Chap 3–Speak Your Heart

I remember my parents were very romantic with each other. More so than any of my friend’s parents. They mingled within each other’s space. She would sit on his lap at BBQ’s or he would give her hand a squeeze as she walked by in a crowd. It reminded me of Pepe Le Pew, the playful and problematic animated skunk on Looney Toons who was always on a “quest for love.” My siblings and I would joke that Dad was like that with Mom, without the controversial Errol Flynn je ne sais quoi. Dad just wasn’t ashamed to show his affection…out in the open in front of everyone, especially his children. Unabashedly calling her Pepe’s signature French pet name, “ma cherie,” except in his Philadelphia accent it came out, “mon cherry, mon cherry.” My love, my love.

They were romantics. That is, when they had the time. With four kids born before they were 30 years old, Brad and Theresa were always busy with something. Working, soccer practice, piano lessons, track meets, church events, school activities, volunteer work. It was always something. Their jaunt to New England to attend a high school friend’s wedding was one of those rare instances when they planned an escapade for two. I don’t have a memory of their absence, but I do remember the way they told their stories upon returning. Gabbing away about their fun like young people do—laughing over punchlines from inside jokes, impersonating the wedding party, and finishing each other’s sentences. It wasn’t just that the wedding was a blast, it was that they enjoyed it together, and they were young. Mid-thirties.

Why do we pick the wrong time to share sensitive thoughts with the ones we love the most? It was so relatable when she confessed what happened between her and my father the night of the wedding. They had just come back from a heavenly evening where they laughed, ate delectable food, danced, and I think we can assume cocktails were present. Feelings can be lit like a sparkler or explode like dynamite during those times. Very risky. In this entry I got a rare look into Mom’s internal conflict with something that happens between all couples at some point—articulating a concern and then feeling instant regret followed by those pesky consequences. Though I’m searching for life lessons in these journals, in this one, I found myself wanting to give HER advice.

When I first read the entry, I wanted to whisper in Mom’s ear, You’re doing it wrong. Wait until you get home and are amongst all your normal stresses and aggravations. A critique on the physique might feel more digestible there, during the regular household goings on. Back there you can monitor the amount of powder left in Dad’s Slim Fast containers once again. “A shake for breakfast, another for lunch, and a sensible dinner.” What an ad campaign. However, upon reflection, maybe Mom’s choice to speak up at that moment is defendable. She didn’t know when they would get another private minute in a neutral space again. This was an opportune time to be honest with her life partner. Why wait? Being the daughter of a depressed father and three alcoholic brothers means she had already witnessed their bad choices which ultimately became the root of their lifelong struggle. A healthy lifestyle was always important to her. Even though she was a walking example of good diet and exercise, she knew being straight-forward and honest with your family might be the only way to inspire them. Is there ever a good time to address worrisome concerns? Sometimes, you just have to speak your heart.

I wonder what Mom’s advice would have been for me if she were alive when I was falling in love with my husband? I met him seven months after she died.

Prelude and then the Parade

During summer break before my senior year of college, I had a date. Gabriel and I had been sleeping together for a couple weeks and decided a meal together might also be fun. He worked in restaurants so he took me to what he considered the best place in town; a small northern Italian joint called Trattoria Fratelli. I remember the atmosphere was enchanting. We sat outside in their private garden patio cloaked in the late summer dusk with the last of the fireflies flittering about. We started with a wood oven white pizza. Deliscioso. Next, something funny happened. I took one of his house-made croutons off his Caesar salad. He eyed my hand as it crept to his plate and lingered there while I plucked out the crunchy morsel and popped it in my mouth. His gaze didn’t follow my movement. It focused on the empty space left in the crouton’s wake, as if lamenting the loss. I realized: he doesn’t share food. Big dilemma because I do. I put a pin in that.

More than the delectable food, I remember the feeling. The comfortable, casual feeling you get when you’re completely enamored with someone and time just flies. I felt like I couldn’t get enough. I wanted second and third helpings of him. Magic happened in the conversation, prying us open like a shucker does an oyster. I was fascinated with the pearls I discovered. He was an army brat who grew up in Germany and moved to my home town. He was smart, athletic, and very funny. Maybe I could pull that pin out of the salad crouton dilemma. I attempted to dazzle him with my art history knowledge and my weekend warrior rugby-playing skills. We were enjoying drinking each other in as much as we were enjoying the shiraz. Sharing joie de vivre! Between the wine, his wit, and the fresh memory of how he looked in bed, I was ready to run away with him that very night. This was intimacy on another level. This was love.

13 years later we got married in New Orleans. There was no good reason to wait that long, nor a good reason not to. We were living a fulfilled life together until the idea of a wedding enticed us. Thanks to Hannibal Buress’s stand up on the topic, we learned that New Orleans police has a Parades Department. If a city nurtured its culture of pomp and ceremony so much that it invites travelers to organize their own cortège and march down the street led by a brass band while locals join in, well, we wanted to ‘do as N’awlins’ do’.

