorry as he explained that he had just wanted to avoid confrontation. And then when I asked him why he didn’t just tell me, he said he’d told me he’d mentioned it earlier. But he’d kind of said it in passing, in a matter of fact way. I didn’t realize the urgency of the situation, and for some reason, he couldn’t just use his words to reiterate his needs.

Seeing that pained look on his face upset me even more, because once again, I upset someone for simply being myself. At the same time, I had compassion for him, because I love him, and I’m not a mean person. I don’t like seeing him looking distressed, especially when it’s me who caused the distress. I was still feeling angry, though, so I said that maybe when he got home from work, I’d just stay in our room and watch videos instead of talking to him, since he has so many pressing things to do.

Again… I was hurt, because I really do look forward to talking to him at night. I don’t have people to talk to during the day. I don’t have local friends or family, and at this point, I’m not really inclined to try to make friends with people, because trying to be friendly with people usually ends in disappointment. I have a weird personality and inappropriate sense of humor that not everyone appreciates. Besides, around here, almost everyone’s German, so there’s sometimes a language barrier.

Bill said he didn’t want me to stay in our room and watch videos. He wanted to talk to me. He’d just had a couple of tasks he needed to complete before bedtime. So, again, I said, “Then why didn’t you just excuse yourself? You can tell me that you have stuff to do. I’m not a complete jerk, and I’m not a mindreader. What do I do every morning before you go to work, and I need to take a dump?”

Bill nodded and said, “That’s true. You do expressly tell me when you need a minute.”

Just as an aside… my body is remarkably efficient when it comes to necessary functions. Bill has remarked on it a lot, and has even told me he’s jealous. Most mornings, as he’s about to leave for his job, I have to say goodbye a few minutes early and take care of necessary business. Bill understands this and is fine with it; he doesn’t feel spurned because I have to go to the bathroom. However, for some reason, he doesn’t feel like he can say something similar to me. And I don’t understand why he doesn’t realize that I know he has things he has to do sometimes. Why can’t he simply tell me, his wife, that he needs time to get things done? Doesn’t he trust me, after almost twenty years?

I usually do notice when he’s trying to do something. When I see him with his computer, I don’t intrude. When he’s talking to his online therapist, I give him privacy. But last night, we were just there at the kitchen table, having a chat, and he suddenly gets up and backs away, looking awkward. I mean, if you need to excuse yourself, excuse yourself. Don’t give me that look. It’s not necessary. Just tell me what you need.

This is very much like my husband. He sometimes lacks assertiveness, is exceedingly polite and considerate, and wants to leave decisions up to me. But I don’t always want or need to make every decision, and sometimes I just don’t know what he needs, and I can’t read his mind. At the same time, he doesn’t want to offend or make ripples… and in the process, sometimes he offends and makes ripples. He never means to do that. He always wants me to be happy, sometimes at the expense of his own happiness. And when his needs are about to intrude on my wants or wishes, he’d rather be covert than just come out and tell me what’s going on.

This situation is kind of similar to one we ran into last year, when we were in Switzerland. Bill had expressly wanted to visit Carl Jung’s house and museum. This was the one non-negotiable activity on our agenda. On the other hand, I get very cranky and irritable when I’m hungry. Bill knows this, too. He has a habit of wanting to lead things, but then he gets “wishy washy”. We needed to have lunch, but Bill was focused on us going to the museum, since we had an appointment. And even though this was what HE had wanted to do, he hadn’t even decided if we would be driving or taking a boat, since the museum is on Lake Zurich. He had wanted to leave that decision up to me. But the problem was, I wasn’t prepared to make a decision, because I was just along for the ride. The whole Jung museum thing was his bag, not mine. I needed to eat before we went to the museum, and I didn’t want a hot dog at the dock. But that’s what we ended up having, because there weren’t any firm plans made so that everybody’s needs could be met.

