Sunday, May 27, 2007

• This Was The Week That Was

  Oh, Gods, where to START?

  I am currently in a Drury Inn in..uhm...Atlanta, I think. It's 6:30. I'm having random insomnia, typical of Lizard. I think that my inability to feel emotions consciously means my body expresses them subconsciously. And emotion is sort of the running theme of this past 1-week plus.

  Let's begin with a week ago Friday, shall we?

  Part of the plan for Beth and I getting back together was to not do the whole "Awww, we lurve each other again, let's get remarried and forget anything bad ever happened" dance. So we decided to do what should have been done two years ago and get some counselling, guidance, and work on our relationship. Beth found an organization/program called Retrouvaille which is run by the Catholic church (mostly -- there are some non-Catholic sponsors, as it turns out) and which has been going for 30 years. I agreed. I also, of course, did some net research, and didn't find many criticisms. The worst I could find was "They didn't force my wife to come when she didn't want to", and a fair number of people who said, simply, "Didn't work for us". They report an 85% success rate, which is probably close to accurate. 

  When we arrived there Friday, Beth joked that "The first rule of Retrouvaille is, you don't talk about Retrouvaille." This turns out to be rather something of the case. Obviously, we didn't sign an NDA or otherwise agree to anything, but the people running the program did ask that we not go into a lot of details about precisely what goes on, and I am going to respect that. I can, at least, say what doesn't go on...

  It's not 'group therapy' or 'group encounters' or anything. We were encouraged to chat with other couples at lunch, but anything involving emotions and relationships is single couples only. 

  We didn't take our clothes off. (Well, I mean, as part of the program. We got undressed for showers and stuff.)

  There were no stupid "trust excercises", fire walking, crystal gazing, or other newage (rhymes with sewage) psychobabble nonsense. 

  Despite it being run by the Catholics, we were not told that GAWD is the secret to a happy marriage and that you need to pray a lot if you want your marriage to succeed.

  It's not a scam where you're asked to pony up endless amounts of cash for ongoing and perennial therapy until you're an Operant Thetan or whatnot. There was a fee of 150 for food and to show you're serious, and a requested donation for more to cover the other expenses of the program, but the latter is not required and I suspect they would waive the former if you pleaded serious penury. This covers two nights at a nice hotel and five good meals (for two), as well as 6 (and only 6) follow-up sessions which are one-day affairs (no overnighting).  

  So, what was it? Well, without going into specific details, it consisted of a series of presentations by couples who had gone through the program (and who were very open about the things which had caused their marriages to collapse), and then exercises for the rest of us (about 35 couples were in attendance) based on the presentations. The program is designed to get people to discuss feelings and emotions in ways that make them clear to their partners, and force conversation on topics which might have been avoided or ignored. Since I tend to have a lot of problems acknowledging -- or even experiencing -- my emotions, this was understandably difficult for me. I had to do a lot of introspection and self-examination and then clearly communicate what I'd figured out. The program is a sort of a marriage boot camp, short and intense, and designed to keep participants totally focused on the program -- there is very little free or unscheduled time. I hate to wallow in feel-good cliche, but I did learn a lot about myself, or, more technically, I learned to see some of the reasons for some of my behavior patterns. (And, no, it wasn't because I got recovered memories of childhood trauma or anything like that, it's just being forced to really think about what I do and why made me fit together pieces in a way I never had before.)

  I think the program worked well for Beth and I because it very much fit the kind of people we are and the way we tend to approach the world. I don't know how well it would work for others. 

  Short Shameful Confession Time: I was...not hoping, really, but sort of expecting...some more Public Angst. I mean, you'd think that 35 couples with serious marital strife all gathered together would have at least ONE spectacular public flameup, but everyone was very polite and well mannered. Even the obvious rednecks. (Who wears a t-shirt covered with sparkly rhinestones to a marriage counseling program?)

  So, I had all of that on my mind when I finally stumbled home Sunday and found several frantic phone calls from my Mother (this is not, in itself, unusual or particularly troubling, as my Mother lives in a world which veers from crisis to crisis), informing me that my grandfather had suffered a third stroke, a fairly severe one, leaving him mostly unable to talk and unwilling to eat. Without much sense of how long he might have left, I figured I'd better make plans to go see him. I was trying to figure out if I could manage it in two weeks or more, but Beth suggested just heading straight down there the next day, which would be Tuesday. So, we did, piling up the vehicle with all the necessities of life (Doritos, skittles, soda, filk) and heading off to sunny lower hell...I mean, Florida, where old Jews go to die and anti-Castro rebels go to stand and shake their fists in the direction of Cuba. 

