The Death and Resurrection of My Family

This is my story; there are other people in this story, but I must be clear, this is the story as I perceived it, as I experienced it, and as I remember it.  Other people involved have their own perceptions, their own experiences, their own memories, and their own stories.

My family of origin--Mother, Daddy, Meredith, Dritte, and I spent a lot of years dying.  Looking back I recognize that our family was probably given a terminal diagnosis the summer of 1983, but it was a long slow, often agonizing process.  To be fair, there were also moments of remission--of joys, but the disease killing the family never went away for long.  It manifested itself in a myriad of ways--it was relentless, rearing its ugly head with no notice, and it left scars, many many scars.

There was a permanent fracture in November 2008 when my parents separated.  It is difficult to express the sense of loss and grief I felt.  This was the right thing to do; I knew that.  That's part of what made it so complex; how could I feel so much loss and grief when this was something for which I believed I was ready? This was something I believed would at least bring some individual healing to all of us, would perhaps even heal some relationships.  At the time, Bishop Gulick said to me, "take time and grieve the loss of the family you knew; for better or worse, it was your family."  What he didn't tell me, perhaps he didn't even know, was that people grieve loss differently, and grief is not linear.  People's length of time needed to grieve is different, and grief is intensely personal.  But, because it is a system--everybody's grief, everybody's timing is intricately connected in a complex web of relationships between the five of us but that also extended its tentacles into many other relationships.

The divorce was final in September 2009; a signed piece of paper ended the legality of the marriage, but that piece of paper had no power to end grief, to extinguish the feelings of uncertainty--to erase the fear of the future.  In November my father told me he was seeing someone; I met her in January 2010, and they were married in April 2010.  My head was spinning.  The truth is, I suspected there was someone he was seeing, but I didn't ask, and he didn't tell me.  Looking back I recognize that while I thought I was grieving the death of my family, I wasn't.  For me, my family had not yet died. Terminal, yes, but although in my mind I said it was over, my heart and soul had not reached that point.  I didn't ask; I suppose deep down I didn't want to know.  I was ready to move on, but on my terms, in my timing, in a way that was comfortable for me.  I was the child of divorced parents; I needed to learn to live with that label, with that identity before moving forward, before adding the label of a child with a remarried parent.

When I first met Marguerite, I liked her fine.  We only spent a few hours together, but she seemed nice enough.  But I didn't know her; I didn't know her story; I didn't know how much she loved my father; frankly, I didn't trust her.  And I was terrified.  I didn't want to lose the Daddy I love and need so much to another family.  I was old enough and had enough experience to know there were families who were permanently ruptured; divorce and remarriage sometimes led to one side being excluded, being forgotten.  So I didn't want to go to the wedding.  I didn't want to be a part of it; I didn't feel I was a part of it.  But I went, and the whole family went.  I don't know if I would have gone if I didn't have children.  My children adore my daddy.  They have always been incredibly close to him, and I didn't believe that I had the right to let my feelings, my fear, my grief, hijack their relationship.  And I never wanted to regret not being there.  So off we went.

It was awful--I felt left out/ I felt abandoned, denied.  I felt like an outsider.  Marguerite's daughter was in the wedding; my family and I were in the back.  We weren't asked to participate.  I didn't get to hold even a single rose, the children didn't have corsages and boutonnieres identifying them as family.  It hurt.   I know now that  Daddy didn't ask because he didn't want to put me in an awkward position with my mother, but I wasn't given that choice.  And that felt wrong.  I still believe it was wrong.  I still think my boys and not my father's friend should have been standing next to him.  I still believe my girls and my husband and I should have been up front.  But we weren't, and I almost walked out.  My aunts and my husband held me; physically, emotionally, and spiritually.  They put their arms around me and loved me through that service.  They kept my breaking heart from splintering into a million pieces and piercing my soul.  As they held my heart together, they acted as the glue, as the stitches needed to keep my relationship with Daddy from disintegrating beyond all hopes of repair.