And again, last fall when we visited Slovenia, on the way to Lake Bohinj, I had wanted to eat lunch earlier than Bill did. We kept going, and sure enough, I got hangry, and there weren’t any open restaurants. Bill ended up getting me a chocolate bar, because I desperately needed to boost my blood sugar. That put me in a foul mood, too. He’d wanted to lead, but then kind of failed… and then I had a candy bar for lunch, instead of something that was somewhat better for me.

Anyway, we were able to mend the conflict, and sure enough, I’m writing about it, even though I’d rather write about something else. We had a spat, and it’s over now.

Insightful stuff here… It’s not always a bad thing to be “triggered”.

I saw a really good video yesterday by Kati Morton, who is a licensed marriage and family therapist. It’s not so much about last night’s issue, but it does sort of address my feeling guilty for being “triggered” and overreacting. If I wasn’t triggered, I wouldn’t have told Bill what was on my mind. And as wonderful as he is, he did need to hear what I said. Sometimes, Bill is too nice, takes too much responsibility for other people, is too much of a people pleaser, and needs to assertively express his own needs verbally, instead of being passive-aggressive. These are things that I think would help him across the board, not just in his dealings with his old ball and chain wife. 😉

But then, based on the trauma he went through with his ex wife, I guess I can see why he hesitates. I’ve spent a lot of years trying to teach him that we’re not all like her. It’s an ongoing process that I don’t think will ever end. He’s been scarred by her abuse, much like Noyzi the rescue dog is scarred by his traumatic experiences in Kosovo, before he came to live with us. Noyzi gets better every day, but I think he’ll always have some remnants from that time in his psyche. The same goes for Bill… and the same goes for me. So we’ll keep trying.

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Duggars, ethics, law, musings

“If you want the rainbow, you’re going to have to put up with a lot of rain…”

Yesterday, I got the news that after last year’s sad miscarriage, Jill Dillard and her husband, Derick, are expecting another baby. The blessed event is set to happen in July. The happy news was announced on their official Web site. It looks they’re going to get their “rainbow baby”. In the pictures on their Web site, Jill looks radiant. Her bump is already pretty pronounced, at about halfway through her pregnancy.

I must say, Jill looks very beautiful these days. I’m happy for her, and I hope her pregnancy goes well. I also hope she doesn’t attempt another home birth, but I think she’s smart enough not to try that again. It’s not that I necessarily have anything against home births as a general rule. It’s just more that Jill’s first two pregnancies were pretty dramatic at the end, and she ended up having to go to the hospital on an emergency basis. It would not be smart for her to try to birth at home again, given her history.

I still don’t necessarily approve of the transphobic and homophobic comments Derick Dillard made a few years ago. I think part of that was an attempt to cause problems for the Duggar empire, since Derick was allegedly angry with Boob for not paying them for their work. However, knowing how religious Derick supposedly is, I also suspect that he really believes most of the awful stuff he said and wrote about Jazz Jennings. On the other hand, I respect Derick for not putting up with Jim Bob’s bullshit and for, evidently, being a good husband to Jill… and not forcing her to continue to live by Boob’s ridiculous fundie Christian rules.

Today’s post title comes from a little wisdom I picked up after watching Dawson’s Creek back in the late 90s. I was in my mid 20s at the time, living with my parents, and trying to get my shit together after my time in Armenia. It was during that time that the WB network still existed, and I got hooked on 7th Heaven and Dawson’s Creek. It amazes me to think of how long ago that was. The years have flown by so fast!

Anyway, I remember that the character, Jen, played by the amazing Michelle Williams (who does a mean Gwen Verdon impression), had a grandmother who regularly dispensed trite advice. I really only watched Dawson’s Creek during the first season. I was pretty busy at that time of my life, and didn’t have much time for TV. But I do remember the episode that quote came from… as “Grams” was talking to Dawson and said her comatose husband used to say that “If you want the rainbow, you have to put up with a lot of rain.” And then she said to Dawson, “From what I’ve seen of you so far, you better buy yourself a good umbrella.” Sage words indeed, Grams. Hopefully, Derick and Jill and their sons will have a healthy new family member this summer. I also hope Derick has a good job, especially since TLC presumably won’t be there to film the birth.

