Doing Hard Things That Don't Involve Running - Part 2
Sometimes we choose to do hard things and sometimes the hard things choose us.
During the pandemic, time and its constant momentum of seconds, minutes, and hours hung like an early morning fog, thick and slow. Each day seemed like yesterday, or was that last week? Or maybe even last month? But during the malaise of sleepy non-events, a notable space in time happened for our family. My older daughter and her boyfriend decided to make the transcontinental transplant from New York to California. My wife and I had the space, so it was easy and delightful for us to host them as they made the transition.
Quarantine rules created novel living situations for families. My daughter, now in her 30s, and I had not lived under the same roof since she was five years old. Our bicoastal living situations punctuated our separation. Time to play catch-up.
“Dad, why didn’t you go to graduate school?”
She knows I have a bachelor’s degree in psychology.
“Well, I had intended to go, but life circumstances and responsibilities were more important.”
“Oh, you mean like a wife and a baby.”
“Yes, like a wife and a baby.”
We both knew who that baby was and the circumstances that surrounded her. I was four years into my oil refining career–good money, good benefits and the thought of graduate school or any other career faded daily as I prepared myself for the long haul of an oil industry career.
Her mother had an earlier premarital pregnancy and I had decided to do the right thing by marrying her. We lost that child, but later were blessed with a healthy baby girl. But good money and benefits do not guarantee a healthy marriage. As adults sometimes do, her mother and I could not get along, grew apart to the point of intolerance, and when that baby had reached five years old, we decided to get a divorce.
The maelstrom of a divorce turns life inside out and upside down for the unlucky participants. Add a child into the mix and the chaotic disruption is multiplied exponentially. My soon-to-be ex-wife and I loved our daughter as much as two people could and the thinking of how to prepare our daughter for the new awkward three that we were soon going to be called for creative solutions.
Fortunately, for all three of us, my in-laws and I had an excellent relationship. I was part of their family and that was never going to change. I was still invited to family gatherings because, as my mother-in-law decreed, “You divorced her, we didn’t divorce you.” Despite the complexities of divorce, family security for my daughter was ensured.
As life would have it, I found an apartment right down the street from where my ex and my daughter lived. It was within walking distance, and so mom and dad walked a five-year-old down the street to her father’s apartment to show her where she would be spending every other weekend.
“This is going to be your bed when you’re here.”
My daughter nodded in agreement.
“And you can bring your toys and dolls and put them here to play with.”
Again, nods and smiles of understanding.
My daughter looked in my room and saw my queen-sized bed.
“And this is where Mom is going to sleep when she visits.”
“Uh, no.”
The interiority of a child can be as complex as that of an adult. The human mind is uniquely individual and at times, inscrutable. Both her mother and I assumed we knew what was going on in the mind of a five-year-old and we convinced ourselves that she was handling the thought of separation quite well and that maybe we would get lucky and the transition to the new normal would be an easy one.
Today was the day I would be moving into my own place, separate from them. I loaded up the last of my possessions into my ’89 Chevy S-10 pickup truck. My ex had been prepping my daughter that day as to what was going on. After securing the load into the back of the truck, I came back into the house to say my goodbye.
I knelt down to give my daughter a hug. She jumped into my arms, tightly wrapping her arms and legs around me and started screaming hysterically.
“No Daddy, don’t go! Don’t go!”
I looked helplessly to her mother who sat on the couch across the room, weeping and remaining fixed in her spot, unable to move against the misery that was exploding in the room.
And while my daughter continued to cling on to life itself, I pried her fingers off of my arms and wrapped my arms tightly around her and carried her to a chair directly behind us. Seating her firmly in the chair I turned toward the door. My daughter bolted from the chair and again wrapped herself around me.
“Don’t go! Don’t go!” Crying, screaming with absolute terror destined to sear my memory.
Again I had to unwrap her body off of mine, because she had now coiled her legs around my left leg as well as wrapping her arms around me. But this time I had reached behind me and had opened the front door. Again I had to firmly seat her into the chair, turning, leaping for the door, grabbing the knob and setting the lock. I made it out the door, shutting it behind me, while I heard my daughter still screaming, trying desperately to open the door.
I knew she couldn’t undo the lock on the knob yet.
“No! No! No!” The door knob rattling, rattling, rattling, refusing to open, her voice squealing in desperate frustration.
I could hear my daughter still screaming as I turned down the walkway and headed toward my truck. I thrust my middle finger to the sky, telling God what I really thought of him. Despite the promises I had made, that as an adult I would never repeat the sins of my parents, I had made the unwitting decision to traumatize the one human being on this earth who loved me unconditionally.
Time and circumstances changed the relationship that I had with my daughter. Every other weekend visitations are not ideal, but they still kept us lovingly connected. On the road to adulthood, she has experienced sorrow, joy, and all that life has had to offer her. The one constant that has always existed is that my daughter has always been surrounded by parents and family that love and support her without reservation. In the years following that incident, it became quite clear to all three of us that the effects of trauma can be insidiously pervasive and persistent. All three of us have sought individual psychological help and have benefited greatly from more attuned self awareness and continued healing.
My first therapist when assessing the trauma came up with an interesting observation: “Sometimes we choose to do hard things and sometimes the hard things choose us.”
I was about to find out that this axiom is not just true for me, but for others as well.
A painful story about a painful time. I know, I have twins and lots of stories.
Divorce sure is tough on kids. I’m glad your daughter had parents who each agreed that she needed both of you.