My Friend Loves My Wife

How people react and approach Marty in her wheel chair means something to me, in fact, it means a lot.  I may place too much emphasis on how friends and strangers treat Marty but if they are afraid, if they are reluctant to greet her or touch her or speak to her I make value judgments.

I don’t know if that’s fair or not, it just is.  It’s a big reason why I trusted son-in-law Lyle when we first met him.  He was not afraid, he did not stand back, he greeted Marty, he kissed her cheek, and he treated Marty like his girlfriend’s mother.  It went a long way with his girlfriend’s father.

I have a lifelong friend who has been my friend, roommate, teammate, counselor and friend for over 50 years.  Like any long term friend ship after we graduated from college and got married we kind of drifted apart, talking from time to time but going years between conversations.  

He is my best friend and he has known Marty since the beginning of Marty and Marty’sHusband.  He knows Marty from when she was the old Marty and now he knows the new Marty.  Post strokes and post his own heart attack Skip became a fairly regular visitor to our homes.  It was a fantastic renewal; his was a very welcome face to both Marty and me. 

 

Skip and I talk, about everything.  You know the kind of friend, the kind of friend where you can tell your deepest darkest ugliest stuff and they still love you, for me, that’s Skip.  Early on Skip confessed to me that it was hard for him to see Marty in her current state, he was unsure of himself with his old friend.  

He just didn’t know how to “be” with the new Marty and he really missed the old Marty, the sharp as a tack Marty, the killer wit Marty, the totally unpredictable Marty.  He didn’t know what to do with his sadness at the loss of the old Marty and he didn’t know how to act with the new Marty.

Things change with familiarity.  Skip has been with Marty a lot over the last couple of years.  He has sat down with her for meals, he has sat on the edge of her bed, he has celebrated birthdays with her, he has talked to Marty, he has hugged Marty, he has come to know Marty as she is today.

This last birthday I took Marty out for her favorite meal at a local haunt in Waco, chicken fried steak.  Skip came up and went with Marty, Nykkie and me for dinner.  Nykkie needed to drive her car home so Skip rode with Marty and me in our van.  

After we parked I let Marty, in her wheelchair, down from the van and had to go park the van because all of the handicapped spots were filled.  Without Nykkie I watched as my old best friend wheel my very best wife up to the door of the restaurant.   He didn’t ask, he didn’t hesitate he just did. 

It sounds small, it sounds insignificant and maybe it is for some, it’s not to me.  The guy who once confessed his uneasiness with Marty’s new persona was pushing her out of the heat, no questions, no pause, just lending an appropriate hand.  

When we got home ahead of Nykkie, our trusted care giver, I once again got up in the van, unhooked the wheelchair anchors and let Marty down.  Once again, Skip took Marty in her wheelchair and rolled her out of the sun, out of the heat to the garage door.  He struggled a bit getting the wheelchair over the threshold, the same threshold we all struggle with from time to time, but he put his foot on the back of the chair, kicked it back and rolled Marty into her room.  My old friend had become a hand.

Skip loved Marty, he loved that she was smart, he loved that she was funny, he loved that she had spice.  Like me with Skip, like me with Marty, there is a deep and abiding shared history which brings us close.  That shared history, that inevitable closeness surrounds and suffocates the discomfort with the broken Marty.  There is too much history to forget who she really is.

 

Skip loves Marty today.  He sees past the brokenness to the person she was and is.  Skip kisses her cheek, he sits on her bed beside her and laughs and talks with her and always wants me to tell her hello as we say goodbye from a phone conversation.

It makes me love my friend even more.

40 Years of Patricks

He was sitting on a rock just off Hwy 434 in New Mexico.  He could see Blacks Lake from his perch as he tried to get cell phone reception to call AAA to come unstrand him and his mini-van.

We traveled to New Mexico several times with the Patrick’s, friends with children, friends with children our age, friends we had come to know through various circumstances.

Pete and I would take the kids on the 60 minute trek through the canyons of New Mexico to ski at Angel Fire or Sipapu.  They had three, we had two and as I remember it we had a couple of spares.  Marty and the better half of the Patrick marriage stayed at Marty’s parent’s house and slept, drank coffee, talked about their families and generally enjoyed mountain solitude.

We were about 15 miles from Angel Fire when the Patrick’s van slowed and then stopped on the side of the road.

