We have known each other for decades, and it has been a privilege, a blessing, a godsend, and a windfall to call you my sister friend. If we carry this over to medical terms, which seems appropriate, you have been my ventilator, my antibiotic, my tourniquet, and my Xanax. I’ve told you before that I am vertical because of you.
When the kids were small and our fledgling friendship began to develop wings of trust and reliance, I shared with you how frightened I was of what Jay was capable of. I knew that he was a Pharisee, respected for his religious knowledge, davening in shul every Shabbat, keeping the rules of the Sabbath and kashrut, but lacking fundamental mercy, love, tolerance, and heart. I wasn’t financially independent, I didn’t have the support of my family, and I lived with the pernicious effects of being married to a narcissist who I truly felt was planning on taking the kids away from me the moment they came out of me.
You know so much about me, probably more than anybody else does. The reasons for this vary, but we’ll start with what I have told you directly. The confidences I’ve revealed, both in active crisis mode and in regular casual chitchat, have unearthed parts of my life about which I am traumatized, ashamed, broken. We’ll continue with the DORs (days of rescue) that you have seen with your own incredulous and kind eyeballs, when you have raced to figuratively resuscitate me after the emotional depravity of their actions. The dozens of Explanation of Benefits forms where I saw CT Scans and Ultrasounds for Marissa and Zack, not knowing if they were okay or not. And, adding acid to my already inflamed heart, Jay told them I took them off of my health insurance. NOTHING, obviously, could have been further from the truth.
How about my finding out that I became a grandmother, many times over? I found out in the most unusual ways – a nosy friend, a bill from a hospital, a synagogue bulletin, and my mother’s obituary. And, speaking of my mother’s obituary, nobody told me that my mother died. A lifelong family friend told me days later, because they forbid her to tell me when it happened. I was actually at your house when that call came in.
And, let’s talk about what you know from Rebecca, or at least what she told you, when she approached you, most likely at Jay’s urging, to tell you all of the “abhorrent” things I’ve done. I guess she wanted you, my most trusted lifeline, to abandon me as well. You told her that even if all of the things she said were true, and that you didn’t believe very many of them, it still wouldn’t justify them treating me the way they were and cutting me out of their lives. You knew me. You knew that everything I feared for decades was coming true. You knew that being a mom, being THEIR mom, was my most profound joy, accomplishment, purpose.
But, my sister friend, when you say I am hard to read, you are so correct. And, I apologize to you for that. I also have a reason for it, and the reason is that I’m never telling the truth. I’m not okay, and when I say I am, I am not. How could I be? This has been a suffocating, excruciating, lacerating, harrowing, unendurable, inhumane, and torturous journey, and I am so afraid to show my real pain. I’m so afraid of disappointing those who remain and love me (like you), those who need me (like my students), and, weirdly enough, I’m afraid of disappointing myself. I have hung in for so long, making those around me feel safe, supported, valued, and entertained, and sometimes the load is just so heavy.
But, please know, however, that I’m still planning on carrying this load for quite a bit longer. I’m going to stay in this classroom, on the tennis court, at the casino, aboard the Cunard ships, and I am going to keep Jay’s dream from coming true for as long as I can. With that being said, should anything happen to me, maybe you couldn’t read me, but I know you sure did love me.
My email address used to be mjmrzjaffe@aol.com. When we bought our first computer, lifetimes ago, complete with dial up modem, I created our email address. Of course, it would have our initials, as EVERYTHING to me was about the family. The kids were so young then, and they created adorable screen names, too. Zack was dragonballzack9, Rebecca was mishamooey (my nickname for her), and Marissa’s was Rissie123.
The account was under Jay’s name, since he paid for it. He paid for everything, as he reminded the kids and me so often. I had no money, as I didn’t work, and what we had was marital (or so I thought). Now I’ll be clear and tell you that I am awful with money and I spend it like I’m going to the electric chair. Nothing has changed on that front.
That email address contained about 15 years of love. There were hundreds of letters from the kids from the time they were small, spanning to when they were young adults in college. Words of laughter and love and gratitude and adoration, I should have printed every one of them. But, true to my “perfect storm,” once the divorce was underway and the plan for this longshot of a pony was clearly to be put down, part of the process was to take away that email address and all of its contents. I called AOL, but they said that the account wasn’t created in my name those 15+ years back, and thus, I no longer had access to it.
