Happily Ever After

In 1986, Peter and I spent our three week honeymoon traveling by rail through four countries in Europe. I was 22 and he was 24. I was just a year out of college and he was a year out of the Peace Corps.

I had never been to Europe. Peter was charged with planning our honeymoon since I planned our extravagant wedding of 400 guests, consisting mostly of my parents' friends.

We landed in England. After a few days in London, we traveled to York and stayed in a Bed and Breakfast. It would be the first B&B, I'd have stayed in and something about staying in someone else's home made me feel funny, like I was intruding. After leaving our bags, we immediately left to look around the walled ancient city. We found out there was a ghost walk and made it a point to get in line. As was the case most of the time we'd been in England, there was a heavy rain but nowhere to keep dry, except for the pub. How convenient! So we left the cue to get warm and grab a pint before the tour began.

Standing at the bar, a gentleman started talking to us. "Where are you from?" He asked. "We're from New York." I told him. "Oh! So how do you like Olde Yorke?" he asked. We had not thought of it that way. We enjoyed his company, but I didn't want to miss the ghost walk.

"Why do you keep looking outside?" He finally asked. "Oh, we are here for the walk." I said. "Well, you won't miss it. I'll be sure to tell you when it's time to go out there." he said with a twinkle in his eye. "You see, I'm the guide." And with that, we laughed some more and raised our pints to him.

I remember that night so clearly. I can tell you just about every ghost and haunting he pointed out; the house boarded shut to keep the family infected with the Black Plague inside, only to find a small child who was not infected banging on the attic window, crying to be let out. There's the castle, that was the hunting lodge of one of the Kings. Every day, a cleaning woman saw the ghost of the King walk down the stairs, and as he brushed by her, she felt the cold chill of the dead. He said, he believed this cleaning woman, because after all, everyone should believe their own mother. But the story that still sends chills up my spine is the one where a maintenance worker fixing the boiler of what today is the Mint. As he worked in the basement, all of a sudden, he heard the shuffle of feet, the whinny of horses and when he looked up, he saw a troop of soldiers clad in armor, walking in front of him. He noticed a few things that made his rendition believable. He could not see below their shins; as it turned out, the basement of the Mint was poured concrete which was why he couldn't see their feet. He also noticed the shape of their shields and how they carried them. Because he was not an educated man, he would not have known that a lost Roman Legion, one that carried the shield in their right hand had been buried in York hundreds of years before. 

As the ghost walk ended, we headed back to our B&B.

I had trouble sleeping, but no sooner had I finally dozed off, when I had a dream. I dreamt that I was standing in the kitchen of a home, my home? When soldiers, hurt, tired, dragging their armor, shield and swords, appeared in the fields. I pumped some water into a wooden bucket and grabbed a ladle. I walked up to a soldier with a horse and offered him a drink. As he took my hand, bringing the ladle to his lips, he tilted his head and I saw he was Peter.

I woke up just then and was so scared that I pushed myself away from Peter as he tried to comfort me. He questioned what was wrong. "Are you OK?" As he moved closer, I became even more frightened. I finally let him hold me and I sobbed as I told him about my dream. He stroked my hair and let me rest my head on his shoulder until I fell back to sleep.
It would only be in the morning, as we ate our breakfast that he told me he had the same dream. We had the same dream, at the same time.

At first, we chalked it up to a weird coincidence, but after 32 years of marriage and nearly 35 years together, I have to say, we know better.

That was the first of many times we would confirm that we've been together for lifetimes. He has a very old soul and I have lived multiple lives, that's for certain.

After the attachment we both felt for the San Bushman, there is no denying we must have been together way back then. After all, it resonated with us both, the San way of life and our own nomadic lifestyle.
There are undeniable traits that we possess that harken back to Bushman ways. The hunter/gatherer in us as a pair, the matriarchal system where my family has taken him in, and the fact that we follow the food source, which in this day-and-age are his jobs, most recently relocating us to St. Croix.

My theory is that people return to this world to work out some issues. A little Buddism, a little Christianity, and a whole lot of English Lit. that helps me to flesh out the meanings behind coincidences. In other words, my theorized theology goes like this...we have to accomplish something while on this planet. It's more a mission, than a purpose, although I think some people's purpose is the mission. But in my case and for most people I know, we are here to work through an issue, that when acknowledged, will help us to move on. Move to better and better lives.
I was told by a reiki master that this could quite possibly be my last incarnation. That I will reach my "goal" so to speak. Peter, who has had many more lives than me, was told and believes he's here for a long time coming. That, as an astrological ox, he's pulling that plow, unable to lessen his burden.