Tomorrow, Bill and I will be going to Stuttgart to see our dentist. I look forward to being done with that little pesky chore. Afterwards, we will drive just over the border into France and spend the weekend. The dogs will be at the Hunde Pension. Hopefully, they’ll be okay for four nights. I suspect Arran will be annoyed at having to stay there. He’d rather come with us. If it was just him, maybe we would bring him, although he doesn’t do so well by himself and we’re going to dine out. Noyzi takes up the entire back end of our Volvo, so it’s not so practical to travel with him. He loves trips, though.

I’m looking forward to getting out of here for a brief respite, especially since we’re going to France. We haven’t gone anywhere in months. The weather has vastly improved, too. It’s still a little windy and chilly, but the sun has been out a lot. The days are getting longer. Pretty soon, it’ll be time to reconnect the lawnmower and haul the outdoor furniture up from the basement, so we can sit outside.

Although there’s a conflict going on in Ukraine, and it’s very troubling and scary, I can’t help but feel somewhat hopeful and optimistic. I’m not sure why I feel this way. I should be more scared, I guess… but I think the past two years have tapped me out on being scared.

I was sitting in my bedroom yesterday, thinking about how totally awry my life has gone. I mean, I’m very comfortable, but all of the things I planned for myself kind of went out the window. But then, I couldn’t have foreseen all that has happened over the past twenty years or so. Things that were so important back then, don’t really amount to much today. And now that Putin is talking about nukes, maybe it won’t matter at all before too long. So I feel like I just want to enjoy things for now, for as long as I can. Getting too upset about stuff I can’t control is a waste of time and energy.

I did get a little triggered last night, though. I happened across a Reddit Ridiculousness post about a person who accidentally damaged a “friend’s” laptop and offered to pay for a brand new one. The friend with the damaged computer then demanded an extra $500, because she wanted to upgrade… Can you imagine the balls on that bitch? Have a look.

That post was very satisfying to read. The ending was perfect. I can’t abide people who have the stones to try to get over in such a way. I can’t even imagine having the nerve to demand that someone buy me a brand new, upgraded laptop computer, when I negligently put the computer on a surface where people sit down. Good for that judge for holding the computer owner responsible for her own stupidity and carelessness. She probably did that on purpose, hoping to scam someone into buying her a new computer. I’m glad the really kind original poster did not give in to the extortionate demands of the thieving computer bitch. Good on her for letting the bitch sue her, and then allowing the judge to hand the bitch her ass. Serves her right.

As I read that post last night, I was reminded of our ex landlady’s attempt to force us to buy her a brand new awning. I’ve written about that sordid affair a few times and you can read most of long version of the whole awful tale here. The short version is, I had asked the former landlady to have the awning repaired, because it was leaning very low and looked like it was going to fall. She had her husband do the job instead of hiring a professional.

One really hot day, the wind was high, and the heavy awning finally collapsed. I wasn’t outside when it fell, and I couldn’t predict the wind, so ex landlady immediately accused me of being “negligent”, completely ignoring that it was her responsibility to have the thing fixed. She was VERY lucky no one was hurt or killed that day. But she focused on the fact that I wasn’t sitting under the awning when it fell. She claimed that it had been a “stormy” day. If you click the link to my first post about this, you can see that the weather was sunny that day– at least when the awning initially fell. It did storm later, but that happened after the great collapse. In the photos I took right after the awning fell, it’s clearly bright and sunny, with no signs of rain.

The insurance settlement she got from our liability policy was only 300 euros. That wasn’t enough money for her, even though the awning was 17 years old and she hadn’t had it properly repaired. A little over a year later, when we moved out, she came up with a bullshit list of reasons to withhold our security deposit. She wanted 2800 euros to buy a brand new awning. I guarantee you, though, that if the situation had been reversed, and we were the landlords, there is no way in HELL she would have paid for a new awning. I think she knows damned well that’s not how insurance works. She was trying to take advantage of my husband’s good nature, and apparently thought we were both weak and stupid people. I strongly suspect that she’s done this before, to other people… and especially other tenants. In retrospect, we should have held her completely responsible from the beginning, and refused to file an insurance claim, given that she didn’t have a professional fix the awning.

