Memoir of a Divorce

This is not funny and lighthearted enough for Throwback Thursday, but it's a throwback nonetheless so I figured I would share it on a Tuesday to keep the alliteration going.  I wrote it nearly two years ago for an essay contest about regret, and I remember frantically trying to finish it the night before labor was induced and I had EJ. Anyways, I came across it the other day and was instantly transported back to that time in my life. Some people I know are having hard times right now, and finding this again was a wonderful reminder that bad times are finite, and there is always good ahead.  Two years later, I'm happy with my life and am a different person...but only because I went through this.

Forty weeks pregnant with my first child.  It’s been a kind pregnancy, but my little one’s movements now seem arduous for him and are indelibly uncomfortable for me.  I am ready for him to come.

By the light of day, I am a confident, excited mother-in-waiting.  My time is consumed with a never-ending slew of parental tasks, all of which I do gladly, absentmindedly rubbing my belly.

The nights are much different.  As I shift uncomfortably in bed, I feel raw and exposed, a spotlight of pitch black highlighting my truth.  I am scared and alone, nervously anticipating single parenthood and the new version of my life that has been thrust upon me by two callous souls. Hours pass by as I try to block the bad thoughts and once again chastise myself for canceling the damn singing chicken.

I don’t know when it all started, but I know exactly when it ended.  March 12^th at 11:23 p.m.  That was the night I confronted my husband, the supposed love of my life, about a discrepancy on our phone bill.  That discrepancy was a series of text messages and calls to an unfamiliar number.  Looking back, it was actually the cliché adultery scene you hear about.

My husband initially acted confused, but then his lip started to tremble and his eyes welled up. I then knew he was having an affair with his coworker. I was five months pregnant and it was the week of our fourth wedding anniversary.

I didn’t even cry.  The shock and hurt momentarily dried my tear ducts.  I don’t even think I yelled.  I remember thinking, this isn’t my life, this shouldn’t be happening to me.  I had married a great guy after dating for several years and we did everything you are supposed to do…right down to planning for a baby that we both wanted.

Regardless, I found myself looking at the clock, noting the time of death of our relationship, and then staring into the eyes of my best friend who had instantaneously become a complete stranger.  Throughout tears and an abundance of sorries, my husband was never able to say the right thing, nor did he beg for my forgiveness.  I knew that the damage was irreparable and the relationship was over.

From the moment I found out about the infidelity, I chose to take the high road and not put additional undue stress on myself or the baby.  Never did I partake in any yelling, cursing, breaking dishes, throwing clothes on the lawn, or anything else that seems satisfyingly badass in a woman-scorned movie.  My entire marriage just crumbled tidily before my eyes.

A few days after my discovery, a dear friend called me.  I had fled home to seek refuge in my mother's house, and had spent my days and nights curled in the fetal position.

“Want some cheering up?” she chirped.  I responded with a grunt, turning to face myself in the mirror and thinking how old and haggard I looked and felt.

“I did something.  Do you or do you not want to know?” she continued.

“Do,” I replied, my ambivalence palpable.

“I did some snooping and SHE is having a party tonight at a bar near where I work.”  

A guttural-sounding gasp escaped my mouth.  I pictured her having a fantastic, fun night acting as if nothing was wrong.  Like a family hadn’t been completely broken. My husband would probably even be there.   I hadn’t spoken to him in days.

“Anyways, I’m sick of women like her and men who cheat.  It is not okay!” she preached.  I sighed.

“So…..So I hired a singing telegram to serenade her and tell everyone in attendance what disgusting, vile creatures she and your husband are.  Oh, and the singer is going to be dressed in a big chicken suit.  It symbolizes what they both are and I don’t want anyone in the place to miss it!”

Silence from me.  I checked the mirror again and inadvertently, a smile had spread across my face.   The laughter was not far behind.   It was the first time I had laughed in what felt like eons.  Suddenly, it wasn’t me who felt embarrassed or ashamed.  It could be the both of them being mortified in front of coworkers and others.  They deserved it.  Maybe their night would be ruined, just like my nights had been and would continue to be.  Maybe for just a few moments, they could feel as small as I felt.

My joy was short-lived as my gaze shifted back to my reflection.  I looked at myself and noticed that my smile had taken on an eerie joker-like appearance.  I didn’t look victorious; I looked crazed.  At that same time, my baby kicked and I was brought back down to reality.  This was not me.

“You have to cancel it,” I ordered, some strength edging its way back into my voice.  “It’s just not worth it.  Let her have her party and pretend.  She knows what she is.  They know what they are.  And frankly, if they don’t, it’s not my job to show them.”

“Fine, your call,” my friend replied glumly, telling me she loved me and murmuring something about having to quickly cancel the transaction.

I looked back at myself.  The shadows were still there, along with a faint line etched into my forehead by brows that had been furrowed for days.  But, I looked like me again, and the spark in my eyes flickered back, if only for a brief moment.

           

As I stare into the darkness, and play and replay the it’s-not-fair game in my mind, I wholeheartedly envision that a singing chicken would have given me a sense of peace, making the adulterers feel some of the pain I’ve felt or perhaps help explain how my marriage fell apart. 

Thankfully, I have finally decided that this thinking is selfish.  It’s the thinking of a single girl who’s been scorned.  That’s not me anymore.  I am someone’s mother, someone’s light, someone’s beacon.  And that person doesn’t go out seeking revenge.  That person doesn’t revel in someone else’s misery.  She forges ahead and tries to make a glorious life for her child and herself. 

Now, as labor is imminent, when the chicken pops into my mind and the revenge pulse starts to quicken, I turn on the light, get out of bed and walk to my son’s crib.  I stare longingly and lovingly at his ocean-themed sheets, the hand-sewn quilt adorned with his name, and the whale decals I’ve affixed to his wall. 

There are two whales swimming along—a mother and son.  She’s showing him the way forward, both of them smiling brilliantly.  And in that moment, I know that when I finally meet my little boy, so soon from now, that there is no room for anger, only love.  Chickens don’t belong in my house.  They live far away from here, and they deserve one another.  I’ll take my little whale and swim happily off into the sunset.