June 23rd used to me a day of note in my life; now it is just a day. Except it isn't.
In 1979, I was married to my (now ex) husband, Dan. That means we would have celebrated our 38th anniversary yesterday. Instead, I have been single again for 11 years, and the anniversaries probably had little real meaning after the 24th.
The wedding was a blast, in very 1970s ways. A good time was had by all. The marriage had its ups and downs, but was overall pretty good for a long time. We raised our two children together, went on fun trips, had a beautiful house on the edge of the woods in Vermont. My career as a physician went well, his as a teacher also went well.
But then we grew apart, as often happens with 2 kids, 2 careers, and busy lives. I somehow thought that when the kids were out of the house we could get to know each other again and prepare for a nice time growing old together. But, as often happens, things did not go as I envisioned. Another woman secretly entered the picture. When I discovered the relationship I offered him the choice of a counselor or lawyers, and he chose counseling-- but his heart really wasn't in it. It became very clear that our lives would be better apart, and we were divorce just before what would have been our 27th anniversary.
We are both happier now. He remarried (another story about that one!) and I remain single, but am in a good space feeling that I am enough. If the right partner appeared in my life, I would be delighted, but I am not going seeking one on Match.com!
Still, every year June 23 rolls around and I wade through a flood of fun memories, sad memories, angry memories, guilty memories. All are only echoes of their initial intensity, which makes it livable. I know life is so much better now; yet still, sneaky inward gnomes tell me I am a failure. I don't assume all the blame for our divorce-- far from it-- but I know I contributed, and I sometimes wish it had worked out otherwise.
When I was still working and met an older patient with a spouse and a marriage of 40, 50, 60 years. How wonderful for them, ("you failure," says the gnome.) When my friends celebrate their 35th, 40th anniversaries, ("you failure," says the gnome.) when I wish I had a partner to travel with, ("you failure," says the gnome.) When I miss having someone to cuddle with, ("you failure," says the gnome.)
I have learned to greet the gnome, offer her a cup of tea, and sit with her for a while. then I send her on her way, hoping she won't feel the need to visit again for a while. But on June 23, I know she will be joining me. I brew a pot of tea, get some cookies, and sit down to wait for our annual chat.