When Bill pushed back and asked ex landlady for a list of bills proving that she’d spent 2500 euros of our deposit to fix the house, as well as proof that we were responsible for the damage, she got really nasty, insulting, and unprofessional. She sent a few bills, including a couple for things that weren’t our responsibility, but were just intended to make us feel guilty for how much money she was spending (on anal retentive things like washing the roof of the carport). She grudgingly gave back about 666 euros or so, out of 3200, and flat out REFUSED to give us more. She falsely accused us of theft, and completely ignored that she did some things very wrong as landlady, as she demanded perfection from us. It was pretty clear to me, at least, that she was determined to take our money, no matter what. So Bill sued her. It took a long time, thanks to COVID-19, but in the end, she had to pay us back 73 percent of what she illegally withheld, and she had to pay our lawyer, her lawyer, and court fees.

In the end, she probably spent over twice what she tried to rip off. She also got off easy, because she didn’t follow several proper landlord procedures, according to German law. If we had been very stubborn, vindictive people, we could have nailed her for a lot more money. But we just wanted to hold her accountable, because we suspect she has a habit of ripping people off. There’s a reason why she prefers American tenants. We wanted proof of her shady practices, so we could provide it to the military installation and have a prayer of sparing other Americans from having to deal with her. Moreover, I was on the receiving end of her verbal abuse for four years, and I figured she had it coming. In spite of that sweet victory, I’m still really pissed off at her. I know I shouldn’t be, but I am. I can’t abide narcissistic, abusive people, especially when they fuck with my husband.

Now, of course, we have a much better landlord, and a better house. And, for now, thanks to Putin, Bill has job security. Or, so it seems… I sometimes worry about the future, and where we’ll end up. I try to take steps to make sure we have an “umbrella” prepared for the rainstorms… and hope we’ll see rainbows. So far, we generally do get treated to better times when there are “storms”. But I know that’s now how life always works. I am a bit worried about the world’s problems… but I’m also looking forward to better times. Or, at least a time when problems will be beyond me, because I won’t be around for them. I have always been comforted by the idea that someday I’ll be dead, and I won’t have to care about anything anymore.

I don’t know how much writing I’ll be doing over the next few days. I’ll bring my laptop, making sure not to put it on a couch to be sat upon. But I hope we’ll have the chance to see a lot of stuff, eat some good French food, and enjoy the world a little bit more than we have been lately.

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condescending twatbags, divorce, domestic violence

Promoting the myth of “one big happy family”…

I’ve been a subscriber of The Atlantic since last year. I do read a lot of the articles. In fact, I read more of The Atlantic than I do a lot of the other periodicals to which I am subscribed. However, over the past year I’ve noticed a few things.

First off, a lot of the articles are recycled repeatedly on Facebook. Secondly, they keep nagging me to turn auto-renew on, even though I clearly made a conscious decision to disable it (big surprise– auto-renew is turned on by default). In their emails pleading with me “not to miss an issue”, they point out that they’ll tell me before they charge me, and I always have the choice to disable auto-renew. If that’s the case, why not just let me make that choice for myself and leave me the fuck alone about it? And thirdly, so many of The Atlantic’s articles are incredibly depressing, outright ridiculous, and/or overly and annoyingly “woke”. I’m not sure if I will resubscribe when my current subscription ends next month, but the emails pleading for me to let them automatically take my money are off putting.

