And Life Comes Back: A Wife's Story of Love, Loss, and Hope Reclaimed (16 page)

“What can we do for you today?” He was covered in body art … and running out of canvas.

“I would like the word
betrothed
on the inside of my right wrist.”

He showed me a list of fonts I could choose for this forever decision.

“No, I want this.” I handed him a three-by-five card with the word printed in my handwriting. “I want it facing me, so I can read it.”

He looked at the card. He looked at my wrist. The card. My wrist.

“Let’s do it, sister.”

My two girlfriends and I followed him to the back of the shop, and I sat in the chair and watched closely as he sanitized and inspected the inside of my forearm. My girls pulled up chairs (barstools) across from me, ready with the girlfriend’s code of eye contact and emotional support.

The artist’s name was Chris. He was chatty and friendly. In case
I was nervous, he was ready to make this as easy as possible. “So, is this your first tat?”

“It is.” (Although Robb loved to tell people that I’d gotten one in Mexico on our honeymoon. That was one of his favorite jokes, and he had many people fooled. Including my dad.)

“I could write my name under it if you want. I mean, think how great that would look: Chris.” He traced a line to indicate where he would sign his work. “You could add a
t
later—make it say
Christ.
Lots of people like him, I hear. Or, you know, add a few more letters, make it say Christmas. That’s a great holiday.” He had a tongue-in-cheek comedy spiel that he’d clearly polished in his years in the ink industry.

“So you’re all married up then? All of you have husbands?”

My friends each answered yes, and then came the awkward silence I had come to know so well. The girls eyed me to see how I wanted to answer. “Well,” I paused, watching him trace the
h
with his needle. “I’m a widow, actually.”

With my wrist gently in his hand, he lifted his needle and looked up at me. “What? What did you say?”

“I’m a widow. My husband died six months ago. We would have been married for eleven years. Today is our wedding anniversary.”

The compassion in his eyes betrayed his rough edges.

“Dude. That sh** is f***ed.”

I smiled gently. “Yeah, it is.”

Of all the responses I had heard, his raw authenticity was my favorite. And just in case he had offended me, he said, “I mean, I’m sorry, ma’am. But that sh** is f***ed.”

So much of me is so tired, so fed up. I have done the right things, followed the rules, stayed inside the lines, pursued purity and upright standing, integrity. And what has this given to me? No one is immune to heartache, loss, death. I am in the deepest valley of my life, so prone to wander, so ready to run away.

God, if I hold on to my faith, if I believe you are who you are, if I claim the sovereign gift of grace, then why shouldn’t I do whatever I want? Why not? There seems little comfort in the way I have lived. Why on earth shouldn’t I seek comfort in anything else around me? Shallow, fleeting—I don’t even care. My heart feels hard and heavy. It is too much to carry for the rest of my days. My pulse races; my blood boils. I could easily follow anything. And I don’t want anyone to stop me. I’m feeling like I must be still or I will fall. Hard and fast. But I don’t even care. It would be great to know what the free fall feels like.

Part of me says,
Don’t give these questions to the world. Honor God with what you write. Keep the gray quiet, hidden safely away.

Part of me says,
I’m sure I’m not the only one asking, wondering, ready to flip and run.

Part of me says,
Don’t write it until you have it figured out.

Part of me says,
I’ll never have it figured out.

Part of me says,
Don’t question God in public; don’t make him look bad.

Part of me says,
Why not? David did. And he was a man after God’s own heart.

If God is, then he is bigger than me. If he is bigger than me, then my questions and wanderings neither weaken nor surprise him.

Part of me says,
Trust in the sovereignty of God. Promise everyone it will be okay, you will be okay. But I’m not sure it will, I will, this will.

All of me says,
If I’m going to tell this story, I need to tell the truth.

Sovereignty doesn’t mean happy ending. Not on this side.

I sat in Jana’s office, tense and angry. I clenched my fists, digging my polished fingernails into my palms. I erupted, “I want to do whatever I want to do!” daring her to tell me otherwise. I had become like a child who has been forbidden candy all her life, and suddenly she’s at a candy-store potluck. She can have as much as she wants, and nobody would really blame her. I had a peripheral awareness that I would feel miserable and sick after my plunge into the deep end, but consequences were far from my mind.

“Okay. Do it. Color outside the lines, Tricia. Go all over the page. Anger like this is common. You’re right on track. In fact, it took you a little longer than I expected.”

She didn’t tell me no. So I pressed further.

“I want to get stupid drunk. I want to have sex. With anyone. Lots of people, maybe.”

She kept fierce eye contact, unafraid of me. “I don’t blame you. You could. There are plenty out there who would take you up on the offer.”

I was silent in the aftermath of what I hadn’t expected: she didn’t tell me no.

“Tricia, let’s explore this. Put yourself in situations with boundaries. Dance. Go dance. Go to a club with your girls. Punch something. Paint.”

“If I paint, it will be all black. An all-black painting.” I threatened the absence of color, a fierce threat in my mind.