I did have a few notes on my work email, but nothing major. And, recently, I plugged in my very old MacBook. I can’t do much on it, but I can access Microsoft Word to read. The dinosaur doesn’t connect to anything, but I do have some files to peruse. Some of the kids’ college and grad school application essays are here, along with some essays I wrote about life and several letters I wrote as the divorce process was beginning. I’ll begin by sharing this one, as it’s important for me to show who I am so that maybe, just maybe, this tapestry of terror that Jay and my sister wove for me can begin to unravel.
My Dearest Jay,
I’ve been listening to that song, John Denver’s Seasons of the Heart, over and over, and I think it’s a true depiction of our story. Our story was such a good one, especially 3 particular chapters, and I know that we will both make sure that both sides of the book jacket stay strong and in tact to weather the storm ahead and protect the contents of those 3 very special chapters.
I know you have been waiting for me to “file the damn papers already,” and in my quest to figure out why you wanted me to do it so desperately, I thought that you might go ahead and do it. I know that you went to see Gary Skoloff (I didn’t realize you needed the biggest gun in the East, but maybe there is more to this than I know), and the reason that I know this is because I will be using Betsy Bresnick at that same firm. She is a childhood friend of Jackie’s, and she gave me a free consultation.
Speaking of Betsy, her retainer is $10,000. You know how this stuff works better than I do, but if we work things out quickly, we can get some of that back. As you know, I do not have that kind of money, and it would be unfair for me to ask my mother for it when you will be using our money for your person’s retainer. Whilewe are far from millionaires, I know that you make a decent draw at the new firm, and the car and expense perks are generous. I also know that you have many bank accounts from which you pull, deposit, and transfer money, so I’m sure you’ll be able to finance the retainer that I need to give. After that, I know it is a 50/50 spit of everything, with many years of documents, bills, and bank accounts needing to be presented.
If you haven’t figured this out yet, I am not planning on being difficult here. I am fully aware that a third of the dissolution of our marriage is my doing, a third is your doing, and another third are the other issues (family, people, money, and illnesses) that interfered along the way. Maybe we were too young when we started our story, but man, those 3 chapters made everything worth it, didn’t they?
Nothing will EVER change the fact that I will ALWAYS love you. “It’s just some things that mean so much, and we just don’t feel the same.”
Marla
Folks, keep reading this blog. Keep sharing it. Keep commenting on it.
“True peace is not merely the absence of tension; it is the presence of justice.” – Martin Luther King, Jr.
When I wrote my last blog entry, a tribute to Dr. DeGraaff, I went into my treasure trove of pictures from the past. I was looking for the picture of Doreen, holding Marissa a few hours after she was born. I hadn’t submerged myself in that reservoir of riches since 2023, when my friend, Janice, patiently and heroically helped me box up pictures, letters, projects, and albums for the kids. She was dual mission oriented that night – the first being to complete the task at hand, and the second to keep me from finally succumbing to the implosion of my heart.
Rebecca lives 4.25 miles away from me, so, naturally, Janice’s plan was to bring everything to Rebecca’s house. All 3 kids would receive their childhood honeypots in brand new Samsonite suitcases, each filled with immeasurable valuables and a chamber of my heart. I have to especially note a storybook Rebecca created in the 2nd grade, illustrating and sharing the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears. The dedication was to me, and it read, “For my Mom, who, despite everything, thinks I’m just right.”
For those of you who don’t know, you might be guessing correctly in that the delivery of the swag bags was an unsuccessful one. Rebecca’s husband did answer the door, but Rebecca stayed far away. Janice was pretty certain that Scott had been grilling on the deck, and that there was a beautiful cherub playing nearby.
It is important to mention that Scott’s grilling was not limited to the meat on the Weber. He had a bunch of questions, (how could he not), and he told Janice that Rebecca and I are estranged. Janice said she was well aware of that. He asked her, “Why now?” and Janice spoke correctly when she explained that now that Rebecca is a mom herself, I thought she might want to have her valuables. Maybe they thought I was dying, and maybe they were hoping for that, but my friend, Janice, just like other friends, some lifelong and some new, was shaken to her core seeing firsthand the reality of my pain and of this door that the kids have bolted shut.