Reading The Atlantic the other day kind of led to yesterday’s slow news day on my blog. I kind of had to take a mental health day and just write a book review. I went a little nuts on Tuesday. It started with the cannelloni I decided to make for lunch. I wanted some red wine to go with it, even though I usually try not to imbibe when Bill isn’t home. Well… I started enjoying the wine, then I got online and read an article in The Atlantic. It was another one of Lori Gottlieb’s Dear Therapist columns, dated from June 2019. The piece was entitled “Dear Therapist: I Can’t Stand My Fiancée’s Ex-Husband”. The sub title-explanation was, “He wants to take pictures with her and their daughter like they’re still one happy family—and I want him to stop.” Below is the letter in the article:

Dear Therapist,

I am engaged to be married to a wonderful woman who has a 6-year-old daughter with her ex-husband. They share joint custody. A major contributing factor in her decision to end their marriage was her ex’s controlling nature. Even now, after being divorced for more than two years, he tries to control her life.

One of the ways he tries to do this is by insisting on taking pictures of the three of them at every function where they are all present. First day of school, graduations, etc.—he has to have pictures taken of himself with my fiancée and their daughter as if they are still one big happy family.

Since the divorce, he has gotten engaged as well. I can only assume his fiancée must find these odd “not-a-family pictures” as strange as my fiancée and I do. The sole reason we haven’t shut him down when he insists on them is that we think maybe it is a nice thing for the little girl to have pictures of herself with her mom and dad. But we dread every event when we know he is going to expect this.

Will it do the daughter any harm to stop him the next time he starts insisting on this  awkward situation?

Lori Gottlieb’s advice to the letter writer who can’t stand his fiancee’s ex husband was to cooperate for the sake of the child. She explained that she has had many children of divorce in her office who have lamented about how their parents didn’t get along. She evidently sees nothing wrong with the letter writer’s ex husband insisting on family pictures, even though both his fiancee and the ex husband have found new partners and the fiancee, apparently, doesn’t like the forced picture taking either. I do think the letter writer is pretty classy for realizing that the photos with both parents might be nice for the daughter. Hopefully, it will mean that he doesn’t try to replace his soon to be stepdaughter’s father. Sounds to me like bio dad isn’t about to let that happen. I can’t blame bio dad for that, but I also don’t think bio dad should be pressuring his ex to do something she’s not comfortable with doing, for the sake of pushing a “one big happy family” myth.

Those of you who know me at all, might know that I automatically sympathize with the letter writer. I didn’t even have to read the guy’s letter to sympathize. Ex pulled that “one big happy family” bullshit on Bill, too… I would include myself in that comment, but she never asked or even considered how I would feel about pushing that narrative. And that was just one of MANY reasons why, over 18 years after my wedding day, I still can’t stand her and don’t want to be associated with her. I have very good reasons for not being able to stand her. At the very top of the list is the fact that my husband saw one of his daughters last year for the first time since 2004!

That’s right. She categorically denied Bill visitation for years while she happily took $2550 a month from him for three children– one of whom wasn’t even his kid (she denied eldest son access to his father, too). Early in our marriage, she tried to strong arm Bill into naming her the beneficiary of life insurance policies valuing $1,000,000, even though he was paying her about half his salary in child support and had already provided $500,000 in life insurance coverage to her. She told vicious lies about him (and me) to the children and even tried to turn his own parents against him. She also abused him in ALL ways– mentally, emotionally, physically, financially, sexually… you name it, she probably did it. He still bears the scars from the physical abuse. Through it all, my husband has been extraordinarily classy. To this day, he doesn’t trash talk his ex wife, although he does commiserate with his younger daughter about her. It turns out she treats her kids as badly as she does her husbands.

I, on the other hand, have absolutely no qualms about trash talking Ex. She totally deserves it, and I make no apologies for despising her. But it didn’t start out that way. Back in 2002, when I was blissfully ignorant about her, I imagined myself being kind and patient and understanding toward Ex and the children. I wanted to be a good stepmother, loving to Bill’s children and sharing access to him with his kids. I didn’t think I’d be friends with Ex, but I thought maybe we could be civil. I really try to be civil to most people unless they give me a good reason not to be. I encouraged Bill to stay involved with his daughters. I hoped and expected he’d visit them and be part of their lives. I hoped and expected I would be part of their lives, too, in whatever way. In those days, I probably would have been among the naive, glibly telling people in step situations that they must always do everything for the child’s sake, no matter what.

