Living Happily Ever After
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That’s How We Learn

Date: November 16, 2010  Author: Andrea Merriman

“I grew up with six brothers. That’s how I learned to dance – waiting for the bathroom.” (Bob Hope)

I can relate, although I learned to dance in the kitchen watching my parents cha-cha before breakfast and taking a spin when my mom needed to stir something.

But that is the grand adventure of life, isn’t it?

Learning the most unexpected lessons at the most unexpected times and from the most unexpected places.

I learned honesty as a child, but learned, again, how committed I was to it when government agents were coming to my home to seize everything of value and I knew the contents of my jewelry box. It would have been so easy to take something I could sell to feed, clothe or shelter my children and none would be the wiser. Except me. And that was the problem.

So I didn’t do it, although I’d be lying if I said the thought hadn’t crossed my mind. It absolutely did. When you’re left alone, financially devastated, and have four children to provide for, it’s amazing how desperate that situation can make you feel. However, I’ve never been one to sell my soul for “things” and even when the stakes were so high in my eyes, I learned I still wasn’t going to. I learned for myself I wasn’t going to break down and be dishonest after living a life of complete honesty just because my spouse had. I learned I’d rather starve or be forced to rely upon the charity of others than to choose to steal or sell my soul for any “thing.”

In that moment I also learned that as much as we know what is right, and regardless of how much a virtue (like honesty) we possess, we are never absolutely above temptation. At least, I’m imperfect enough not to be.

Life is an endless opportunity to prove ourselves and reprove ourselves and prove ourselves again, even when we think we have something mastered–we get to learn and prove ourselves in an entirely new, and unexpected, way!

Like dance. I graduated from high school and dancing in the kitchen to college, social dance class, and returning home for New Year’s Eve 1985 to cha-cha with my dad, one last time, but in public, at a dance. Later I added clogging, BYU Folk Dancers and Irish dance to the resume of my experience. And eventually, a dance class with Bachelor #5. He keeps inviting me to country/western dance, so that may be next on our list. But wherever our lesson, and our life lessons take us, this I know:

That’s how we learn. And we’re learning all the time. The tombstone will be our diploma, said Eartha Kitt.

“Be a student so long as you still have something to learn, and this will mean all your life.” (Henry L. Doherty)

Especially in the unexpected one.

I Didn’t Even Debate It

Date: September 21, 2010  Author: Andrea Merriman

While we were waiting for the ring…

“I told my therapist I was having nightmares about nuclear explosions. He said don’t worry it’s not the end of the world.” (Jay London)

I have a friend who’s a therapist. He can’t be my “official” therapist due to a conflict of interest because of our friendship, but he makes a fabulous friend. He is always there with brilliant counsel, and I would think twice about ever disregarding his friendly advice. In fact, if I’ve never told him, I don’t know what I would have done without him on March 18, 2009.

My world had fallen apart and the question of the day from everyone–my husband, his attorney, the government, my church leaders, my friends, my family, my children, EVERYONE–was, “What are you going to do?” Unfortunately, I didn’t have a clue.

I don’t remember if he called me or I called him, but my conversation with him was one of the most important and valuable that day. When he asked, ‘Andrea, what are you going to do?” I replied, “I don’t know. All I know is that I want to do what is best for my children. And it seems to be…” I shared my thoughts with him.

Doing what I felt was best for my children was my #1 goal in the whole unexpected life thing. They had their whole lives ahead of them; and as much as it broke my heart to acknowledge it, I’d had my chance. Regardless of their adversity, they still had lives to live. They needed to learn, grow, overcome, accomplish, and LIVE. It was my responsibility to help them do that.

It’s what my mom had done for me when I was growing up and our family was tried and tested in the adversity of losing our father, lifestyle, life and everything as we’d known it. (Although not to the extent my children lost theirs.) It’s what her mom had done for her when their family was tried and tested in the adversity of losing their father, lifestyle, life and everything as they’d known it. And I knew I owed my children the same thing.

My mother, and her example of rising above adversity and carrying on, and that she taught me to do that, had made all of the difference in my life. When my unexpected life hit, I knew exactly how to act and what to do–to carry on–because she had taught me that.

My friend, the therapist, responded with something that helped me continue the path I had chosen. It set an important course for my unexpected life when he said, “Andrea, if only every woman, every parent, in trauma, adversity, marital stress, divorce, and every other hard thing that comes in life did that, their children would be so much better off! There would be a lot more healthy, happy children in the world.”

So as we’ve lived our unexpected life, I’ve tried to focus on helping my children overcome and be what they should be regardless of the challenging circumstances we’ve found ourselves in. And as I see my children healing and finding happiness and joy again, I believe time has proved my decision to be the right one. After all, it’s not what happens to you, really, that counts. It’s what you do with it. The most important thing to me is that my children grow to become good, kind, responsible, law abiding citizens who contribute to the good of the world. And it’s possible to do that regardless of the obstacles in your path. That’s why I chose to put my children first. It was my therapist friend who backed me up in that decision, too.