I don’t know my son-in-law, but he looks like such a lovely human being. I know he’s a pediatric nurse, which is telling, and, as the world is a small one, Bob’s friend, Mike, is the head EMT at Chilton Hospital and knows Scott well. Over dinner one night, he was emphatically praising Scott’s kindness and skills, and I think he was surprised to hear that Scott is my son-in-law. Perhaps conversations between them, which I’m certain consisted of Scott’s justifiable boasting about his three beautiful girls and, sadly, his dad’s passing so young from ALS, led to talk about parents and grandparents. Mike and his wife recently became grandparents, and maybe Scott mentioned that his kids only had 2 – Rebecca’s dad and his mom.
That treasure trove did hold joy, memories, blessings, love, warmth, and life, but it also held 3 documents. One was a letter I wrote to Zack, telling him how sorry I was for all the pain the divorce was causing him (and my role in it for being so needy and reliant on him). I even signed a contract saying that I would pull back on that. Next, there was a letter I wrote to Zack’s therapist, with the help of my therapist at the time, Dr. Rhonda Greenberg, figuratively gutting my innards to get him to (as a therapist should do) help reunite Zack and me. Dr. David Velder, yet another Orthodox Jew allowing himself to be an active and pathetic pawn in Jay and his lawyer’s plan to get me to Thelma and Louise it. I would get those EOBs weekly from my insurance company, grateful that his visits were to the therapist and not to medical facilities where he was having CT Scans and MRIs and terrifying diagnoses. G-d knows and Horizon Blue Cross and Blue Shield of New Jersey knows I’ve suffered through way too many of those, not knowing if my son was healthy.
And, speaking of insurance companies and not knowing if my child was whole, on June 30th, 2015, I received a call from my car insurance company. They wanted to talk to me about the accident, but I hadn’t had an accident. Beginning to shake because I quickly realized that Zack must have been in an accident in his car that I leased and insured for him, I just remember crying and screaming into the phone, “Is my son alive? Is my son okay? Please, tell me that my son is alive.” They had no information for me.
Suffice it to say that the ensuing hours were terrifying and scarring. I’m not sure how I even found out that Zack was okay, but I will say that the person with the most grace was the lady from Liberty Mutual, who called me back later that day to check on Zack (and me). I had told her, through tears that only another mother could understand, that I was going through a heinous divorce and that Zack had left me. I said I didn’t even know how to find out if he was okay, as the divorce was so contentious.
Now, let’s get to that third letter, the letter that Jay’s lawyer, Howard Felcher, wrote to my lawyer after my lawyer wrote him a letter saying how nefarious and repugnant it was not to tell me that Zack was in an awful car accident. My lawyer’s partner, in practice for nearly 7 decades, said that it was, by far, the most odious and repulsive letter he had ever read.
Allow me to insert the beginning of the letter:
Dear Mr. Knapp,
Your client certainly had to be aware that the issuance of such a letter would engender a response. My client has been constrained throughout the course of this litigation not to make your client’s conduct with respect to her children an issue to be openly litigated. Your letter of even date has compelled a specific and direct response.
This letter, which I will share with anybody who wants to see it, goes on to launch such ridiculous vignettes. It’s as if he took 2 thimbles of the truth and created a vat of humbug. This letter was in the queue, and he was waiting for some reason to get it to the front of the line. It was hateful and spiteful, and, reading it those weeks ago with eyes that are now both fearless and clear, I can’t believe that I let it send me into a spiral of darkness and terror. It did just what it was intended to do.
Howard Felcher is a bully, but he got Jay’s job done. It’s everything you read about him in the reviews online. I can certainly put those here as well, but, to summarize, they mention losing jobs, losing custody of kids, losing lifelong savings, and, in some cases, being jailed.
I’ll end today’s blog by saying that, after Zack’s car was fixed, I took the car away from him. I listened to a former friend of mine, who, like many with whom I surrounded myself, was a bully. I don’t know why I always looked to the bully, but I think it had something to do with feeling protected around and by them. Truth be told, these bullies never had my back; they were merely disturbers looking to have a front row center orchestra seat in a play in which I didn’t want to be performing.