Pete is career Navy and served on really big boats and has wonderful stories and is never frazzled.  He took the break down in stride even though we were clearly in the wilds of New Mexico with no passing traffic and only a passable knowledge of the area.  

Pete had been through naval SERE (survival, evasion, resistance and escape) training, I assumed he could handle being stranded and I could supervise the gaggle of adolescents skiing.  I’m not sure who got the best end of that deal.

We piled the gaggle of teenagers into our periwinkle blue Expedition, affectionately called the whale, and we waved at Pete, sitting on his rock raising his analogue cell phone in the air trying to find reception.

When I got closer to Angel Fire the mystical waves that drift in and out to connect to your cell phone became more frequent and I called Marty and Sue and told them of Pete’s plight and how sad he looked sitting alone on his rock.  They grumbled a bit but agreed to pile into our last vehicle to check on Pete.

I skied with the kids, trying every now and then to touch base with Sue, Marty or Pete the Naval aviator who was ground bound.  We eventually finished the day on the snow and loaded up once again to make our haul back to Penderies and the house.

As it turns out Pete did get a cell signal and called AAA who managed to find him and the Patrick mini-van.  They picked Pete and the van up before Sue and Marty could make their way through the canyons to the site of the stranding.

As a Navy wife Sue has tracked down Pete all over the world as he did his tours.  As an ex-Navy wife Sue started her hunt for Pete.  Sue and Marty tracked him and the broken van to Taos, a wonderful New Mexico city some 60 miles from where Pete sat on his rock.

When Marty and Sue got to Taos they found the van but no Pete.  Sue, undaunted and knowing her Pete asked where the nearest casino was.  Pete was a found dude sitting at a table, chilling and gambling.  

We eventually all made it back to Penderies, me with the kids and skis, Marty with Sue and Pete with his now repaired van.  Pete and I sat on the back deck that night in the cold mountain air and smoked his cigars and I marveled just a bit at the joining of Pete and Sue and how well they knew each other.

As it turns out, these friends of ours are celebrating 40 years of marriage today.  They are true and faithful partners and have made a family that is getting bigger as the children we watched grow became adults, married and are having children of their own.  Marty and I have always felt privileged to be a part of that family.

It’s this family, the product of those 40 years, that we skied with, that we sat in church with, that we ate meals with, that we could always count on, even when Marty had the strokes.

It was Sue and one of her friends who came to our house and helped clean it after Marty’s first stroke.  It was Sue I called to meet Marty at rehab when we finally made it to rehab in Waco.  

It was Pete and Sue I sat with one afternoon not long after we came home after the 2^nd stroke when I was filled with so much doubt and fear and I wasn’t sure if I could do this, if I could really care for Marty.  It was Pete and Sue who looked at me and said they would support me and be there for me whatever happened. 

It was their youngest son who reached out to us and invited us to his very small wedding; it was their family that allowed us to be our “new us” for this very special occasion.  

It was their daughter who came to our house to tell us she was pregnant with their first; it was their daughter who still sends us birthday cards and mother and father’s day cards every year.  

It was their middle son who came to see Marty and sit with her despite how hard it was for him.  It was Pete who called and called to get me to play golf and get me out the house.  

It was this family, Pete and Sue started 40 years ago, that has made our life so much better. 

Happy anniversary my friends.

It's Really Been 39 Years

In about two weeks I am heading to the hinter lands of west Texas for my high school reunion celebrating 39 years since graduation from dear old Colorado City High. I know 39 years has absolutely no symmetry to it; nothing like 25, 30 or 40 years. I think the oddity of it fits my somewhat out of sync graduating class and people of our particular birth year where everything we did and experienced was just a tick off center.


Marty and I were both born in ’54, dead in the middle of the baby boomer generation. We graduated from different Texas high schools in 1972 and we have always believed our classes were a kind of bridge between eras.

We were too young to be a real part of the upheaval of the 60’s, the civil rights demonstrations, the antiwar protests, Chicago, Watts and Woodstock. On the other hand we were much too close to the 60’s and we wanted to be counter culture enough to eschew the yuppie, disco crowd (thank God). It seems we don’t really have an era, unless it would be the era of being on the cusp.

Musically we bridged the psychedelic era, progressive country and bubble gum. The Beatles had broken up, Waylon and Willie were just being found, the Archies were the leaders of bubble gum and the Bee Gees were just way too, well they were just way too. In 1972 we had “American Pie”, “Nights in White Satin”, “Ben” and “Puppy Love”. No wonder we are all a bit schizophrenic.

