Tag: husband

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Sweaters, Sweatshirts, and Scrunchies

Posted on by Susannah Warner

My husband is really very smart, so what I’m about to say should not be a measure of his intelligence. In fact, he’s the only person I know who skipped High School completely, but has a college degree. Well, actually he did attend two months at Lewiston High School, but due to some unfortunate circumstances, aka poor choices, which included, but were not limited to; fighting, drinking, skipping school, and, as the coup de grace, mistakenly blowing pot smoke in a gym teachers face, he found himself expelled from school. For my readers out-of-state, and outside of the U.S., know that Lewiston can be a rough little city, and as I’ve heard it referred to more than once as the “armpit of New England,” expulsion from a school like Lewiston High is no easy task, especially in 1979, when they actually had smoking sections for kids. Weedgate notwithstanding, my husband tackled some tough courses in college, and even though I am a nurse, I always ask him anatomy questions because I am the sort of person who studies to pass the test, and he is the sort of person who studies to learn. Kinesiology, Pathology, Neurology, he passed with ease, but Fashion 101, umm nope.

“I haven’t seen you wear a scrunchie lately,” he said to me last week. I laughed out loud, thinking he was kidding, then stopped when I realized that he was serious. Now, I actually do have a few velvet scrunchies tucked away, because although dated, they really are very comfortable and don’t tug at my hair, but I have not worn one out in public since 1992. I’m a little surprised that he knows what a scrunchie is in the first place, as I’ve had to educate him on the difference between a sweater and a sweatshirt on more than one occasion. If this seems incredible to you, my reader, consider this conversation between my son and my husband, two manly men, several years ago, and smartly preserved by me in my notes, to be used at a later date; this being the day.

Husband: “So, the difference between a skirt and a dress is the length…”

Son: “No, no, I’m pretty sure that a dress is a shirt and a skirt put together. ”

Husband: “Nooo, I think that a dress is below the knee, and a skirt is above the knee, and a dress zips in the back. ”

Son: “Mom? We’re waiting for your expert opinion…”

After I stopped laughing, and confirmed that the “Son” was correct, I asked them what the difference was between a sweater and a sweatshirt. A lively discussion ensued regarding hoods, zippers, pockets, buttons, pullovers and cardigans at which point my husband insisted that the only difference was that a sweater could be turned inside out (what the….????). This had me laughing even harder until I pushed the merriment too far, and asked if they knew the difference between leggings and tights. The “Son” left the room in disgust, while the “Husband” struggled to explain. “One of them has built-in socks, and the other doesn’t, I’m not sure which one though.”

If this all seems like a putdown, it assuredly is not. I actually find his lack of knowledge on the subject endearing. I know that for my part, his abundance of tools would be incredibly daunting to name, let alone use correctly, and I really have no desire to be educated on drill bits, screwdrivers, types of hammers and power tools. That is his world, and I love that he knows how these things work, and can use them to build a house or fix a faucet. I’m sure if he wanted to laugh, he could have me try to explain the difference between a hacksaw and a miter saw…”Umm, they both cut? But, the hacksaw is used for hacking at things? And probably the miter saw is for detail work? I guess?”

I’m wondering what my husband will think of this, as he is away camping for a few days, and I can’t get his opinion before I post it, as I usually do. But, if he were here, I would ask him if he could tell me what I am currently wearing on the lower half of my body. I’m pretty sure that he would not know that these are called yoga pants and that he would say something that makes me laugh, and quite possibly be used as fodder for future blogs. It’s just ust one of the many, many reasons that I love him.

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Up and Down

Posted on by Susannah Warner

My husband is a good father. Let me just say that right off the bat. He loves his children, has supported and protected them, played with them, and comforted them throughout our 26 year journey together as parents. Even after his diagnosis of bipolar, with its 20% mortality rate, and 90% divorce rate, he’s managed to never let our kids doubt that he has their backs and loves them unconditionally.