It was uncharacteristic of me not to give the car back, as I only wanted my kids to love me. Even though it was so inhumane that I wasn’t told about the accident, I was still willing to be an emotional doormat. Judge Casale, who was our judge and who never missed an opportunity to verbally abuse me and make me cry, said he wouldn’t talk to me either if I took his car away.
On December 7th, 2015, almost 3 years after first filing for divorce and after Howard Felcher didn’t respond for almost 6 months to my lawyer’s letters and settlement proposals, Judge Casale said, “I’m beginning to think that maybe Mrs. Jaffe is not the problem here.” Sure, my life was ruined as I knew it, losing all that ever mattered to me, and he first realized it then? He said we would be divorcing that day, but, there were some last minute fixes to be made on the paperwork. Proposing that we could just write the changes in by hand, my PTSD armor of sadness said, “Absolutely not!”
Two days later, on December 9th, 2015, Judge Casale wrapped up our case saying how difficult it had been and to keep in mind that there are kids involved and hopefully, somehow, healing could take place.
On June 13th, 2016, Judge Casale joined Jay’s law firm, Greenbaum Rowe Smith & Davis.
We just returned from a magical Spring Break in Portugal, but, after 7 days, I turned to my person and said, “I’m ready to go home.” Being the “Overthinking for 300, Alex” type that I am, I probably shouldn’t have said that, because it weighed on me throughout the entire flight back to New Jersey. Where is home? What is home? If nobody is waiting for you, is it home? I think the turbulence in my mind was even more frightening than what we were experiencing as we crossed the Atlantic on United flight 145.
I will turn 60 in January, and as I enter what would generously and fairly be called the last third of my life, for some reason I recall what David Cassidy, Keith Partridge himself, said to his daughter on his deathbed. He was only 67, so he only experienced a bit more than two-thirds of the 90 years with which I think everyone should be blessed. He said to her, “So much wasted time.” Imagine that, Keith Partridge, a heartthrob and icon at 20, talking about wasted time?
Was David Cassidy just thinking he could have done so much more with his life? Perhaps, but David Cassidy and his daughter, Katie, were estranged for a significant amount of time. He was obviously contemplative on the extra and deserved time, for both of them, that they could have and should have had together. Fingers weren’t pointed, blame wasn’t assigned, he was just commenting, with his daughter right next to him at his bedside, while he was about to officially “go home,” that so much time was squandered.
I spend substantial time thinking about my own mother, and how much I miss her and regret the time we never got to share. As I have written before, several times in fact, my mother was flawed. But, she was mine, and though I try to show grace and let go of the detestation I feel for my sister, my sister forbade my mother from having any contact with me. Let’s be clear and understand that my mother was fully at fault, and again I will reiterate how seamless Sophie’s Choice was for Barbara Starsky, but she was given an ultimatum by my sister. She was afraid and she was a coward, but she was threatened by a mobster who orchestrated a gang mentality against me.
My mother was an extremely pretty lady, stunning at times, and I was always surprised she didn’t have any work done when she got older. She was vain, which is not a bad thing, as looking attractive matters. It’s not everything, but pride in one’s appearance, especially when one begins showing those unrequested though inescapable signs of aging, conveys a zestiness and an “I’m not going down without a fight” vibe.
I saw my mother for the last time in 2016, though she didn’t pass away until 2021. She got in so much trouble from my sister, or, as she liked to say, she “paid the piper” when I went down to Florida to spend time with her. Pathetic, isn’t it, that she got in trouble from her one daughter for seeing her other daughter? I reached out to her after that, but we rarely connected. I did get a birthday voicemail from her in 2019, on my 53rd birthday (I am crying hysterically right now, as I just listened to it), and she told me that she loved me, that she wanted to hear my voice, and that she wanted to see me. I was actually playing Mah Jongg when I saw and heard her voicemail, and when I called her back and after we spoke a bit, I put her on speaker so that she could say hello to a couple of my friends whom she knew. I was so happy that she had called, and I told her I would LOVE to see her and to just name the place, date, and time. I suddenly felt resurrected, visible, valued, loved. My mommy wanted to see me. I mattered. I had a home.
She never reached out after that.
