The Day I Passed Out On The Sidewalk

My husband and I have not been on the same page as of late. You know, when you tell him the sky is blue and he says no it's gray and within two minutes you are either screaming at each other or not speaking? Our communication just ain't jivin'. It's happened before and we survived it, for goodness sakes we've been together eleven years already, but it's still a process to get there. A requirement for our Catholic wedding was to attend a premarital seminar which actually turned out to be quite enlightening. A big topic was communication, and how our "family of origin" influences the way we relate to each other. My husband is from a hot-headed ethnic family that yell as their fundamental way of corresponding. My WASP clan was more prone to pouting and the silent treatment. So yeah, it's been a challenge melding these two together but we'd done a pretty good job. Until I got sick and life got really tough, and the misery of Fibromyalgia was mine to spew all over the safest and closest person possible, my husband. Misery loves company, right?

I was sitting in church yesterday and a memory came flooding back to me from the deep recesses of my cognizance, something I'd not thought of in a very long time. When I was knee deep in the hell of unmanaged Fibromyalgia and still working my retail job life sucked. He was miserable, I was miserable, we were all miserable! One Sunday afternoon we decided to try out a new Spanish/Peruvian restaurant and I found myself sitting in a hot little crowded dining room across the table from a very angry man. He was spouting and spewing his fear and anger all over me while I was trying to have a rational public argument. Finally I realized I couldn't keep up the battle so I did what any business woman has been trained to do when faced with an excesses of emotion. I firmly slipped my "professional" mask over my face, swallowed my feelings hard down my throat and plastered a small smile across my lips, signaling the white truce flag. Suddenly the room started spinning and little spots danced in front of my eyes. I knew I was seconds away from passing out. But there was nowhere to pass out! The place was jam-packed so I raced to the door as my body fell to the floor, fainting and collapsing on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. I came to a few moments later with my very concerned husband hovering over me, flanked by a couple waiters and pedestrians. Luckily I was fine, nothing came of it, and I believe we even went back in to order and eat our food.

Why this particular memory at this exact time? I believe it served to remind me this dear man's hand has been squeezed in my vice grip while I dragged him behind me, whipping and snapping through the hell of chronic illness for many years now. Although the disease itself didn't happen to him, in a way it did. However I am the one who has been given time to process, heal and restore. I've taken time off work and seen a therapist and talked and bitched and moaned about every issue hanging on my horizon. He had to go out and bring home the bacon and keep our family afloat, always running, always playing second fiddle emotionally. He's had to hold himself together and stuff his feelings inside and figure out a way to get through each day while his life slipped out of control right along side mine. We are in very different places in life right now. The high of dodging death, months on Prednisone-crack, my unrequited dreams of being a writer coming to fruition, I am moving full speed ahead into the next phase of my life. But he is not quite there with me. He's still processing, mourning, reflecting. Coming to terms with what having a sick wife has done to his life. This memory made me realize the best thing I can do for him is let him feel and quit insisting the sky is blue when he sees gray. It's okay for him to see gray, he still has storms to get through to see the blue again. As my mother said to me today, "Men are much smarter than women. They figure out on the second day they are not going to change us. Sometimes the best way to help your husband is to get out of God's way."

Thanks for joining,

Leah

This blog was originally published on 9/27/10 and rings as true today as it did then.

The Day I Passed Out On The Sidewalk

My husband and I have been going through one of those "not on the same page" phases marriage knows so well. You know, when you tell him the sky is blue and he says no its gray and within 2 minutes you are either screaming at each other or not speaking? Our communication is just off. We got married Catholic, which means we attended a mandatory premarital seminar that turned out to be really quite interesting. One of the topics they touched on was our different "family of origin" methods of communicating and how that would play into our way of relating to each other, and man 'o man has it ever! My husband is from a hot-headed ethnic family that yell as their fundamental way of corresponding the slightest discord. My WASPish clan was more prone to pouting and the silent treatment. So over the course of our nearly 11 year relationship there has been LOTS of miss-communication. We have it pretty ironed out at this point but it still rears its ugly head 'a plenty! I am most certainly NOT the easiest person to get along with these days. Beside the Prednisone manic (which is calming a bit as I dose down), my immune system is under attack, I constantly feel I am getting sick, Fibromyalgia pain is sneaking back up on me with a vengeance and I am just super busy trying to sort out my life, my purpose, my meaning, post-strokes. He is still working 12 hours a day at a job he would rather tell to take a flyin' leap while trying to balance the rest of his life around it and stay somehow sane. He is also still more than a little bewildered, depressed and unhappy with what life has done to us the last 5 years, understandably so. As the intensity of the strokes fade further into the background of our lives and we resume the normal it is easy to get lost in the mundane struggles of everyday life. It is easy to forget the "miracle" of my complete survival and revert back to stressing and fussing over unsatisfactory situations, people or realities.

So as I was sitting in church yesterday a memory came flooding back to me from the deep recesses of my cognizance, something I had not thought about in a very long time. The details are fuzzy and unclear but the emotion I have attached to it is quite sharp. When I was still VERY sick with CFS & Fibromyalgia our lives sucked, as you all know only too well. One Sunday afternoon we decided to try out a new restaurant, Spanish & Peruvian I believe, and I found myself sitting in a hot little crowded restaurant across the table from a very angry man. He was spouting and spewing his fear all over me in the form of infuriation. I could not take it, was trying to have a rational PUBLIC argument and at one point realized I could not keep going. So I did what any business woman has been trained to do when faced with an excesses of emotion. I firmly slipped that "professional" mask on my face, swallowed my feelings deep down inside and plastered a small smile across my lips, signaling the white flag, truce. Suddenly the room started spinning and little spots danced in front of my eyes and I knew I was seconds away from passing out. But there was nowhere to pass out! The place was jam-packed so I raced to the door fainting and collapsed on the sidewalk right outside the restaurant. I came too a few moments later with my very concerned husband hoovering over me and a few waiters and street passers crowded around. I was fine, nothing came of it, I believe we even went back in and ordered and ate our food.

Why this particular memory at this exact time? I believe what it served to remind me is that this poor man has been dragging behind me while I held a vice-grip on his hand as I whipped and snapped through the hell of chronic illness. Although it has not happened to him, it has. But I am the one that has been given the time to process, heal, restore. I am the one that has taken time off work and been to a therapist and talked and bitched and moaned about every ache, pain and ailment. He's had to go out and bring home the bacon and keep our family afloat, always running, always playing second fiddle emotionally. He has had to hold himself together and stuff his feelings inside and figure out a way to get through each day while pretending he is not internally dying. We are in very different places in life right now. I am so pumped up about the success of my blog (still can't believe y'all are interested in what I have to say!) and my future as a writer and the massive awareness the Fibromyalgia Crusade is going to bring. I am living in such a faith based place, knowing I am sailing down the path I was created to fulfill. But he is not quite there with me. He is still processing, mourning, reflecting. My enthusiasm and conviction must be quite annoying! But I believe the best thing I can do for him is let him feel, be the best wife I know how and keep myself strong, healthy and focused. As my mother said to me today (once again a Mother's wisdom!), "Men are much smarter than women. They figure out on the second day they are not going to change us. Sometimes the best way to help your husband is to get out of God's way."

Thanks for joining,
Leah