Bipolar, with its classic ups and downs, one would think, must be even more bewildering and frustrating to children than it is to the spouse. Before his diagnosis, and even for years after, as we struggled to find the right combination of meds, there were nights full of giddy plans and days spent in bed. Promises made to go to the playground, ride bikes, and go swimming in the throes of hypomania, often dissolved overnight into excuses, lethargy and a blanket of depression. My kids grew up with this though, they didn’t know anything different. They knew his moods so well, that my daughter could tell in one word if he was “up or down.” He called her “apple-blossom” when he was up, and “chick” when he was down. His tone too, would give it away, lilting and quick when up, gloomy and slow when down, so that even “Hi” on the phone gave it away. Our own Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, or the kid friendly version of Tigger/Eeyore.

This is not to say that he never did anything with them. Many, many times, he fought off the demon of anxiety and depression’s oppression, to fulfill his promises to them. He took them to the circus, parades, and amusement parks, many times without me as I have worked every other weekend since I was 16. These public outings for him left him riddled with anxiety, but he did it anyway. More calming to him, and just as fun for the kids, were the days spent outside; hiking, camping, fourwheeling, exploring the woods and getting dirty and tired. He did these things when he could, and the kids loved it, especially because of the life and energy that swirls around a “Tigger.”

Who can’t help but be drawn to the frenetic spark that hypomania brings?  The sky is bluer, the grass is greener, the clouds have interesting shapes, and the whole world is a playground. There are few worries in the world of Up, and boundless energy. No request need be denied, no financial concerns, even physical ailments, such as bad shoulders or aching back from years of carpentry, cease to be a consideration. It must be like a tiny slice of heaven on Earth.

But, Up’s evil twin, Down is never far away.  He also goes by the name of Eeyore, depression, hopelessness or shame. He is as heavy and gray as Up is light and sunny. Every task seems monumental, worrying turns to anxiety, and every ache and pain pile on the top of the sufferer, weighing him down and threatening to bring down the whole household, if you let it. It’s as if the brilliant sun is suddenly dimmed by storm clouds. A deluge of negativity and pain threatens to wash us all away, carrying everyone down a river of despair. A tiny slice of Hell on earth. But hold on, because summer is right around the corner. Melancholy will move and joy will return.

I liken my experiences with Bipolar to life in the Pine Tree State.  It is not uncommon in Maine to have the heat on in the car in the morning, and the AC on in the afternoon, snow might fall one day, and the next day, it is so warm, winter jackets are shucked off like snake skin. A gorgeous sunrise, the sky streaked with orange, crimson and promise, slowly fades to billows of gun metal gloom that overshadow the whole day. Life in Maine is not for the feint of heart, and neither is life with a person who suffers from a mood disorder. But, Maine is called Vacationland for a reason. It is beautiful and rugged and teaches perseverance and strength, and how to cheerfully navigate the hard times while looking forward to the good times. My kids have learned these things, and I’m thankful that they are strong, determined adults, with no signs of the infirmity their father bears. Just as Maine could never be called bland or boring; no endless flat cornfield, or boundless sunshine here, growing up with a bipolar parent has never been dull for my children. I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t trade their father or their home state, so full of color and vigor, for an anemic, yet sensible landscape. Both predictable in their unpredictableness, and more precious for it.

 

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Tree of Life

Posted on by Susannah Warner

 

Last night after dinner, my husband and I rose from the table at the same time, and while still discussing the minutia that dominates most of the conversations of a long marriage, started clearing the table. He scraped the dishes, and loaded the dishwasher while I wrapped up leftovers. Suddenly, I noticed the way in which we moved together. We were doing different tasks, but working towards the same goal. No movement was wasted, we did not bump into each other, or reach for the ketchup bottle at the same time. The work was done quickly and easily, and when I pointed out what I noticed, we joked about working like a “well-oiled machine.” This is one of the many pleasures of being with someone for a long time. You know their strengths and their weaknesses, sometimes even better than you know your own.