For others, it was a day of celebration.  Carson, Marguerite's daughter, seemed happy.  Part of the pain for me was that she knew my father.  In the hotel lobby she referred to a tie he had previously worn to a dinner they all went to--a simple innocent comment but one that felt like a punch to my gut. Clearly she had been with my father on numerous occasions, and I had met her mother once.  Other people were happy; there were toasts given that alluded to football weekends the previous fall--weekends when I didn't even know Marguerite existed.  I wish I could say that despite all my pain I acted with grace.  But I didn't.

Marguerite approached me and said, "Thank you for being here; I know it's hard."  And venom flew from my lips, "Yes it is," I snapped "especially when you weren't even included.  When you might as well have been anybody else, not part of the family."  She walked off; I walked off, and I'm certain we both hurt.

I didn't sleep well that night.  I could think of nothing other then getting the hell out of there and fleeing back to Louisville.  I got up in the wee hours of the morning and went into the bathroom to shower.  As the water soothed my tired body,I collapsed into a heap and I sobbed the most gut wrenching sobs I have ever experienced.  I cried so deeply and for so long that my ribs hurt for days afterwards--a continuous reminder, a temporary souvenir of the grief I felt.  In that moment the death of my family became a reality for me--it was finished.  The family, but not the grief.  I was terrified--who was I now?  Did I have a home anymore?  How did I move forward, and what if Daddy didn't stay connected?

Over the past three years, three years we refer to as the new normal, life has changed for all of us. Has it been easy?  Did I suddenly embrace, accept, and jump into the new family?  No--divorce is always complicated.  Divorce with adult children has its own set of complications.  Not one of the children lives in the same place.  Holidays have to be negotiated--and they're negotiated with tension--they're negotiated almost as a test--who will they choose?  (read, "who do they love most?")

While the speed of the marriage didn't reflect patience, the merging of the families has been. Honestly, I have never even met Marguerite's son, but my children have.  And he, her Christopher, was kind, and loving and supportive of my children.  He taught them to shoot a bow and arrow; he gifted them one; he loves them and they love him, --that's enough for me.  For them he is part big brother, part uncle--for me he is family.

I remember the first time visiting Daddy and Marguerite's home and not feeling like a visitor.  Feeling welcome in a way I'm not sure  I ever even felt welcome coming back to my childhood home.  One night I made an unexpected visit--I called them, told them I needed to come to Augusta , one of the children was sick and needed to be at the children's hospital.   And they said come on.  I arrived very late at night, they met me at the hospital, stayed with me, held my hand--they were just there.  When we got back to their house, even though they would have to be at work within four hours, they stayed up and drank wine with me.  They stayed up until I could go to bed and not lie awake in fear. Until I could go to bed and sleep would enfold me quickly. When I went to bed,  next to my bed was a rose and a glass of water--I know very well it was from Marguerite not Daddy.  She showed me unconditional love in a moment I needed it--this simple act comforted my soul, and I believe kept the nightmares away.  I don't know what she thought when she did it, but what it said to me was, "you are not alone; I love you.  I love you not because you are your father's child or your child's mother, but because you are a hurting human being and you need to be loved."

I don't know when I started referring to Marguerite as my step mother; it happened so slowly and so seamlessly.  There was no pressure; there was no attempt to take over or replace my mother.  Frankly there was no expectation.  There was patience and love extended over and over even when it wasn't reciprocated.  I am now proud to call Marguerite my step mother; I am blessed she is in my life and the lives of my family.  She is a mother to me; I mother I need.

Yesterday Carson texted me.  She wanted me to know before it went public that she was pregnant.  I burst into tears of happiness.  I texted all the children to let them know--there was much joy and celebration.  Yesterday afternoon I asked her if it was public yet so that I could post on facebook, "I"m going to be an aunt again!"  And I am--my step-sister is going to be a mother and I'm going to be an aunt, a true aunt because we are family--in that moment, I recognized the mystery of death and resurrection.  In that moment I knew that there had been resurrection in my life, the resurrection of my family.  Thanks be to God.