tears

The Important Tears

I was looking though family photo albums. The memories flowed like a river with occasional rocky obstacles but mostly smooth water that anointed me with joy.

It has been two years since Frank, my first husband, died from chronic lung disease.
He was fifty-seven and we had been divorced ten years. I had loved, resented, hated, and finally made peace with him. He had never made peace with me.

I will be fifty this year and have a good life, a loving husband, and four grown sons. Two are mine with Frank, Paul and Chris. The feelings I have about this birthday are totally different then when forty was staring me in the face. I fought it like a tiger trying to get a carcass away from another animal. My mid-life crisis is one reason my first marriage ended.

When Frank and I met, I was seventeen and he was twenty-seven. He was in management for a major retail store; I was one of his many employees. I was impressed by his sports car, his job, and the money he lavished on me.
Frank and I were invited to a company party. We danced and had a few drinks. We wanted to be alone, went for a drive that ended in Alabama and a Holiday Inn. At two in the morning, I called my parents to let them know we were getting married. I had just turned eighteen. When Monday morning came, we were at a courthouse being married. I remember Frank squeezing my hand so tightly I thought it would break off. Heading back home, I realized there was a lot I didn't know about this man I had promised to love, honor, and obey. I hadn't even met his family. I was way too young for this, but he treated me like a princess, watching over me and filling my life with joy.

We had our first baby a year later. I quit my job and became Lady Madonna and Susie homemaker, enjoying my sweet redheaded son and the pampering of his Daddy. We had bought our first home and life was good but Frank's hovering began to feel like smothering.
After two years, I was restless and wanted to go back to college. Without the emotional support of my husband, I pursued nursing school. I proudly finished on the Dean's List and passed my RN boards. I worked on a surgical floor, loved the hectic pace, taking care of people, making decisions and felt like a contributing member of society.
I became pregnant again and worked almost up to delivery. We had another boy, Christopher, by C-section. Frank was with me and I was awake. He sat by my side and handed me our second son, his brown eyes filled with joy. I was so happy. He didn't think I would want to go back to work.
I stayed home for a year, but nursing was calling to me. So I returned to work on a Women's Unit. This time it was night shift. We built a new home and were doing well financially but the marriage was growing stagnant. We were both so busy working, we were passing like ships in the night. I came home as he was leaving.
As I approached thirty six, I lost thirty pounds and a whole new "Kathie" evolved, I colored my auburn hair blonde and grew it long. I bought a new wardrobe, short leather skirt and all. Our oldest son was eighteen and people thought we were brother and sister.

This had a devastating effect on my marriage. My husband was ten years older and due to his heavy cigarette consumption looked older then his age.
I wanted Frank to go out with me but he wasn't interested. He seemed very depressed, letting himself go and sitting in a recliner every night, sullen and angry. We tried marriage counseling. I asked for a divorce. He fought me tooth and nail.
I moved out with my youngest son, 13, into an apartment. Our oldest son was living in his college dorm.
I started to date and met my present husband.
But there was this bond with Frank I couldn't break. He would take me out to dinner and I would be pulled back towards him. I knew I couldn't go back. He stalked Kurt and I, tried to get both of us fired from our jobs. He was obsessed.
We finally divorced.
Kurt and I married after five years.
Frank and I never healed the wounds. He would speak to me, if it was necessary, for the kids. We didn't see each other.
Ten years flew by and my sons told me he was very ill. I was totally unprepared for the news that he was about to die. I had to see him one last time.
He had slipped into a barely conscious state. His gray skin color faded into the sheets. He looked like an old man. I approached the bed and took his freckled hand, the one that had held mine so tight for many years.

I always thought he would be around. Frank was my backup plan; waiting to step in and put me back in the castle. My mind raced with films of making love, having our children, wonderful times. He opened his deep brown eyes, but there was no recognition. I stroked his hand, and talked about the good times. I don't know if he heard.
Then I kissed him one last time and shut the door on that half of my life, it felt like my heart was being torn in half. I cried all the way home.
Our son, Paul, called me at 2 am and said, "Mom, he's gone. I was on my way to the hospital, a warm feeling came over me and I knew he had left."

Then I cried the important tears, for the ones that had been hurt the most, our children.
By Kathie Stehr on Jan 20, 2003