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Farewell To Joe

Date: August 2, 2010  Author: Andrea Merriman

I have to take a break from the unexpected life, single scene, dating, dances, and men to pay homage to an important member of my family I’ve never written about.

Joe.

Our dog.

A gigantic white lab (more like a miniature horse) with the best looking dog face I’ve ever seen. In fact, when my oldest son saw the movie “Marley and Me” his only comment was that our dog was much better looking than the movie’s star! Our canine star, however, hated water, was afraid of a lot of things, but tried to protect us by barking a fierce bark (yet gave himself away with a tail that never quit wagging.) He LOVED all people!

When our world fell apart in 2009, and our unexpected life began, believe it or not, in addition to all of the worries I was trying to balance, I was worried about our dog. I didn’t know where we would be living (much less if our living situation would be conducive to a dog), I didn’t know what we’d be eating (much less if we’d be able to afford dog food) and I knew we really couldn’t afford a dog, but I just felt I had to do everything in my power to allow my children to keep their pet. They were losing everything else and as crazy as it may sound to some, I hoped and prayed, for my children’s sake, that they wouldn’t have to lose their dog too!

We were blessed to end up in a home in Utah with a fenced backyard. So my children kept their dog for awhile. And then Joe developed a health condition that had no guaranteed fix. Our only choice was to free him from the extreme pain he was in. And as the only adult in my little family, it fell to me to take him to the veterinary clinic that final time.

I have always dreaded a moment like that.

Just when I thought we were healed, we had to lose our Marley.

In the terrible moments of 2009, in the height of my despair and when there was nothing I could do but endure my pain, sometimes I just had to get away from my life. A couple of times, when it was THAT bad, I jumped in the car and drove the country roads near my old neighborhood. Sometimes I simply had to get away from the stranger I had allowed to remain in my home, quickly, and so late at night I’d go outside to be alone.

I’d sit outside in the pitch black dark and mourn my losses. I mourned the end of the only life I had known as an adult. I’d worry myself sick about the future and all that lay ahead. I’d cry. I’d pray. I felt more alone than I imagined it was possible to feel. And then, in the midst of the pain of my grieving (and wallowing in my misery) I’d hear a thump and find a giant white head attached to a wet black nose in my lap. Despite how I felt, another manifestation that I wasn’t alone.

Joe. There for me. In the literal and figurative darkness of my new unexpected life.

That was all I could think about as drove to the clinic and as I sat in the examination room the last few moments of Joe’s life.

My oldest son was with me too. As we sat in the room, he looked at me with tears streaming down his cheeks and told me how Joe had been there for him always, but especially during the terrible events of last year, when my son didn’t know what he was going to do or how our new and unexpected life could be his. He told me how he’d lay on his bedroom floor by Joe and cry. And how Joe had helped him carry on.

Boy, Joe was a busy dog. Especially last year. I’d had no idea all that he had been up to.

Joe was there for me. Joe was there for my oldest son. Joe was there for all of my children when they needed him. And in the end, although I couldn’t be there for him to miraculously save his life (like I felt he deserved after all he’d done for me), my oldest son and I were there for him as he departed.

Sometimes I hate being an adult and having to make adult decisions. But it’s a part of life.

Another unexpected aspect of my farewell to Joe was the thought of another person who flashed across my mind in those final moments. I couldn’t believe it. It will probably make me look psychotic, but this blog is my attempt to share the whole truth and nothing but the truth of my unexpected life. So here goes.

I thought of Him.

Shawn Merriman.

And this is what I thought: “I should hate him for putting me in this position. For making it so I have to endure this, too.”

I couldn’t believe it had been one year and He came to mind. You remember your former spouse at the oddest and most unexpected moments. At least, I did. And then, just as quickly, I pushed that thought out of my mind.

I went into this whole unexpected life determined not to hate and I still feel that way. I believe it’s the right thing to do.

Life. It’s unexpected. There’s nothing better. And yet, there’s nothing more difficult, at times, too.

All I know is that you have to keep looking for the good. You must keep counting your blessings. You have to forgive. You can’t hate. And you must keep pressing forward and carrying on, ideally, with a smile.

I Never Knew

Date: April 7, 2010  Author: Andrea Merriman

“I never knew until that moment how bad it could hurt to lose something you never really had.” (From the television show, The Wonder Years)

In 2009, I lived that line for real.  I felt like the life I thought I had, the life I had lived, had never really been real. I didn’t even trust my memories of my “former life” for a long time; everything seemed so tainted by the crime, the lies, and the betrayal. The pain of losing something I’d never really had hurt more than I imagined.