On April 6th of 2020, a few weeks after the world went into lockdown, I sent this to my mom:
Dear Mom,
There’s a quote by Maya Angelou that I’ve thought about a lot over these past years. Powerfully and impactfully, she wrote, “I can be changed by what happens to me, but I refuse to be reduced by it.” With that said, I’m reaching out to you.
Mom, I don’t know that you are going to get this; perhaps Lisa intervenes and has control over everything in your life. I’m actually hoping that you’re at Lisa’s right now so you don’t have to be alone. Regardless, we’re in a pandemic, and I care about you. You’re my mother, after all.
I’m not going to be emotional, political, intellectual, accusatorial, or banal. I’m just going to tell you that I love you, that I hope you’re safe, and that if you need anything at all, just let me know.
Marla
This was her response:
what a nice surprise! I love you too and hope you are safe…mom
Between March 24th and June 9th of 2020, I received 16 Explanation of Benefits statements for Zack. He was still on my insurance, and, because his birthday is in January, he was able to stay on it until he was 26 years and 356 days old. I was terrified by these constant EOBs, as I had already been receiving 5 years of them, many of which were for services and tests a young man in his 20s should not need or have to suffer through.
After the 16th EOB and nobody answering me about what was going on with Zack, I called my mother. Apparently, my niece had just arrived there and was going to be bringing my mother to Atlanta, where my sister lives. My mother screamed at me that Zack was okay, but that she was not well. She kept screaming at me, told me that she was down to 88 pounds, and she asked why I hadn’t called her. She said Jay had called her. Jay, the monster who tried to and successfully separated me from both of my families – the nuclear one I created with him and my nuclear one from growing up. Jay, the person she couldn’t stand because she always felt he undermined me, especially and most delightfully in front of her. Jay, the person who destroyed her daughter …
At the end of the conversation, she screamed, “I love you.” I was shaking, crying, alarmed, and confused. Why did she have to yell at me? What was going on with her health? I would never know.
After that day, their story was that I learned my mother was not well, and I never reached out. The truth is, I wasn’t allowed to. I had tried to reach out PLENTY over the years.
I don’t know what my mother looked like at the end. My mind still thinks of her looking like she does in the paperweight I keep in the desk where I write. She is barely 40, with a magenta blouse and a face that really did look like she could be Elizabeth Taylor’s twin. It was school picture day, and, back then, the teachers received a paperweight with their picture package. I asked her if I could have it, and I haven’t let go of it since. After all, she was my mom. She was my home.
Ten years ago today, my life ended. How then, you’re probably asking, can I be writing this blog? Fortitude? Resolve? Resilience? Self-torture?
I still play his voicemail from the night before he left me; many of you have even heard it. So chipper and stoked, he shared that he got the internship at ADP, the one for which he so desperately hoped. Mentioning that he was going to surprise me with the news when he saw me, he just couldn’t hold back the well-deserved announcement. I’m glad he didn’t hold back, as his delivery was so ebullient and precious. I can actually say every word of it in my sleep, but that’s what happens when you listen to something every day for 10 years. That’s actually 3,650 times, and, while I know it’s unhealthy for me, it’s all I have.
He was going to his dad’s for the first night of Passover, and he was supposed to come to me for the second night. He never showed.
Zack and I were always so close. The quintessential mama’s boy, he was so easygoing and warmhearted. His compassion and altruism were apparent from such a young age, and I remember going to see The Iron Giant with him when he was only 5. He cried and cried, and Jay turned to me and told me that I was turning Zack into a sissy, a wuss, a girl. It was only the first of dozens of times Jay would tell me that, but I could never equate humaneness with a lack of machismo. In fact, I’m not sure anything enhances the Y chromosome more than tenderness.
I miss my children so much. My mother used to say, once my sister and I gave her grandchildren, that we kind of took a backseat to them. I learned that firsthand from her, as I was so easily scrapped, dumped, discarded, and junked. For me, however, and keep in mind that I’ve never met my grandchildren, it is my kids whose backs I will always have, even now. Even now, as I want to post the voicemail that Zack left me 10 years ago, and I want to post the last birthday card he gave me, I won’t.