  The drive down was a bit of a hellride, made more so by the fact Yahoo maps eliminated a crucial step, causing us to venture into Alabama, a state nearly as scary as Utah. (Beth and I pondered what the road sign symbol for 'Turn Here To Be Indecently Assaulted By Rednecks' might be.) We lost about 2.5 hours of travel time cutting back over to Atlanta, and finally made it to southern Florida.

  (Remainder written at home, several hours after the earlier portion)
  

  The next few days will live forever in the annals of “Lizard resists the urge to throttle someone”, namely, my Mother, who is exceeding herself in finding ways to be annoying. Beth ought to convert to Catholicism so she can qualify for Sainthood in dealing with her. She seeks validation by “doing things” for people, even if they don’t want anything done, and she has this horrible kicked puppy dog look whenever she’s told that, No, we DON’T want whatever random bit of clutter has caught her eye or that we don’t need the heat raised…or lowered…or that if we want something from the fridge we are perfectly capable of opening the door ourselves and looking within, we do not need each and every item offered to us be name, thank you very much, bugger off now. When Beth and I were trying to have lunch, she kept promising to go into the other room and lie down, but she kept finding some excuse to come wander into the kitchen to pester us. Did she actually want to just sit the goddamn smeg down and eat with us? Oh no, no, she wasn’t hungry and besides we needed some alone time… 

  It’s like she thinks that, somewhere, there’s some magic thing she can do which will make people like her, and she will try everything she can think of, blissfully unaware that all she’s doing is driving people away. One of the reasons I truly feel sorry for my Grandfather is that he can’t escape her “care”.

  Speaking of which… 

  My Grandfather, as of two years ago, was a vital, strong, conscious man, actually living his life, still learning, still active, as alive as a person of 90 could reasonably hope to be. He lived independently, he had a girlfriend, he participated in many clubs and activities, he was on the Internet regularly, etc. Then he suffered the first of what would be a series of strokes which robbed him of everything but his mind. His latest has left him with extreme difficulties in speech and movement. It is painfully obvious that his brain is still fully functional, but it is trapped in a body which is broken and beyond repair. He has made it clear he has no desire to go on living this way, and he knows there’s no other way he can live, but his body refuses to let go.

  Let there be little doubt here – I went down there to say goodbye. While it’s possible I will see him alive again, I have to say I hope I don’t. This is because I do not have the money or time to make the long journey often. It would be months, at best, before I could go down again – and if he is still alive then, it would mean he’s been trapped in that prison of flesh for those months. I love my Grandfather, and I cannot abide seeing him suffer. 

  My mother, of course, has defined her life as “Caring for my daddy”, so she, alone of the entire family, *does* wish him to keep suffering. She needs him because she has nothing else. She accused myself and my other relatives of “wanting him to die”. This is a cruel half truth. We want him to not suffer – and barring some medical miracle of extraordinarily small probability, the only way he will stop suffering is to stop living. This is a horrible truth to have to face – but it is the truth, and wishing it were otherwise will not make it so. I can say “I do not want him to die”, which is true in and of itself, but the corollary to that is “I want him to suffer.” There’s no third option for him at this point. Life and suffering are, for him, the same thing. If one wishes the latter to end, the former has to go with it.

  I’m glad Beth got a chance to meet my grandfather. He has many virtues I lack utterly – he is kind, loving, compassionate, patient even with those who do not deserve it, and the patriarch of a large, extended, family who love him dearly. I’m a cynical misanthrope who couldn’t name 1 in 10 of my relatives. I did, however, get a large part of my sense of humour from him, and for that, I am grateful. When my Uncle asked him, in all serious earnestness, if there was anything he’d want in his hand – anything he’d want to be holding when he was buried, in other words – my Gramps replied, “My checkbook.” 

  That is my Grandfather, summed up in one brief memory. He shares with me the desire to meet any fate -- even the final one -- with a joke. We will not go gently into that good night -- we will go laughing.

  We shared a lot of memories, actually. They are all he has left. And, even after so many years, we managed to learn new things about him and about family history – such as the fact we’d all misunderstood the origin of his beloved beagle’s name and how it should have been spelled.

  So, goodbyes were said and the return trip began yesterday morning. Beth insisted on staying someplace nice for once, and she picked a Drury Inn, which was not only very nice (Internet, happy hour, smegging whirlpool tub!, fresh waffles for breakfast), it was cheaper than the place we’d stayed in on the way down. We finally got back a few hours ago, I dropped Beth off with her Mom, collapsed here, heated up some fish sticks and tater tots (dinner of bachelors!) and watched the 2-hour finale of Lost. Yay, TiVo!

  Re:Said finale. The FRACK? I mean, what the fracking frack? Whoa. 

  Tomorrow: Less angst. Probably.

  • 9:58 PM
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