So it happened for us in October, 2016, in the north east corner of Louis Armstrong Park, New Orleans. During the sweet 90-second ceremony, officiated by the lead singer of a band we met the night before at his gig on Frenchman Street, my eyes locked into Gabriel’s, and his to mine. We said ‘I do” under the shade of the sycamores and sweetgums. Witnessed by about a dozen members of our friends and family, the amiable sun shone, and the fountain sprinkled congratulations. It was perfect.

My secret connection to that park was due to Mr. Armstrong’s famous song, “What a Wonderful World.” It was one of Mom’s favorites. It played for her 1-year Memorial Celebration at church. The congregation held a musical moment of remembrance one year after her passing. Being married in the legend’s namesake park brought her closer to me all of the sudden. What a heart-stirring feeling! By that point in my life, I had learned how to live without her. It wasn’t the first time the Universe had given me a sign that she is never far away. It wouldn’t be the last.

A New Orlean’s minute later, Gabriel and I continued celebrating with our merry crew, plus random and welcome locals, with that famous and uproarious cacophony that is a traditional 2nd line wedding parade. I was out of my three-inch Betsy Johnson stilettos and into my embellished flats, promenading up and down Esplanade Ave. Let the Good Times Roll!

Rolling With It

Those ‘good times’ rolled right down the hill. And all the way to New Jersey. 

Let’s back up a bit. A few weeks before our wedding I confessed a long-time struggle I had been suffering with to Gabriel. “I think I have a problem and need to stop drinking.” I was terrified because once you say a thing out loud to another, it makes it nakedly real. No more hiding, pretending. Your vulnerability is exposed like a compound fracture after it breaks the skin, the bone jutting into open air. Life doesn’t go back to the way it was without disciplined mending. 

Thankfully, he responded to my confession with sweet support for a more sober me. We agreed that the wedding would be the perfect motivator to cut back from what was my daily routine. My misplaced solution to self-soothe my anxiety with vodka had been escalating for years. I needed to stop. For a while I did. 

By the time we got to New Orleans, I decided my two-week-sober-track-record had proved that I was responsible enough to delicately elevate my wedding week with cocktails. Come on, no champagne? Amazingly, I managed to celebrate with moderation every night and rise to a high functioning level every morning for a week. I was so proud of myself, and pleasantly surprised.

Sadly, when we returned from Louisiana, and the party was over, I started to surge again. I wanted to keep my feeling of jocularity and euphoria going and thought I had it under control. But unfortunately what I was really doing was rolling around in a desperate and dangerous cycle, with no sense of escape. 

A year and a half later at Christmas my whole family was incredibly worried at the sight of me. We had an impromptu intervention after the gifts were opened and before I could rush out the door. I sat. I listened. I didn’t speak much. I already knew. I’ll never forget looking at myself in the living room mirror that day and seeing the truth in their words reflected back at me. Jaundice skin. Round belly. Thinning hair. I went to the hospital that day. 

A week later I was home, sober, and seeking for something. My healing body was still adjusting to her new chemistry without alcohol. In the middle of the night, she got restless. I dug around in the closets of my apartment and rediscovered a letter I had tucked away in one of my old journals from college. It was written to me by my Mother the day before I turned 18. There I was, twice as old as when she wrote it, at the dawn of my new chapter. Amidst her wisdom for me she included some of her favorite mantras, “…honor your commitments, be a leader by being strong and taking chances… conquer your fears and you’ll never experience such joy.” I had read this letter before, but the impact of revisiting it that night was sensory overload. Her choice of words was so uniquely hers. I could see her smile, feel her gaze, hear her voice. “Conquer your fears.” This was what I was seeking. Comfort from the one who knows me the most. The one who carried and created me—there was Mom, pushing me toward life again. 

I realize now that the first time I spoke about my addiction to Gabriel, and the time my family had to recite that truth back to me several years later, were two of the most significant crossroads in my adult life. The ‘pesky consequences’ of those statements served as the catalyst that propelled my growth forward. After the lead heavy burden of living a lie had been lifted from my shoulders, I could stand tall again. On wobbly, fresh legs like those of a newborn foal. A teetering tenderfoot who needed practice to build balance, strength, and find my way. Every experience felt new again. Going to the movies, holidays with the family, eating at restaurants, working out at the gym, a day in the office. Fully-functioning mornings! Rediscovering life in the infancy of middle age was an unexpected delight.

My sober birthday is still December 25. My wedding anniversary is still October 17. MY good times are still rollin’. 

When I asked my Father, “What do you think it takes to be happy in a long term relationship?” He answered, “Respect”. Adding that it helps if there are similar interests or an appreciation for each other’s passions. Mom enjoyed contributing to her community and Dad supported her as she organized the church bazaars and volunteered to teach an illiterate student to read and write. It was important to Dad to make time for hunting, fishing, and camping at “The Gultch”—our family cabin near the Appalachian Basin. Mom encouraged every trip and usually joined. It’s sweet to see him walk this talk with his beautiful and endearing second wife as well. There’s a potent alchemy when friendship, humor, and love are the elements. In the end, when it comes to navigating romantic hurdles, I consider myself lucky to have witnessed such a splendid example in my parents.

There you have it. Advice from my Dad, the eternal romantic. As Pepe Le Pew would say, “Love is like a wave, it can knock you down, but you can’t help but ride it.