But, as some of my more regular readers know, I’ve only met Bill’s daughters once, back in 2003. I had no influence on their lives, because I wasn’t allowed to be part of their lives. I could have seen them at Christmas in 2004, which was when Bill last saw them together. That last meeting was, unfortunately, a trap, although Ex had tried to frame as a way to show the children that we’re “all one big happy family”. After that Christmas, Ex completely cut off access to the children and Bill lost contact with them for years. Yes, he could have tried going to court, and he did speak to a lawyer about doing that. But in those days, he simply didn’t have the money or the time to devote to child custody hearings. After his divorce, Bill was saddled with a bankruptcy and a foreclosure, and with the kids on the other side of the country, there was no way he could fight without courting financial and professional ruin– two conditions that would not have made him look good to a family court judge, anyway. It probably also would have ruined our marriage, because unlike Ex, Bill would have allowed his daughters total access to their mom. And we would have been fighting with her constantly.

As it stands now, only Bill’s younger daughter is speaking to him. We both feel fortunate that this happened– because for a long time, we never thought it would. And, personally, I had also gotten to the point at which I was trying not to care anymore and just wanted them to leave us alone. Of course, now I’m glad younger daughter is in contact with Bill. She’s turned out to be a good person. Older daughter remains estranged and, at this point, I’m beginning to think that’s the way it will always be. Maybe that’s the way it should be.

Bill had told me when we were dating that his ex wife could “rip me to shreds”. I kind of laughed at that… and it didn’t turn out to be true. I never let her get close enough to me to be able to “rip me to shreds.” I’m not afraid of her. I think she’s a pathetic loser, and I am pissed off that she was able to do the damage she’s done and continues to do. I’m truly sorry that she was abused as a child and is mentally ill, but that does NOT give her the right to harm other people And the fact that she has done SO MUCH HARM to SO MANY PEOPLE means that I can’t stand her, and will NOT cooperate with her, EVER. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with my stance about Bill’s ex wife. She’s not a good person. Fortunately, the girls are now grown women, and I no longer have to worry about pushing the “one big happy family” myth for their sakes.

Anyway… on Tuesday, as I read that article, I visited the comment section and wrote, “Can’t blame him. There’s a reason they’re exes. I can’t stand my husband’s ex wife, either… actually, that is a massive understatement.”

I knew the reaction to my comment was probably going to be negative. I did immediately get one angry emoji. That person apparently blocked me, too. Oh fucking well.

But then I got this comment from some guy named Steve, who wrote… “but if your husband has kids with her, please encourage and support him in being civil for the sake of the children. Being a stepparent that appears against the children’s mother is going to make everything, including your relationship with the kids, much more difficult and stressful for everyone.”

Oh please. This tired screed again? So I responded to the guy, more aggressively than maybe I should have. I won’t lie. I found his comment pretty offensive and presumptuous. I mean, I guess one could assume that I’m the problem because I flat out stated that I can’t stand my husband’s ex. Not knowing anything about me, maybe I would make a similar assumption. It’s a human thing to do. Still, I just felt this overwhelming urge to speak up for people in my situation. It’s really tiresome when people glibly make suggestions like the one Steve made to me. Why would Steve or anyone else assume that someone who comes second or later is going to automatically be the problem when it comes to fostering relationships between divorced parents and their children? Why would he assume that I can’t stand the ex simply because she’s the ex?

There really is a reason why people become exes… and I don’t blame the letter writer for not liking the forced family photos. Those forced family photos are not a reflection of reality, and the ex husband’s insistence on taking them may, indeed, be due to his control issues. Not knowing the people involved, I can only assume they know each other and the situation better than any reader ever could. And while Lori Gottlieb does write that oftentimes, when she speaks to couples, she finds that both parties are equally to blame for problems in a relationship, there are also a lot of situations in which one partner really is a control freak or a narcissistic abuser. The ex insisting on something like taking family photos may seem very minor, in the grand scheme of things, but that might be part of a much larger issue that led to the couple’s split. In any case, I think the fiancee should have the right to veto the photos if she wants to, and no one should judge her for that. The letter writer should be supportive and understanding, no matter what his fiancee chooses to do.