So, one of the first people I called after reaching my decision to remarry was this friend.

He’d already met Bachelor #5 (that was prerequisite to me making my decision), and when I asked him what I should do next he recommended premarital counseling. He gave me the name of a therapist he knew who specialized in remarriage and I didn’t even debate it. I called and booked an appointment.

Three Weeks Later

Date: May 18, 2010  Author: Andrea Merriman

In my new life in Utah, I commute to work. The entire drive I am fortunate to have beautiful, jagged rocky mountains to look at. Last year, my commute was my time to have a few minutes of silence every day–I couldn’t listen to the radio because most of the songs made me cry. And at that time, not crying when I was alone was hard enough, I didn’t need any extra help! lol. In 2009, my commute was also my time to try NOT to think about what had become my life.

Three weeks into my new life in Utah, I read a story about a pioneer man who lost his wife coming across the plains. He buried her, and by that night had also lost his infant son. He walked back to his wife’s grave, dug her up and buried the baby with her, and then returned to the wagon train he was traveling with. He quit writing in his journal for awhile, but when he picked up again, he wrote only, “Still Walking.”

That’s how I felt.

I didn’t have the time, energy, or opportunity to write about my life. I was hardly able to face what had become of my life. I wasn’t sure why it was my new life. I struggled with my new life. And because I’d been taught “if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all,” I didn’t say anything. I was so overwhelmed, I didn’t have the time to write anyway.

If I had written, I would have recorded that in the beginning of my new life as a single mother, I HATED leaving my children and going to work each day. I was filled with grief for the many things I had lost and for what my innocent children had been put through. It took all of my will to get up every day and go to work, come home, and do everything for the family.

I also had a moment or two, I admit, of thinking (while I commuted) “If this is the rest of my life, if THIS is what I have to look forward to for the next 40-60 years, I don’t think I want it.” Sometimes my optimism was…not optimism! As I drove, my mental “wallowing” was equivalent to a pig stuck in muck in the barnyard. I knew it. I didn’t want to be that, but sometimes I just couldn’t help myself. In the beginning, I couldn’t imagine ever healing, ever feeling “whole” again or ever being o.k. with any part of my life. I just felt like I had to live my new life and give the appearance that things were good and I was happy for the sake of my children.

I think, or at least I hope, that most of those feelings I wallowed in were normal. In my experience, it was part of the process of healing and overcoming. The trick, though, is to not allow yourself to get stuck in the “mental muck” for too long; to not allow yourself to wallow too deep. Because, “They say that time changes things, but you actually have to change them yourself.” (Andy Warhol)

He’s right.

So I hoped for better days ahead. I didn’t know how long it would take them to arrive, but I knew I had to hang on until they did. I had to hope that, as my mom used to say, “this too, shall pass.” I had to hope that I would feel comfort and peace, that I would be able to carry on just one more day. I had to hope that I’d be able to have fun with my children again. (We’d all grieved so much, I felt we needed FUN! I knew I needed to set a good example of fun for my children, I just felt so heavy in my heart I didn’t know how I would be able to do that, too.)

And in addition to hope, I had to do what I could to look for the good and count the blessings I still had. I had to work to create a life I could be happy with and I had to let go of the old one. There was still a good life to be lived. A very different life from the life I’d had or imagined as my future, but it was still good.

“Difficult times have helped me understand better than before how infinitely rich and beautiful life is in every way, and that so many things that one goes worrying about are of no importance whatsoever.” (Isak Dinesen)

Somewhere along I-15, and with time, by the fall of 2009 I noticed I was crying less and then eventually not crying at all. There isn’t a lot to cry about anymore. In fact, there may not be anything left to cry about. I can’t remember the last time I cried.

My mom was right. Again.

Things DO pass. Time DOES heal. You just have to let things and time work their magic. And you have to use the things you are “blessed” with, to make you a better person than you would otherwise have been. Difficult times have helped me realize that, again, and so much more.

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The Last Day of My Old Life

Date: March 17, 2010  Author: Andrea Merriman

March 17, 2010.  Today.

Today I can’t help but remember the last day of my old life.  March 17, 2009.  What a difference one year, even ONE DAY, makes.

Last year at this time my biggest concern was making sure everyone wore green!  I remember sending my middle son off to school, at his insistence, in a glittery green leprechaun-looking top hat, shamrock sunglasses, green beads, a green shirt, and sparkly green boxers over his clothes; shaking my head at his appearance as he climbed the steps of the school bus.  I remember making sure my three-year-old wore a green “cowboy” shirt to his riding lesson.  I made sure I served green food at dinner.  Oh, and I took pictures.  Unknowingly, I documented much of the last day of my family’s life.

However, we didn’t eat dinner as a family that night; it was just the kids and I.  Unusual, now that I think about it.  My spouse had a meeting with a church leader, at the church leader’s request (he told me), during dinnertime. When he got home from his meeting, it was a low key family night the rest of the evening.  Everything was normal.  We even watched American Idol, family-style, that night–as usual.  We all went to bed and slept.