The spring of 2009 can best be described as the season my heart hurt.  It literally hurt ALL of the time.  It ached all day, every day, every moment, and I didn’t know if it hurt because it was broken or if I was actually physically in trouble due to the stress I lived under! Can healthy women have heart attacks at 41?  I wondered…

Here’s how “optimistic” and hopeful I felt sometimes.  Last April, one year ago, I wrote, “I’m looking at an eternity alone, people hating me the rest of my life, latch-key kids, if you name it and it’s miserable it’s my lot in life! I wonder how will I make it three months, much less the rest of my life? How can one man destroy so much? I deserved better. I deserved more, and so did my children.  His lies stole my life from age 26-41.  The consequences of his lies will steal the rest of my life. Everything looks so black. I never imagined pain like this existed, especially for someone so innocent.”

I spent depressing days packing stuff to move, preparing to leave the home I had brought each of my babies home to, had lived in for 16 years and had always thought it would be the home I’d live in when I was 80 years old.  I cried a lot. I reminisced. I mourned. I felt as if my heart had broken and would never heal.  And when I thought about my kids…I felt grief like I’d never felt before.

But I always pulled it together by the time my kids got home from school.

I had to carry on and keep it together (or at least look like I was keeping it together!) for my kids.  I had to show them what we do when our world falls apart:  we keep living.

My mom taught me that.

When I was 19 and my dad died unexpectedly in an airplane crash, I came home from college for the funeral to a house full of well-meaning neighbors and friends who told me I would not be returning to school because I was needed at home to help my mom and family.  So many told me that I thought my mom had decided that in my absence.  When I asked her if it was true that I wouldn’t be returning to college because my dad died, she was stunned.  And she corrected that mistaken assumption.  ”Absolutely you will be returning to school!  Andrea, you don’t stop living just because something terrible has happened to you!  You keep doing what you need to do, you keep living, you keep smiling even though you don’t feel like it, and some day your smiles will feel real again.”

So I smiled in 1986-1987 when I didn’t feel like it.  And I smiled in 2009 when I REALLY didn’t feel like it too.  They were forced.  They were ‘fake’ in that I didn’t feel them on the inside but I showed them on the outside anyway.  I smiled for the sake of my children.

I remember I was still forcing myself to smile in August 2009.  By then, it killed me that I didn’t mean them. I’d always been a pretty cheerful and positive person and it was hard for me to not feel like myself any more.  I had moments that I wondered if, in addition to losing everything I had known as my life, I had lost myself too.  I remember wondering if I’d ever smile, for real, again.

However, my mom turned out to be right.  As usual.

By October 2009, the smiles were real and the tears were less and less.  Sometime that month I realized I had gone an entire week without crying!  Baby steps forward, but steps forward all the same.  I think that’s one thing 2009 reinforced to me:  it doesn’t matter how fast you move along the path of your unexpected life.  Just as long as you keep moving.  Forward. Pressing on.

Oh, and smiling!

The Price

Date: March 23, 2010  Author: Andrea Merriman

That decision, to allow my spouse to stay in our home, had a price.

It gave me time to ask Him questions.  It gave me time to bring closure to the life I thought I’d had but never really had, knowing what I know now:  the truth.

It gave my children time to be with their father.

It gave us all time to “process” the situation. (Or begin to attempt to.  How do you REALLY ever understand something like that?)

The emotional processing of our situation and beginning to deal with our circumstances for my children and I, meant we allowed ourselves to joke about it or look for the positive, in addition to expressing our grief.  You’ll read jokes we made about our situation and the criminal who put us there in future blogs, I’m sure.  To some, it may seem inappropriate.  But I heard a very wise and inspiring woman named Marjorie Hinckley once say something like, “In life, you can choose to laugh or cry.  I choose to laugh.”  I agree.  It’s how I was raised–it’s what my mom taught me as she lived her unexpected life.  So I choose to laugh as often as I can muster the jokes, and my children do too.

For example, that first night, after telling our children of the situation, my oldest went into his basement bathroom to brush his teeth before bed and saw a mouse.  He grabbed some toilet paper, picked the mouse up, threw it in the toilet and flushed, and came right upstairs and told me of his experience.  He couldn’t believe it!  YUCK.  I joked, “Well, that is one thing I won’t miss about this house and living in the country when we move–the mice!” He agreed with me, we laughed together, and found a way to look on the bright side.

But at the same time, it was a tough time for us in every way.  Not everyone outside our family understood my decision to let Him stay…or any other decision I made. And I paid a price for that.

For example, some of my oldest and closest friends (from college, who had become like family to me, the friends I vacationed with, the friends I called right after He told me the news) called throughout the first day, March 18, for updates, to check on me, and also with one burning question:  Where is He staying?  I could tell my answer wasn’t what they wanted to hear, so I offered as much explanation and rationale as I could.

When I shared this with another friend (a friend who stood by me through it all, who still stands by me, the friend who gave input as to what should be written into my divorce), seeking her counsel, she said, “Andrea, it’s not anyone’s business but yours.  You don’t have to tell anyone anything.  You don’t have to explain yourself to anyone.” (I quickly learned this friend was right.  But at this point, I hadn’t learned that lesson yet.)

