This past week, I was reading the news as I used the restroom (that is my dedicated time to peruse the headlines because even my bathroom time currently gets doubly committed), when I ran across a Rolling Stone article on Mrs. Smith. Normally, I don’t have time to do more than scan a few sentences of each story, but I was so intrigued I read the entire article and then gave up some of my precious sleep time to watch several videos from The World of Mrs. Smith and you tube.
Some of you may have already heard of the fabulous Mrs. Smith, but I live under a rock the size of our therapy schedule which keeps me pretty oblivious to anything outside of our family other than the headlines. I am sure Mrs. Smith would object, since her situation is (as she puts it) “tragedy” and not the “comedy” that others perceive in it, but I haven’t laughed so much in weeks.
On the surface, this guitar-wielding character and I have nothing in common. Her slick musical skills were cultivated while experiencing an abundance of practice time and a desperate lack of nourishment over three months of closeted captivity at the hands of a ransom-seeking Norwegian death metal band. Seriously, even if a pack of ill-funded concert pianists were to subject me to a similar confinement, I don’t have enough innate musical ability to emerge three months later with a comparable degree of skill, and anybody kidnapping me certainly would have starved to death themselves waiting for a ransom given that I lack the luxurious “nest egg” 13 marriages have afforded her. None of our cats, despite deep levels of kitty angst and frequent “anti-depressant snuggles,” have ever taken the “Audobon and gone to graduate school.”
Yet, I realized while listening to her describe how she had lived a life “filled with grief and rage,” but was now choosing to “share” some of what she had learned in the hopes of helping others, that perhaps we have at least one thing in common. But unlike David Hanbury’s adeptly fashioned character, Mrs. Smith, the events behind my drama are real and I can’t take them off like a costume and put them back on again whenever I choose.
Holidays and special occasions are a delicate subject for me. For many years now, they have been a smoking hull of ransacked and missing traditions. They are days where I often work harder than any other to provide some semblance of normalcy to Hannah while managing all of the complicated features of Tony’s world. They serve as exhausting reminders that our circumstances are so altered, when I look at past pictures of special events it feels like I’m viewing and thinking about the life of another person.
May is one of those months I feel the starkness of these celebrations, because it has three special days which are supposed to revolve around me or our marriage…but definitely can’t in any way that has cultural “normalcy” for where we live.
This is something I have come to embrace as a mother who cherishes both her children. The first few years though, this was much harder for me and I was filled with a great deal of “grief” that was only compounded as people asked me what I did for Mother’s Day, our Anniversary, or my birthday. I stayed home and took care of my son because nobody else who felt comfortable doing so was available. A few years ago, I even sent out an e-mail to all of my friends expressing the desire to not be asked what fantastic celebratory things I did on any of those days, because I was having a hard time processing the surprised comments and looks of pity on top of everything else I was dealing with.
Rage is a dark word with uglier behavioral connotations. I feel life deeply…the wellsprings of compassion and patience that fuel the happiest parts of my being have many siblings of equal intensity, but rage typically isn’t one of them. But I can only honestly say that I was experiencing some definite hints of anger. To be clear though, I have never been angry with Tony…absolutely none of this is his fault, he’s doing the best he can just like the rest of us with that hand he’s been dealt in life.
Emily and I discussed this recently, and the truth is for me it is possible to feel angry about a circumstance because it is painful to go through while recognizing that it is not appropriate to blame anyone for what is happening. I suppose you could say that falls under the category of being angry at life or even the divine for what was circumstantially happening to our son and therefore our family. I was definitely both of those things for a time. Anger, as many individuals far wiser than I have noted, is just a way of masking grief and pain with an emotion that helps us to feel less weak while we are dealing with life’s challenges.
The truth is, even though I’ve come a long way in learning to let go of the grief and how to treasure our new circumstances, it’s far easier for me to talk about Mrs. Smith right now than how I feel about the triad of May special occasions that involve celebrating aspects of my life. Seriously, David’s amalgamation of guitar skills and madcap cat lady socialite is wickedly amusing and far more interesting than what happens on any of my special holidays…each of these days has become just like any other for the most part.
Which leads me to the bit about sharing some of what I’ve learned: I think that perhaps we could all be happier if we turned every day into a celebration of what we do have, and not place so many expectations on such a slim number of holidays. I am grateful for the gift of our family 365 days a year, even if the circumstances don’t always look like what people expect.
And, if someone you know or love has had to lay a bouquet of traditions upon the alter of difficult circumstances- whatever they are- perhaps consider proceeding with delicacy about questions and stick with wishing them a happy day and/or voicing your appreciation for their role in your world. Because, maybe what they need most is to talk about something else instead for right now.