It was the last night I slept.

I wonder, now, how one member of our family lived that day like everything was normal, posed for a photo, and watched tv with us like nothing unusual was about to happen?  Like he wasn’t about to deal our family the biggest destructive blow anyone had ever not imagined?  And how he dealt us a hand of cards he had stacked and shuffled without ever informing us of the game he was playing.

I’d never been much of a card player.  But thank goodness my mom was.  She wasn’t around March 17, 2009, but she had taught me to play any hand I was dealt.  She had prepared me.

A terrible hand was looming, and I didn’t even know it.  I think life has, perhaps, the best “poker face” of all.  According to Voltaire, “Each player must accept the cards life deals him or her; but once they are in hand, he or she alone must decide how to play the cards in order to win the game.”  It was up to me to play the game and win.

Get ready for March 18, Andrea.

The game of your life, for your life and the lives of your children, is about to begin.

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.

Divorced–And $1 More!

Date: March 8, 2010  Author: Andrea Merriman

July 13, 2009, was a day I never expected to live.  Here’s what happened.

I got up in the morning, got ready (I remember I wore a skirt), drove to a courthouse in Arapahoe County, Colorado, with my then-spouse, chatting and making small talk as we drove. And then we got divorced.  An alien experience in the great expectations I’d always had for my life.

Getting divorced itself, in my opinion, was not like it’s depicted in the movies.  I expected a huge, empty court room, with just a judge, myself, and my spouse, but that isn’t what I got.  I got a tiny courtroom (seems like it was the size of a large master bedroom), 8-10 strangers observing my proceeding and hearing my private business, and a magistrate signing the paperwork.  And where were the attorneys that were always present in divorce?  Oh. That’s right.  I didn’t have a dime and neither did my former spouse.  We couldn’t afford attorneys.  (I had paid a family lawyer for unbundled services and basically wrote my divorce myself, with her help, input from my friend Holly, and the aid of life experience from what I’d observed my divorcing friends go through.  All 2 of my friends who’d divorced.  Obviously, my experience with divorce was pretty limited!)

I had the opportunity to hear the private business of the parties who went before my turn came.  If I could have been ANYWHERE else, I would have been.  But since I had to be there, I tried to not hear what was going on.  I tried not to think.

When my turn came, I stepped to the table and spoke into the microphone.  While I had done everything required, my former spouse had not taken care of details he was supposed to have and the magistrate did not look kindly upon him.  I was granted everything I asked for…and $1 more!

You see, due to the choices of my former spouse, there was no way I would get any financial support of any kind.  I wouldn’t even have asked for any, but legally he has to pay something, so the court assigned him minimum wage (even though he was not employed and didn’t anticipate that he would be for quite some time) and stipulated he should pay me $563 each month to support our four children.  (HA!  Not that he’d be able to pay me, but my health insurance is $400/month!  My daycare and preschool is close to $600/month!  My car insurance, for a teenage driver, is $300! $563 doesn’t even cover our food! But whatever makes everyone else feel better about the situation…I’ve know I’ve gotten shafted financially, and every other possible way, but who’s complaining:)

Back to the divorce proceeding.  The magistrate noted I had been a stay-at-home mom and homemaker for almost our entire 20 year marriage and asked if I was requesting maintenance from my former spouse.  When I wasn’t, she added $1 to the amount of child support for MY maintenance, signed the papers, and I was divorced.  As quickly as that.

Divorced and $1 more!

We walked to the car, got in, and drove “home.” I don’t know about him, but I was trying not to think about what had just happened and the reasons for it.  I had other events to get through that day.

When we arrived home, we hauled my suitcases out and loaded them in my new (to me) 2005 Subaru Outback station wagon.  We loaded our two dogs (Joe, a 100 pound yellow lab and Ella, a 25 pound cocker spaniel) into their crates and into the Subaru.  I put my two youngest children, my 9 year old and my 3 year old in the car, ignored the staring neighbors, and drove off without a backward glance.

I wish I could say I drove off into the sunset.  But that isn’t what happened.  That isn’t where I was headed.  Call me the Queen of Denial, but at that moment, I couldn’t look back on any part of my previous life or I’d never be able to move forward.  I drove out of my Colorado neighborhood for the last time, heading to Utah, acting like I was going on a quick roadtrip–NOT starting an entirely new life in a new state as a single mother who works full time, the sole emotional/physical/financial support of 4 children!

I didn’t take one last walk through the home that had been mine for 16 years.  I didn’t walk my yard, look at my flowers, or “say goodbye” to any part of my home, property or old life.  I knew I would never be able to move on if I allowed myself to look back, even one little moment or at one tiny little thing.

Because I had never felt more inadequate for any task in my life.  I knew I had an emotional marathon ahead of me of unimagineable proportions.  Had I really been trained for it?  Was I really prepared?  It certainly wasn’t an exercise I’d ever planned on or expected.  I hoped I was up to the race of my life.  My childrens’ futures, and mine, hung in the balance.