August 14, 2007
Give me strength
Originally published May 2, 2002
Monday morning, a fellow I worked with for a long time and once supervised was found dead in his car, in his garage, with the roll-down door shut and the car's motor still running. He was having marital problems and evidently found the emotional load too heavy to carry. We were not friends. In fact, before I was transferred to another department, I was working up the paperwork to fire him for poor job performance. But I hate to see that happen to anybody.
Because it damned nearly happened to me.
I always told people that I KNEW the two happiest days in my life. The first was when I married my partner, my lover and my best friend, and the second was when my son was born. I believed that with all my heart and I was convinced that it would never change. "We make a great team," I said often, just enjoying being around her, "and we make GREAT babies, too." That was reality as I saw it, and it was good. I remember sitting on my back porch many a night thinking what a lucky man I was. I had a big house, lots of land, the perfect wife, a perfect son, chickens, goats, a half-acre garden and no bill collectors bugging me about money I owed them. My life had played out MUCH better that I ever believed it would.
Then, it all fell apart, and it took me by complete surprise when it did. She's a good planner, so she had everything set when she made her move. The unemployed, dope-smoking lover was poised and ready to move into my house as quickly as she threw me out. She cancelled all the credit cards, cleaned out the bank accounts and said, "Go. I haven't loved you in a long time." Like a complete dumbass, I went. I had $60 to my name.
That was a Saturday. The following Monday, the biopsy results came in and I discovered I had prostate cancer. She had dope-head living in my house by then and told all the neighbors he was there to do "handyman" work. Yeah, some plumbing and pipefitting and reaming. She lied to everybody.
Let's just call it a one-month time-lapse. My radical prostatectomy was scheduled for Tuesday, October 9. I went to work Monday, October 8, and she called me about money I owed her for half of a credit card bill. I took her a check, she gave me a bright smile and said, "Thanks!" That was it. No "good luck" or anything. And that's the way it's been ever since. She is a living Magic Slate. Just lift the flap and everything on the page disappears. That's why I frequently refer to her as a bloodless cunt in this blog. Because she is.
I spent many a sleepless night over this unbelievable betrayal of trust, friendship and what I was silly enough to believe was love. When I moved into this house, I spent about a month with a pistol on one side of the bed and an alarm clock on the other, and I SERIOUSLY debated about which one I would use that night. It was the worst experience I've ever had in my life, and I'm not fully over it yet. But so far, I've managed to keep setting the alarm clock, and the pistol is in a drawer instead of on the nightstand. I suppose that's progress.
I went into this funk because I have to attend a four-hour meeting tomorrow at work and she will be the facilitator. I don't know how I'm going to handle that. I don't want to see her, talk to her or even THINK about her if I can help it, which I can't, because I still do it all the time. But this is business, and it's what I do for a living. I'll just have to manage.
I just hope I can.
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