“Great. Make a black painting. And hang it in your home.”

“No. Painting isn’t enough. I need to be loud. I’m so angry. I want to do something irrational, something I’ve always known not to do, something that nobody will possibly believe I did.”

“You can if you want to. If you really, truly want to.”

I began to list relationships I had dabbled in, feeling like the word
extramarital
no longer applied to me. Why shouldn’t I do anything I want? Why shouldn’t I? My home was wrecked. I had little care if I wrecked someone else’s. I felt lost inside this angry shell of a woman I could barely remember. In a breath, my voice softened with fear and vulnerability.

“What kind of woman am I, Jana?” I pleaded.

“A real one.”

She explained that my anger had popped the lid off my conscience. It was not gone forever. There was hope of finding it. But it was floating around instead of being securely attached. Apparently this no-conscience bit is part of the process, and it’s healthy and okay. Jana listened to my to-do list of mistakes I was eager to make in the name of filling an emotional void, and in her careful wisdom, she still never told me no. She listened, affirmed, even added to my list. And then she said this: “Tricia, you’re certainly welcome to do any of those things. I won’t stop you. I’m only concerned that the decisions you
make could haunt you more than the anger you feel.” She leaned in close and dropped the ultimate bomb to curb my behavior: the welfare of my children. “Let’s keep the boys in mind, Tricia. You’ve laid a good foundation. Please don’t abandon that. They’ll be angry someday too. Don’t model the free fall off the deep end. At least, just not today. Maybe another day, maybe next week. Just not today.”

Those three words became the safeguard that kept me from falling off the edge many times. When I wanted to behave irrationally and irresponsibly, when I was drawn toward an impulsive decision with permanent consequences, even when depression became so fierce that I had thoughts of taking my own life, I heard Jana’s words: “Just not today.”

I told my Tuesdays the plan. Take me out. Let me dance however I want, with whomever I choose. Let me. My girls said, “Sure. We’ll take you out. We’ll keep you safe. You do whatever you want. We’ll bring you home. There will be consequences and headaches that you’ll probably have to deal with, but if this is the therapy you need, we’ll help you get there.”

They didn’t say no. Nobody told me no. They even offered to locate and purchase some weed if I wanted to head down that path. In the end I didn’t take them up on it. But in the process they affirmed my every idea, asking me only to promise that I would take them with me when I jumped off the cliff.

It occurs to me that all I really wanted was permission to do what I wanted. I wanted a sense of control. So when everyone took down
the boundaries and invited me to cross the line, somehow I didn’t want to anymore. I didn’t really want to be stupid drunk or ravished by someone I didn’t know. I didn’t want that at all. But I wanted the option to want it. To want something and get it.

“Maybe you should run,” Melissa suggested. “Run mad. I’ll train for a 5K with you. Want to?” It was the first option that really appealed to me. I could imagine the relief in the rhythmic pounding on the sidewalk.

“Yes. Yes, I think I want to.”

So I started running. When I ran, I became anyone: married or not, single or not, widowed or not. I learned to look up as I ran; there’s more to life than the sidewalk. I learned that a fluttery, harmless butterfly is monstrous and terrifying if you run into it face first in the middle of a good sprint. I learned the endorphins of a good jog are as powerful, effective, and relieving as a series of mind-blowing orgasms. Running became my gig.

I followed a training program that I downloaded on my iPod called “Couch to 5K.” As I ran, I listened to my playlist of choice, which varied schizophrenically from loud, angry music to transporting, worshipful praise songs—and sometimes a blend of both. In my headphones the voice of a charming British lady told me when to change my pace for the training of the day.

“Begin warmup.”

“Walk now.”

“Run now.”

“Walk now.”

“You. Are. Halfway.”

“Run now.”

“Walk now.”

“One minute left.”

“Begin cool down.”

“Workout complete.”

I loved the brainless option of letting this British chick tell me what to do next, where I was on the journey, and where to focus my energies. I wished to expand this to other areas.

“Write now.”

“Rest now.”

“You. Are. Halfway.”

“Discipline now.”

“Let that one go. Now.”

Is there an app for that?

After several weeks of training, I ran the 3.1 miles.

I did it. It was many things, but it was not easy. After the first one hundred yards, it stopped being about propulsion and more about intention.
I will finish this thing.
My mind raced with metaphors. The differences between running in the shade or the sunshine; I felt hidden and safe in the shade, and I felt exposed, vulnerable, and hot in the sunshine. The differences between running uphill and downhill; I almost preferred running uphill, because then it made sense that my legs burned with that productive ache. Running downhill seemed like it should be easier, but it didn’t necessarily stop the hurting. I learned from the parallels of keeping my own consistent pace; while some ran around and past me, others stopped and started in sprints and breaks. I learned that it’s hard to run and drink water from a Dixie Cup. But
I was oddly thankful for the splash in the face. I put one foot in front of the other, sure only of the fact that I could take one more step.