A dear friend of mine recently tried to find Zack for me, and she left a letter for him inside of his mailbox. Her beautiful husband had actually written the letter, chronicling his somewhat rocky relationship with his own parents and the pivotal and profound reconciliation that followed. Regretting the time he lost, he was grateful for all that he found. He left his phone number in the letter, with fingers crossed that Zack might reach out.
My friend never imagined she would get such a toxic and threatening phone call from an enraged and boorish woman. This woman had clearly read the letter, but said she had no idea who Zack was (her bestial tone begged otherwise). She told my friend to never show her face anywhere near there again, and my friend was shaking. Believe me, this friend is no Sensitive Susie; she is a tour de force and a force of nature and she does not cower easily. She was rattled.
I don’t know who this person was, but I know who my son isn’t. Maybe, as my mother said, Zack is brainwashed, but I pray that he is not surrounding himself with such uncouth people. I pray he is living his best life, being true to his benevolent soul, smiling when he thinks of all of the concerts we saw and all of our inside jokes, and getting ready to settle down and have his own family.
Zachary Daniel Jaffe, I love you and I miss you. Know that you will always be my Iron Giant, and may your gracious soul find its way back to me one day.
I often think of the word legacy, but not in the traditional way. Normally, one connects the word to something positive that’s bequeathed to you or bestowed upon you, making one’s life literally or figuratively richer or easier. It’s one of those words, like influential, that, on the surface, seems uplifting and benign. But, when delved into and scrutinized, the possibility of a negative implication crystallizes.
The trauma of the kids’ departure from my life has left me with a legacy of fear and distrust. Each day, I wonder who else will abandon me, and it’s such a suffocating and pathetic feeling. It’s also exhausting, and it not only controls my now, it also controls my future. After all, if my own children could reject me, why wouldn’t others?
I know I’m a good hang and that I offer laughter and light. I know that people enjoy me and appreciate how much I care about them and their families. A marvel to some and an inspiration to others, my strength is undeniable. So is my sadness …
How can I believe in tomorrow, when I barely get through today? How can I tell you all that I’m really not self-sufficient, that I need your hearts more and more, even if it’s just in the form of a daily emoji? Is there a way to express my fragility, without fearing that I’m being needy?
I went to dinner last night with a dear, dear friend. We’ve known each other for almost 3 decades, and nobody can hand me the truth or ask me the hard questions like she does. Articulate, direct, earnest, and brilliant, she sees right through me. She’ll call me out, pump me up, fill me in, propel me forward, pat my back, and set me straight. She doesn’t sugarcoat, and she doesn’t make false promises. I don’t think she thinks my kids are ever coming back to me.
Had I known that my kids would only be mine for such a short time, would I have made different decisions? Would I have left when I wanted to, and not succumbed to Jay’s threats? Would MY legacy be that “I came, I saw, and I conquered?” instead of “I came, I saw, and I cowered?”
Thank you all for the birthday love, treats, cards, dinners, and trips. I love you all.
I am sitting in my classroom with my 8th grade Art of Writing dolls, and their prompt is to share about a time when they felt vulnerable. This prompt does not come from nowhere, as I just finished explaining to them about how vulnerable I was left at 2:45 this past Saturday. I was robbed at the blackjack table in Atlantic City, when somebody literally stole my purse right from under my feet.
We were at such a lovely table, with a dealer who couldn’t lose. His “joie de vivre” kept all of us there, even as he was turning his 15s into 21s so seamlessly. The other folks at the table were gracious and friendly folks who, like us, enjoyed every part of the game, even and perhaps especially the social aspect of it.
My purse was on the floor, with my feet planted firmly on it. Yes, I turned around to get my glass of champagne from the waitress, but, to my knowledge, my feet were still on my bag. All of a sudden, I realized that the bag wasn’t there, and everything stopped as I ran to security. Nobody at the table had seen a thing, including the dealer and the pit boss, but it didn’t take long for the cameras to show the man who grabbed my bag so quickly and boorishly. He apparently ran to the back of the casino and pulled out my treasure trove of a wallet, taking the entire wallet and my bottle of medication.
My wallet, which was a Louis Vuitton wallet, had everything in it. Six credit cards, 2 bank cards, my driver’s license, and, probably worst of all, my social security card. Oh, let’s not forget the two blank checks. Security was helpful in quickly locking all of the credit cards, as the thief did not steal my phone. The police came and took all of the information, and there I stood, feeling so weak and violated.
