Guest Post: Suburban Guerrilla

Susie Madrak at Suburban Guerrilla put up this post today. I was impressed by the honesty of it, and she has give me permission to post it here as a guest post. Considering some of the nominations for Inspirational Person of the Year at Beliefnet, I thought this post offered some of the same lessons in forgiveness and compassion.

Anniversary

It was three years ago today that my ex-husband died.

When I found out he was sick, my response was, shall we say, less than charitable. My first thought: “Thank God he’s not my problem.”

Because he was a problem, ever since the divorce. (The phrase I most often used to describe him was “a real dick.”) He fought paying a rational amount of child support (he earnestly explained to me that $35 a week for two kids was enough because, after all, Rogaine was costing him $75 a month “and I need to start a new life.”)

Did I mention he’d been officially diagnosed with Narcissistic Personality Disorder? Back then, I had no idea what it meant; I do now.

Let me put it this way. Getting mad at someone with NPD is like being angry with the shark that chomped off your leg and left you to bleed to death: pointless. Are you mad at the shark for not being a puppy? Of course not. It’s not a shark’s nature, after all; their nature is to feed.

I didn’t want to take him to court; I knew he’d punish the kids for it. So I talked him into going to mediation. After eight one-hour sessions, they told him, no, you’re not paying enough, yes, you can afford more and no, you don’t deserve a rebate because you have the kids half the time – you make twice her salary.

He stood up, said, “I don’t have to listen to this,” and walked out. So I had to take him to court anyway.

At first, I took him at his word that he’d make timely payments. (Hah.) What that really meant was, too late for me to pay my bills on time, but not so late that he’d get arrested. Finally, I went back to court and got his paycheck attached. There was relative peace after that.

Of course, there were still the assorted women, all of whom were a lot nicer than he was. The kids were expected to understand they came second – except when he was in between relationships. Then, he was Dad of the Year. He always seemed to need an appreciative audience.

He got diagnosed with multiple myeloma shortly after the woman he was then involved with gave birth to their daughter.

I still remember the day he called to tell me that, at 52, he was going to be a father again. (The mom was 48.) After I stopped laughing, I needled him. “Guess you slept through that part of biology class,” I said. “I can’t help but wonder what your response would be if one of our sons called you with news like this.” (Two days later, I made an appointment to get my tubes tied. No point in tempting the karma fairy.)

He was so maddening. He never put anybody else first, not even when he was sick. “You need to straighten things out with the kids,” I’d tell him.

“I’m going to beat this thing,” he’d say, more out of denial than optimism.

“And you could get hit by a bus tomorrow,” I’d say. “No one can assume how much time they have left.” (I’d had my own cancer scare a few years before.)

He left a lot of loose ends dangling. But that last week, I felt bad for him. His daughter was now living in upstate New York, our kids didn’t really want to see him. His exes didn’t, either. His brothers had families of their own (it was the week before Christmas) and ironically enough, all he had left was me.

Me? I was unemployed again, somewhat suicidal (Adderall withdrawal) and pretty damned cynical about his worth as a human being. But there was no one else to help. And as the hours turned into days, I began to soften. He was just so damned feeble, so helpless, it seemed like overkill to hate him – or even resent him. So I kept him company; I fought with the nurses and doctors, I even held his hand the night before he died. I swear, there were times he looked at me and I could read the actual thought balloon above his head: “What the fuck is she doing here?” Knowing the way he was, he probably thought I was angling to get into his will.

I knew better than to expect anything. I did it for my kids; I didn’t want their father to die alone.

I always try to do the right thing but sometimes it’s harder than others. It’s a lot easier to be spiritual in the abstract than it is to actually forgive people – especially when they just don’t deserve it. The thing is, if you’re really honest, very few of us deserve it. So you shouldn’t keep score that way. If you want to follow the same path as Christ, Buddha, the Dalai Lama (you know, those guys) you have to find the compassion within.

Although I do usually get there, the trip is never pretty. I curse, I rail at the universe, I say really, really mean things. I tell myself I shouldn’t have to be nice to an asshole. And really, I don’t. (Unless I want to be spiritually and ethically consistent, of course. God, I hate that.)

The day he died, I took my oldest son to say goodbye. I remember being surprised at how warm his father still was, and that I brushed the hair from his eyes. The resuscitation tube was taped to his mouth and his eyes were slightly open, as if he was watching us. So sad, I thought. Such a waste. It could have been so different – that is, if he were a puppy and not a shark. But such are the mysteries of life.

I remembered loving him at one time, in a very specific and personal way. But I couldn’t recall the feeling; all that remained was a sort of weariness at all the harm he’d inflicted and a hope that he was finally at peace.

I still wish that for him.