We’ve had a hard year, the two of us. This is the first year in a very long marriage that we’ve ever questioned if we would spend the next one together. We have been together since I was a teen, and I never doubted that we would  grow old as a couple. I guess it’s a miracle in itself that we made it this far without questioning our relationship. Not that it has been easy. We have survived poverty; not the kind where we were starving, but the kind where our electricity was shut off and we were too proud to ask our parents for money, so we told our young children that we were “camping” for the week (they loved it), and the kind where we couldn’t afford toothpaste sometimes, so we had to use baking soda. We survived the death of both of his parents, one by suicide, alcoholism, jail, a diagnosis of bipolar, with its 20% mortality rate, and both of us attended college with small children, while working.

Through all this, we laughed our way through many a hardship. It wasn’t all fun and games, of course. There were many tears, fights, threats and even throwing of wedding rings on two dramatic occasions. But in all those years, neither one of us, even while the words, “that’s it! I’m done” were hurled at each, ever thought for one minute that we would ever actually be done. Not for nothing, did my then six-year-old niece proclaim, “you guys are always either fighting, or kissing!”

No, the real threat came quietly. Years of his bad boy behavior, and my long-suffering martyr act caught up with us. We finally outgrew the roles that we’ve played for decades. Roles that we fell into naturally and actually must have enjoyed.  There is something so satisfying about being the “good one,” in the relationship. I do believe that I actually relished the martyr role. It felt pretty good to be the forgiver; benevolent, strong and merciful. I would shower him with forgiveness, and snatch it back at the first signs of a disagreement, enslaving him to a lifetime of being the naughty child to my scolding mom.

For some reason this year, we both grew tired of our roles. I was weary of the burden, and after a summer of no sleep and a restless spirit, I abruptly shucked it off like an old coat. I decided that I did not want to be responsible for his happiness or lack thereof, something he never asked me to do in the first place. I don’t know why, but I also had no desire to hold our family together with an iron will and a clenched fist anymore. I let it go. I had no idea what would happen, but I was too tired of carrying our responsibilities, our happiness, and our salvation on my back like a figurative beast of burden, to care anymore. I thought that if I let go, everything would topple like a house of cards. I thought that I was so strong, that if I gave up control, he would go down too. It turns out that I’m not that strong, I never was. I was weak, because I thought I needed to hold on so tightly. God is strong, and he does not tire, nor does he hold on so tightly, he chokes the life out of someone.

Matthew 11:28 

 “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.

 

So, I did it,  I told God I was tired of carrying all of this baggage and I asked him to take it from me. Then, of course, like a control freak, I plucked it back from him a few times, but ultimately I experienced the freedom that comes with letting go. I decided that whatever happened, and whatever became of us, it would be better than what we had been doing and the weariness that I’d been feeling for years.

So, what happened to my bad boy? Did he spiral out of control? Did he fall apart without me to hold him together? Nope, he stepped up. It seems that maybe my mother-role wasn’t saving him all along. I actually was standing in his way. By stepping back, and letting go, I gave him room to take his place. By not feeling responsible for his happiness and behavior, he became responsible for it himself. He is more content, and I feel unburdened.

What this means for two people who share a lifetime of memories and laughter, is that we are free to choose each other, every day. No longer entangled in a vicious cycle of dependent/co-dependent behavior, we are able to oblige each other, because we are happy to do it, not because we feel the other person will give up, or fall apart if we don’t.  It seems impossible to believe that after 28 years together, we are happier than we have ever been. We laugh, as we always have done. After all, having fun has always been the glue that has held us together, sometimes one of the few things. Now, enjoying each other’s company is more like fruit on our tree of marriage. A strong tree with roots of trust and commitment, a trunk of love and devotion, and branches of respect, loyalty and friendship, The fruits have developed over the years and have ripened for such a time as this. They are children, grandchildren, joy, fun and companionship. I don’t have to support this tree, like I always thought, I only have to water it daily and enjoy it for the beauty, shelter and comfort it provides.