I used to fall in love twice a month. Every other weekend, without fail, it happened. And always with the same man. Luckily it was the man I was – and am – married to.
The trigger was my husband’s bi-monthly call to his father. For an hour I’d hear laughter and tenderness as he filled his dad in on the latest news: kids’ accomplishments, work successes, things that would make his dad proud and give him something to brag to his friends about. Glowing summaries commonly reserved for holiday letters and reunion bios. And, eventually, elderly parents.
As a stand-alone event it was pretty sweet. The thing that really moved me, though, was that my husband’s relationship with his father was not exactly storybook. His father was an angry man who took out his frustrations on his children. Criticism, abuse and fear were constant members of the family. It’s a miracle that my husband grew up to be the gentle man he is.
In spite of the history between them, he called. In spite of having become a father and realized the power of words and actions in forming a child’s character, he called. He chose the high road, stayed in touch, called his father regularly and gave him an hour that would keep him going until the next call.
It was not a choice everyone would make, understandably, given the past. But he did. And as I overheard pieces of the conversation, I would feel that delicious feeling of loving someone where your body feels warm and soft and your heart feels like it’s expanding to its limits.
It was also a poignant lesson in sticking with something or someone no matter how hard, no matter how many times you get rebuffed or discouraged and no matter how angry it makes you. Some people in our lives are toxic and should avoided. But if you find you care enough to want to know why a person is the way they are; if you have even an inkling that there is a good soul underneath the prickles and barbs; and especially if this person is a one and only in your life, then it’s worth the work to find your way back home.
I was very close to my mother growing up. We would talk and make each other laugh. We were friends. But as I grew older and started to forge my own path, one that highlighted differences in our thinking and approach to life, a divide began to form. It’s complex and I don’t understand exactly what happened. I’m sure many of you could fill in the blanks with details of your own experience with parents, siblings, relatives. But ultimately, it left me feeling sad, bitter and grieving for my old rapport with my mother. I never wanted to compromise my convictions or myself. That would not be fair to either of us. But I longed for the relationship that I felt slipping away. I missed my Mom.
My last trip back to visit my parents resulted in a mining and rediscovery of that connection. Ten days caring for both parents, the ongoing care of my father and the post-surgery needs of my mother, left little time to be petty or get caught up in disagreements. The days went from 7:30 a.m. to 11:00 p.m. when I would fall into bed, bone tired. Meal preparation, serving, feeding my father, emptying commodes, running laundry up and down the hall, grocery shopping, cleaning, driving to the doctor and church, welcoming visitors, dealing with the car mechanic when the car died... it was all day every day.
My mother and I were alone much of the day and we slept in the same room at night, talking until we couldn’t keep our eyes open anymore. If the conversation slipped into the danger zone, I took the floor by force and explained my position without emotion. At times we reached understanding, at others we simply agreed to disagree. At one point during a heated discussion following bin Laden’s death, I said, “Mom. Your blood pressure is going up and so is mine. There is no way I will ever convince you that I am right and you are wrong so let’s just stop talking about this!” She laughed and agreed that we should move to another topic. I think my mother’s brush with mortality had an impact on her. My sister thinks it’s the Percocet. But she wasn’t on Percocet when I was there. We just drank coffee and talked and worked together to get through the week.
When it was time to leave I felt a strange peace. Sad to leave. But happy to be sad to leave. Normally, at the end of a visit, my sorrow had more to do with my dissatisfaction and hunger for something that I had little hope of ever finding again. This time, however, I had tasted the joy of family, of redemption, of the welcome bonds that make us who we are. Tears shed were few and brief. And they were tears of gratitude mingled with the usual goodbye tears.
It’s worth the work. It may take years. It may take counseling. It may never happen. But it is worth trying. Because it just may heal something that’s been broken for a long time. And it could end up better that it ever was. At the very least you could heal yourself. As I read on a greeting card recently, “Sometimes right back where you started from is right where you belong.” And as the Dalai Lama is famous for saying, Never Give Up.
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