I also agree that divorced couples with children should do their best to work together whenever possible. There’s nothing wrong with encouraging people to be civilized and occasionally “take one for the team”. But when people split up, they should not be expected to promote a false “happy family” image for the child’s sake. If they can do so realistically, that’s one thing. But it sounds like in the letter writer’s situation, at least two of the adults aren’t comfortable with promoting the charade. Their opinions should be respected, too.

Perhaps against my better judgment, I ended up explaining some of my situation to Steve. I’ll admit, my responses were pretty angry– remember, I’m currently lonely, stressed out, and at that point, had been drinking wine. Steve’s off the cuff “advice” had made me angry, because it’s the kind of useless shit I’ve been hearing for years. I’m tired of people assuming I’m the problem, simply because I’m not the mom and I happened to come second. I would have been delighted to have worked with my husband’s ex wife, if she had been similarly willing to cooperate. Unfortunately, that was not how the situation was when the girls were minors. She’s still spinning tales, and taking advantage of anyone who allows her to, and apparently, getting away with it… although younger daughter, at least, has figured her out and doesn’t want her near her children.

When I responded to Steve, I was thinking of the letter writer, as well as all of the other people I know who are in this very same boat. I know my personal story is probably kind of extraordinary. Most people’s exes aren’t as horrifying as Bill’s ex wife is. Most people are in a position to be able to enforce visitation rights, at the very least. Or their exes realize that by denying their children access to their natural parent (as long as there isn’t a damned good reason for them NOT to be), they are hurting the children. On the other hand, I do know some people who are dealing with truly awful, manipulative, controlling, abusive exes… and the people– especially the women– who subsequently get involved with them often end up being labeled as “wicked”, “homewrecker”, or “obstructive”, or they have to endure rude assumptions and questions like “Are you the reason they got divorced?”

Steve and I went back and forth a few times. He turned out to be a pretty okay guy, and I even ended up thanking him, because in the end, he was ultimately understanding and kind. And now that I’m reading my responses to him, sans wine, I realize that I was a bit triggered and, perhaps, more hostile than I should have been. The truth is, things are pretty stressful right now. Bill is on an extended TDY, so I don’t have anyone to talk to, other than online. This isn’t the first time I’ve spent weeks alone, but doing this routine during a pandemic, in a foreign country, and after having been “locked down” for months, is very trying.

I do know things could be worse. Bill is not in a war zone with a narcissist; he isn’t regularly fighting with his ex wife; we are both healthy; and we have plenty of money to pay our bills. I know there are many people out there who would laugh at me and tell me to get over myself. But even though I know things aren’t really that bad and have historically been worse, that doesn’t change the fact that the other day, it was like I’d run into a perfect storm of triggers that got me pretty wound up. The truth is, I kind of exploded… then imploded.

I ended up going to bed early on Tuesday, after a tense and very brief– and incoherent– chat with Bill. We had a much better chat last night and I apologized for the state I was in on Tuesday. He was understanding, as usual, reminding me that this is a “stressful time”. And it is… the boredom, loneliness, and hopelessness of the past fourteen months have taken their toll. It doesn’t help that my husband, who is half vaccinated, is on yet another business trip lasting weeks. I feel like we’re separated. There is a light at the end of the lockdown tunnel, though. In a few weeks, we’ll both be fully vaccinated, and it looks like the TDYs from hell may be over for awhile. And maybe we can do something enjoyable and spend some money on a trip somewhere. Hope springs eternal.

Anyway… I know I should avoid comment sections for the sake of my blood pressure and mental health. But, if I didn’t read comments, I probably wouldn’t have enough material to blog every day. Other people’s reactions and perceptions can make for fertile content mining. I also know that there are people out there who were glad I spoke up about that fake “one big happy family” falsehood. For a lot of us in these step relationships, that just isn’t reality… and I don’t think we do good when we try to present it that way.

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