It turns out, the information I offered wasn’t enough.   The college friends then wanted to know WHERE He was sleeping in the house. And when I evaded that question, they had their children text my children and ask the same question!  My daughter innocently offered the private details of our family life to them–which they passed along to one of His victims, which that victim then shared with EVERY victim, and suddenly very private things I had shared with only those closest to me, in strictest confidence, were publicized.

It’s amazing who your true friends are.  And in the worst moments, the largest betrayals, and due to the criminal actions of one, they aren’t always who you think they are.  But those who are your friends are truly golden.  You realize that’s one bonus of the unexpected life.

Thoughts From THE Drive

Date: March 10, 2010  Author: Andrea Merriman

As the miles ticked past, thoughts continued to flood my mind.

In between offering cheerful comments to my children about, “Isn’t it going to be GREAT to live in Utah?  Are you guys as excited as I am to live in Utah?  Think how LUCKY we are to get to move and make new friends!  We are going to have a fabulous new life!” and silently wondering how, beginning the next day, I was ever going to leave my children all day and work full time in another city, and how I was ever going to live through the next 50-60 years, much less ever smile for real again, I marveled at my ability to say one thing and think another!  Must be my public relations expertise and crisis training.  Lol.  (Just kidding, my fellow PR professionals out there!)

As if my heart weren’t broken enough by all that I’d already lived through and had to endure, the giant cherry on the largest ice cream sundae of the grief and devastation that had become my lot in life was knowing I was spending the last day of my life as a “homemaker” (totally ironic–didn’t I just break my home up when I got divorced earlier that day?) and stay-at-home mom driving.  Not the memory I wanted to make the last day before I’d have to leave my two youngest children, for the rest of their lives, to go to work to support my family.  THAT had certainly never been my plan.  I never dreamed I’d be anything but a stay-at-home mom.  But again, I tried not to think about that as I continued to head west.

As a younger woman and younger mother, I’d made this same drive to Utah 6-8 times each year to stay in touch with family.  As my children had gotten older and their schedules had gotten busier, I’d driven it less.  And suddenly, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d made the drive alone.  And then it hit me.

It was the day my mom died.

In that moment I decided I HATED the drive from Denver, Colorado, to anywhere in Utah.

That day had started out like any other.  Get up early, exercise, nurse the baby, get the other kids off to school, straighten the house, return phone calls, take care of the business of the day, etc…Oh yes, and that day I was supposed to host a church function for 20-30 girls and their mothers for Mother’s Day (totally ironic, now that I think about it) so I was gathering decorations and items needed for that night, and making desserts.

And then my brother called.  Totally unexpectedly.  His words changed the course of that day.  The ensuing events changed the rest of my life.

“They found mom this morning, unresponsive.  They think she’s had a massive stroke,” he said.

“What?  I should come right away!  Let me gather my stuff, I’ll jump in the car and come there,” I offered.

“Lets not jump to any conclusions.  Why don’t we wait and see what the MRI shows,” he said.

Relief flooded my soul.  That didn’t sound as serious.  Thank goodness, because my baby had the stomach flu.  It would take me HOURS to make the drive to Utah, by myself, with a sick baby.  So like an idiot, I continued to complete my tasks for that night and actually took the time to finish baking the desserts and called a good friend to substitute for me and take over the hostessing duties of the evening. (And in my defense, it is how my parents raised me to be.  Serve others, go the extra mile, NEVER drop the ball on anything you have committed to do.)

A few hours later, the baby was still throwing up and the phone was ringing.  It was my brother calling again.  He was crying.

“The MRI shows a massive stroke.  They’ve given mom 24-48 hours to live.  How fast can you got here?”

Eight hours to drive.

More proof I really must be the Queen of Denial:  I didn’t even pack a dress for a funeral.  What was I thinking?  That’s right, I wasn’t thinking.  I threw some stuff in a suitcase, pulled my 5th grade daughter out of school to tend the baby as he threw up so I could keep driving, and headed to Utah.

It was an eight hour drive.

Plenty of time to think.

And my brother called every hour or so to ask if I was almost there.  My mom was fading fast.  All of my siblings were together, holding her hand and saying goodbye.  I was alone.  Driving to Utah.

About three hours into the trip I had an experience that was unusual enough I noted what I felt and the time I felt it.  I didn’t have cell service at that moment, but as soon as I did, I got another phone call from my brother.  He managed to choke out, “She died.”  And somehow I managed to not crash but to keep driving through my grief.  (Little did I know how expert I was to become in that over time.)  And sure enough, I  knew the moment in time my mom had died.  I had felt it.

She hadn’t made it eight hours.  So I cried and I drove.  I drove and I cried.  Maybe I should have appreciated it more. Because the next time I made the drive, in 2009, I wouldn’t have the luxury of tears.

Keep driving, Andrea.