Finding Me

Facing the in-laws with the devastating news of divorce, and what that entails, I believe is an issue some of us would rather not confront. It’s too daunting, too embarrassing, and profoundly disappointing. So we pretend. Guilt takes over. The troubled couple inadvertently become thespians; glossing over our miserable situations as if they were a well-choreographed play when the in-laws are around, sending shooting looks of contempt at each other whenever our eyes happen to meet. Let’s face it, we go through the whole ordeal, and, yes, it becomes an ordeal. The children and their achievements become the highlight of the gathering. One cannot bring oneself to admit that things aren’t ‘going well’, and haven’t been for some time. So pretence and drama are displayed to camouflage failures, shame. We would have dashed their expectations of how (they think) the marriage should have worked out. (Sometimes in-laws, too, are in denial: they pretend that the angst and tension they’ve caught a glimpse of don’t ‘necessarily’ mean that the road is a rocky one.) After a while I stopped accompanying my husband to his family gatherings, though they grew fewer each year. Still, the pretence, the front, we both had to endure, became unbearable. Why lie? Why sit writhing in agony hoping the ordeal would soon come to an end?

As I sat on the hospital bed, my mother-in-law seated in a chair awaiting my arrival, I understood, undoubtedly, why some couples chose denial, avoidance, when it came to telling in-laws of the troubled marriage or impending divorce. This was in the year 2000 – I’d turned fifty in May – and some eighteen months before I had actually filed for the divorce. Elizabeth had been hospitalised. She had fallen and dislocated a hip, and added to that she had fluid on her lungs. Also, the seizures brought on by her Parkinson’s disease were becoming more frequent. So much so that her children were expressing their concern about her living on her own. After greeting me, Elizabeth gestured for me to sit on the bed. She remained seated in a chair. A plaintive look shrouded her face. The smiles and pleasantries we exchanged were half-hearted, lifeless. But we both knew that this tête-à-tête could no longer be avoided. I looked away briefly as a slight twinge of guilt and a feeling of ‘letting her down’ overshadowed me.

This was a far cry from the beautiful summer’s day, early in our relationship, when Chris took me to his parents’ cottage. It was my first visit to the English countryside. After giving me the grand tour, Elizabeth and I sat on the lawn in the glistening sunlight, drinking a glass of Pimm’s, the thirst-quenching libation whose tipsy effects are subtle. English summertime wouldn’t be the same without this classic beverage, a blend of alcohol and a secret mixture of herbs. Chris and his dad were in the house. Jack called out to remind Elizabeth it was time to have lunch. Her reply was very moving, and indeed surprising: “I’m admiring my new daughter-in-law,” she called proudly. And with that, smiling softly, she lightly ran her forefinger down my arm. “What beautiful skin you’ve got,” she said. Did she think it would rub off?

Neither of us knew where to start the conversation.

.….“The sparks have died,” I said, “and some years previously. It is too late – there are no embers to be rekindled. Nothing ignites within me,” I repeated. “Nothing.” I furrowed my brow.

“But what about the children?” she asked, “and how will you cope?”

“I’ll manage. Somehow,” I shrugged my shoulders.

Those awkward moments of silence fell between us once more.

“Having a handicapped child could ruin a relationship,” she said, knowingly.

“That is possible,” I responded.