Two weeks ago, it was the car accident that wrought such havoc for me. Then, the whole ordeal with BMW and the insurance company took over as the situation commandeering my palpitations. And, as I shared my story with my munchkins today, at least five said, “Why do bad things keep happening to you? You’re the nicest person.” What these kids don’t know, however, is that I’ve had far more than a purse stolen right from under my feet, so this, too, shall pass. And, my identity was taken a decade ago when everything that mattered the most to me was appropriated.
It is all around me, in every place I go and everything I do. I was just driving home, and two beautiful songs came on the radio, back to back. As I listened closely to the lyrics on my favorite country station, back to the past I went. The first song was called I Loved Her First, by Heartland, and it was a dad singing to his new son-in-law at his daughter’s wedding. Throughout the song, he tells the man that, although he is now married to his daughter, he was the one who was there at the beginning, who was always her number one. He urges the young man to take care of her, and tells him how he fell in love with her the second she was born.
Miss, the day my girl was born was the happiest day of my life. My wedding was NOT the happiest day of my life, as the drama and the control were already beginning. I knew that I didn’t love him, and his mom and grandma were so unkind and unfriendly. The wedding was my mother’s show, and I was fine with that, even though the night before my wedding, my parents had had the biggest fight and said they were divorcing. My cousin, Gina, was up from Florida, and she and I had to leave my house because of how my parents were fighting over this guy, Armando, who was the new husband of one of my mother’s friends. Al felt he was a pompous ass, and Al never liked that. Maybe I didn’t feel well at my wedding because, unbeknownst to me, my little peanut was already growing inside of me.
Miss, I was in back labor all weekend with Marissa. I actually went into false labor on Friday night, and we were sent home with the promise that I would have the baby by the end of the weekend. Jay wouldn’t let me tell my parents or my sister that I was in labor. He didn’t want them worrying, or involved, and he just wanted the control. He wanted to send the message to them that he was in charge now. (My mother told me she sensed from my voice that I was having contractions).
I went into the hospital late Sunday night when the contractions were 5 minutes apart. I would go 4 minutes and then 4 minutes and then 3 minutes and then 6 minutes, but Jay wouldn’t let me call the doctor because that wasn’t a consistent 5 minutes apart. When we left for the hospital, I wanted to call Bobby and Al and Lisa, but Jay wouldn’t let me. So, when 4 centimeters refused to become 10, and when I was taken into the delivery room for my C-section, Jay still wouldn’t call them. He said he would let them know when the baby was born.
At 7:21 on a Monday morning, Marissa came into the world. I was so in love, and she was so beautiful. Life made sense finally. All of the mistakes I made all along were somehow validated because I had this bundle of joy and blessing and heart. I just wanted to see my mom though, because I needed to know that I was still somebody’s baby. The thing was though, because Jay wouldn’t call them earlier, my mom had left for school minutes before Marissa was born. So, he called my dad, who, in all of his excitement, heard 19 inches as 9 pounds, 10 ounces.
When Al finally got hold of my mother at school, 45 minutes later, Bobby nearly stroked out thinking that somebody my size had tried to deliver nearly a 10 pound baby. She, of course, got right back into her car, and she raced to New Jersey from Staten Island. I kept asking where she was, but, because she had such a long drive and because she didn’t find out until Marissa was an hour or so old because she was en route to Staten Island, I didn’t see my mom for hours. But, when she came into the room, I let out such a sob of relief and joy.
When Donald Trump chose J.D. Vance to be his running mate, I was frightened. The only thing more scary than a madman making draconic and ferocious threats is having somebody by his side to carry those threats out. What is it called when the devil makes a deal with the devil?
J.D. Vance made some very unkind, untrue, and ungracious remarks about women who don’t have children. He called them cat ladies, purporting that their goal was to make everybody else miserable. For those out there who don’t have children, I apologize on his behalf. And, I apologize to ALL of you, unlike his wife, who said that he only meant it about those who actively made the choice not to procreate. Truth be told, I could almost hear him and Trump hurling classless insults and appearance jabs at women who never married. “Who would marry or tap into that? Who would want to make a kid with that?”