Politically we were awash in sea of chaos and confusion. Our older brothers and sisters railed against the war and the draft or railed against those railing against it. In 1973, our first year in college, President Richard M Nixon stopped the draft. We lost that particular freak flag before we could really fly it. In that my lottery number was 24 I was thrilled to lose this marching issue. I’m embarrassed to say I cast my first presidential ballot in a very self-serving manner and helped elect a felon.

In spite of our somewhat confused era, or lack thereof, our classes soldiered on through life. We participated in and were the recipients of great change morally and socially. Women gained, freedom of expression expanded, lives became more chaotic, jobs offered less security and nothing was static.

Our era, that thing that defines you as a special generation, is simply the era of change, an era of radical, amazing, frightening change. Maybe that’s why having reunions every so often instead of 10 years suits my class just fine because we have always been a bit off center. I know I look forward to the every so often years to reconnect with those who have this era in common.

For me this reunion will be different because of Marty. She always enjoyed going to my class reunions. Over the years she become acquainted with many parts of my history and really enjoyed these trips treating them as a type of psychological archeology. A lot of my old class mates know Marty and have enjoyed her quick wit, humor and ability to keep me ever so humble.

Alas, I don’t think she will make this reunion. It would be just too hard for her and for me too. It makes me a little sad and a lot nervous to be facing all of those memories alone. When you have been together as long as we have, being alone, going solo, makes you feel like a part of you is missing, like maybe you aren’t completely dressed or your zipper is constantly down, you just feel a little out-of-sync, a tick off center; sounds about right for a 39 year reunion.

I'm Sorry

Marty has always been fiercely loyal to her family and to her friends. Right or wrong she was on your side. Now, if you were wrong in her view, she would tell you, often in very straight words, but she would stand beside you, protect you, and support you, even when others might fall away, Marty stayed. She hated, got emotionally agitated, and at times over reacted when her friends or family were mistreated.

Her strokes have pretty well burned out a lot of the fire and emotion in Marty. She doesn’t get righteously indignant any more. She doesn’t have the same fiery anger or impatience with incompetence she once did. She still recognizes injustice; she still supports her family and friends, she just doesn't swing from the rafters about it anymore. She is much more succinct, and in her brevity and simplicity is just as eloquent, wise and powerful in her support.

I talked to a friend of ours yesterday. This friend has known Marty for years and I have got to know them since Marty’s illness. They are one of the people who make our life better. This friend adds quality and security to our life, this is one of the people who knew Marty as she was, sees her as she is now and embraces her and helps her be stronger and healthier. It’s a friend who, because of she is and because she does what she does, makes the life of a stroke patient and her husband just a tad bit easier.

In our phone conversation yesterday this friend laid out what had been happening in their life recently. They had been mistreated in a way that anyone who heard the circumstances would find awful. They had trusted and had their trust misused, they had reached out and offered part of themselves and essentially been repudiated for their vulnerability. It’s simply sad to see a friend treated so shabbily. I listened to the story intently, commiserated and sympathized and largely felt inadequate to offer solace to our friend. We hung up.

Marty, as she often does when I get off the phone, said, “What?” It’s her way of saying, "Tell me about it stud" (Loved that line in Grease).

I related what had transpired with our friend and Marty summarized her opinion in one word, “Boo.” I don’t think I have to interpret, but for Marty, who often communicates in one word soliloquies “boo” is a supreme sign of disapproval. I confessed how ineffective I thought I was at sympathizing and offering solace in situations such as this and I asked her what she thought was the best way to help someone.

Again, succinct and unfailingly straight, she said simply, “Say, I’m sorry.”

How right she is. This is not “I’m sorry” because I did something I regret. This is not the “I’m sorry” throw off line to stop the conversation and move on to something more comfortable. This is not commiserating about how you know how someone feels, because you never do unless they tell you. This is plainly and simply telling someone you care, that you wish life had not taken them in this direction, that you are sorry they must experience this type of pain from life.

It’s simple, it’s clean, it’s meaningful, and it’s sincere. Marty always knew how to be a friend; she always knew how to care. She spent years teaching me how to be a better husband, father and friend; and she is still my best guide and advisor.

To our friend, please know, we are sorry.