The Death of a Relationship Sucks

Picking up the Pieces After Death or Divorce

The Papers arrived in my mailbox the same day a friend arrived at my home. She needed a place to stay while her husband was in the ICU. He had been life flighted to Phoenix. She was overwhelmed with grief and fear and for the next 10 days, we drove back and forth to the ICU and sat by his bedside.

As his health declined, I helped her understand the medicalese spoken to her by the doctor. They did not know what caused a previously healthy man to decline so quickly. It made the suffering even more acute for my friend. He was actively dying, and they did not know why.

When they discontinued life support, we silently watched the heart monitor above his head. The small room was crowded with other loved ones. His heart continued beating, maybe rally is the more appropriate word. Like his heart was fighting the inevitable. Up and down the heart rate went. The nurse told us this was typical.

And then it ceased.

I had never seen someone die before.

We returned to my home. What the hell do you do when your loved one dies?
You cry. A lot. And then there are plans that need to be put into place.

Meanwhile, there were The Papers. The source of my own profound grief. There was no vigil around these papers. No more interventions. Even their arrival was unheralded, even though they brought the most devastating proclamation in my life:

I was now a single woman. It was official. Almost 33 years of life with my husband was over.

My whole identity as a wife and a mother officially-and legally-ended.

Chalk it up to another first. I had seen a man die, and now I watched my marriage draw its last breath.

It was final now. Oh, and by the way, there was this stupid staple on the decree that had the message, “Do not remove staple. Doing so will invalidate the decree.” WTAF?

I tried to prepare mentally for this moment. We had already been separated for most of the previous year so felt I would be okay.

But still I wondered. Would I have a Victorian fainting spell right there at the mailbox? Rend my shirt as I’ve seen on movies depicting grief-stricken Jews? Or how about my go-to-an outburst of Sailorese complete with door slamming? (That last one would have been hard to do as my mailbox was in a cluster of mailboxes. Not too much drama in slamming the mailbox door.)

I had already done the curl up into a ball and cry on the bathroom floor prior to this. And I yelled and screamed enough F-bombs. So. Much. Fucking. Pain.

When I opened the envelope? Nothing. Just nothing. Did I shut down? Dissociation? Ho-hum. Toss the envelope in the bill pile.

There was no celebratory drink out with friends. No singing “I’m FREE!” (Though I did have a break-up playlist on Spotify.) Nothing. It was almost a nonevent.

And besides, I needed to be present with my friend. In retrospect, the distraction probably helped me. But it also reminded me of an unhealthy pattern in my marriage, I was setting aside my needs to tend to someone else’s needs.

Not that I have any regrets about helping her. We were both awash in grief.

She was experiencing the loss of her husband who didn’t want to leave her.

I was experiencing the loss a husband who chose to leave me.

I, too had watched the decline of my marriage, not unlike the vigil we kept in the ICU.

My husband would tell me things like, “I don’t know if I believe in marriage anymore.” Blip, blip, there goes the pulse of our marriage skipping a beat.

We grew up together. I thought we would grow old together. Have a cozy home for the kids to come back to for visits. Financial stability. Yadda yadda yadda.

>Insert laff track here for my naivety<

The choices he made were increasingly toxic to the health of our relationship. I didn’t realize how much I was adapting and tolerating the bullshit.

I became the enemy. I was the woman he wasn’t sure he wanted to remain married to. Tough decision I know when there is a younger, shinier model to compare to. But I had no fucking clue.

I tried to hang on. Was in therapy. But my physical health was screaming for release.

So, I filed for divorce. And now the papers, or should I say “the staple”, made it official.

I am Theresa Winn once again.

Like my friend, the absence of my life-partner has brought a shit ton of grief.

Life support has ended. It’s time to go home.

But where is home now?

I’m sure I’ll be picking through the pieces for a long time. Divorce doesn’t just affect the two people. And it’s a task and a half to untangle that which I thought would never untangle.

It’s been almost a year now-for both my friend and me. And we are both landing on our feet. (Well, except for that pesky breast cancer interruption.)

I am learning to embrace the opportunity for a new beginning. The decks have been cleared. I start work with a new therapist next week.

No boobs, no husband, no…..thought I was going to say “problem” didn’t you? Fooled ya! There are a shit ton of challenges to sort out.

But this time, I am stepping into my life on my own terms.

Watch me fly.

Thanks so much for reading. You can find me around the internet at www.theresawinn.com, on Facebook, LinkedIn and Instagram. If you’d like to support my healing journey in a small way, feel free to buy me a coffee.