I have 3 children, but they don’t speak to me. Am I childless in J.D. Vance’s eyes? What about the moms who face tragedy far worse than mine and have to bury children? Are they childless in J.D. Vance’s eyes? Is the mom who delivers a stillborn childless? What about the woman who selflessly gives her baby up for adoption? Is she childless? What about the surrogate who so munificently agrees to carry a couple’s child because they can’t conceive on their own? Oh, wait, that wouldn’t even be an option if Mr. Trump and Mr. Vance were elected.
My oldest, Marissa, went through hell and back with such advanced Ulcerative Colitis, eventually losing her colon. All of the details are here – www.marissasurgery.wordpress.com. It was such a real and tangible possibility that having children for her would be nearly impossible, but, with the help of IVF, she is now a mom to two beautiful daughters. I’ve never seen them, not even a picture, but I know that they’re beautiful. I know that they’re beautiful because their mom is positively gorgeous.
Mr. Vance, just stop. Stop with the toxic vitriol. Stop with the name calling. Stop with the unsupported speculations. Whatever the reason for a woman not having children in her life, she is hurting. And, it hurts enough without you augmenting, exacerbating, and compounding the pain.
The Powerball and the Mega Millions, as of last night, were collectively worth over 2 billion dollars. Chances of winning one of these jackpots were 1 in 300 million, but somebody did win. Somebody in New Jersey actually won, but people haven’t even checked their tickets yet and nobody even knows where the ticket was sold. Could it have been me?
The odds of what happened to me, in terms of losing my kids, were greater than 1 in 300 million. People are convicted of murder, corruption, extortion, drug dealing, sex trafficking, embezzlement, robbery, and many other heinous crimes, yet their kids still talk to them. I didn’t do any of those things (though Jay probably told them I multitasked and did every one of them on a weekly basis), and I have been given a lifelong sentence of suffering and agony that mutilates and incapacitates my entire stamp.
My mother abandoned me when all of the vicissitude began, so afraid of being jettisoned herself. But, one of the last things she said to me was, “Any other family … If it was any other family, this would never have happened.” Though seemingly ambiguous, I somewhat understood what she was saying. My sister threatened her, controlled her, scared her, and basically ordered my mother to have nothing to do with me. The once powerful and independent Barbara Starsky became a pathetic pawn on my sister’s toxic and monochromatic black chessboard.
My mother had also twice mentioned, “Even a criminal would have been pardoned by now.” She knew how deeply I was hurting, and I don’t think she ever fully understood (who can?) why I was eliminated from the hearts of the kids I loved and still love so completely. She was a coward, and, whether her hand was forced or not, she did make a choice – Sophie’s Choice.
After Zack left me so suddenly, my mom reached out to him. Always the softest of my 3, his behavior puzzled her the most. Aware that Jay’s attorney had told my attorney that my divorce wasn’t progressing because Zack still talked to me, and recognizing that Jay’s lawyer confidently and contemptuously added, “But it won’t be for too much longer,” my mother did, supposedly, reach out to Zack. And, after he did abruptly discard me and she did call him, her words to me were, “I swear to G-d, he has been brainwashed.” (I would sit for a polygraph to attest to the validity of this conversation and the words that still permeate and pierce my vandalized heart).
What will they tell my grandchildren? Will they say I’m dead (easily disproven, thank G-d). Will they say I’m crazy and that I’m away in some sort of facility (easily disproven, thank G-d). Will they say I’m in prison (I guess I am in some sort of proverbial prison).
What won’t they tell my grandchildren? They probably won’t tell them that I’m a respected and beloved teacher. They probably won’t tell them that I am funny, kind, benevolent, charitable, concerned, and so deeply passionate and compassionate. They probably won’t tell them that, when they were growing up, my talons would automatically sharpen if anybody or anything ever hurt them. They probably won’t tell them that, when they were sick, I was always there, never letting them be alone and scared. They probably won’t tell them that I called them my heart, my soul, and my lungs. They probably won’t tell them that I loved them so much that I stayed in a marriage that didn’t make me happy. And, they probably won’t tell them that I loved them more than I loved myself. I still do.
May we all win the lottery, whatever the lottery looks like to us. Whether it’s the Powerball, the Mega Millions, or our children and grandchildren’s presence in our lives, may that winning ticket be in our reach.