I don't know.

We are coming up on our 32 wedding anniversary. I insisted on a trip to Scotland. It just kept ringing true to me, that we needed to go there and it had to be this year. So, in a few days, we'll go off to Scotland. Like our honeymoon, he's mapped out our journey, made reservations, and any arrangements. This time, we'll be driving all around the country/countryside. And as before, I'm really just going along for the ride.
That's how I've seen the past 32 years we've had together. He dictates what we are doing, where we are living, how we will live. Sure, there are things I've insisted on, having children, for instance; and places we've lived, Hoboken, Manhattan, Garrison to name a few; and things we've done, gotten married, moved to Ghanzi, a remote village in Botswana, and opened a store. But for the most part, we've followed the food source/his jobs, where I set up our homestead, gather our community, and am ready to pick up and move again if we are all to thrive/survive.
And that's the question I face yet again. Just like my birthday, Peter says, I question our marriage every year around our anniversary. In my mind, I have to. Do I want another year of this? We fight about the same things, year after year. Sure, recently, we fight less, he seems to have gotten over one very crucial trait that drove me crazy. But he still needs ultimate control - if I start making plans or settling in, he rears up and puts his fist down about dumb things, nothing, unsettling everything. He still pulls away when things are too good, causing me to mistrust him, this, us. And then there are the spans of nothing, of coasting, of isolation.

Why?

We're working on that. We've come to see that the bushman wants to provide for his family, willing to relocate and driven to follow the meat/the water source. Then, there's the Roman soldier who was always embattled. When I met him in that dream, he was so tired of fighting, but all he knew was to fight. I think of our disagreements, no matter how small, they would turn into a full out war. I would see that soldier, swinging blindly, trying to stay alive, trying to make the attacks stop. Only, I wasn't the enemy. I was on his side all along. He and I are trying to grasp that for both of our sanity, for both of our piece of mind. I don't think he fully accepted what I had to offer in that dream. I was from the "other side" yet I offered him water, I gave him aid. I allowed him to finally put his sword down, let his guard down. I gave him peace.

As another year goes by, do I follow my hunter to St. Croix and set up our home there, which is what I've done for many of our lives together? And do I give him peace, a place to rest? Is my bucket half-empty or half-full? I don't think he knows. I know I do not.

The Empty Nest Syndrome: A Moving Story

With our daughter, a post-college conservation biologist, gearing up to accomplish her career goals at 23, and our son, returning home to attend community college after a fun (a little too fun) freshman year away, we hardly have an empty house. There are still animals, furniture, 30+ years of momentos, not to mention the accumulated things my mother just couldn't get rid of after downscaling from her monstrous home.

But as of this month, Peter and I aren't there, in New York. I mean, we still own it, our driver's licenses use that address, and we'll have absentee ballots come November using that address, but we spend most of our time in St. Croix.

He's been working here as a consultant since January. He's come back to NY each month for only 7-10 days and as of this month, St. Croix is where I am, with him.

It was a grueling nine months, as many of you know after reading this blog. And after much deliberation, we've decided this is the right place for us, at this time.

It's a hell of an opportunity, really, for us both. His skills as an engineer have been put to the test and he's excited and enlivened by this career change. It feels good to accomplish something and be appreciated for your efforts.

For me, I have the luxury of not having to deal with the clutter of our lives, the demands of our pets, the constant worry of things like, if the kids are fed, dogs have gone out, cars are in working order. I have a beautiful house to stay in and the mellowest dog; who doesn't bark, isn't solicitous, is house broken, and is happy to lie at my feet while I write.

But in fairness, I created the havoc that enslaved me to that house and those dogs. I was stressed and unhappy even while in that house by myself.

So, while I technically don't have an empty nest, Peter and I live as if we do. Because for now, this house in St. Croix has freed me to finally leave our accumulated nest behind.          

Cole, the Stray from St. Croix

This little girl needs your help.

If you haven't been following her story, let me start from the beginning.

My husband, Peter started working in the US Virgin Islands on hurricane recovery back in the beginning of January. Working 55 and more hours per week, he has his work cut out for him.

One day, while inspecting a park along the Christiansted harbor, a dog comes up to him. She has engorged nipples and is begging for food. Peter didn't have any on him. He wonders what to do. Capturing her would be disastrous for the pups she must have hidden somewhere. Finally, she wanders off and he goes back to work. 

I arrive on the island a few days later. He has told me about the dog. He takes me to the spot where she had found him/he had found her, same difference. We don't see her. But as we drive along, there is a small black dog on the side of the road. The dog looks up at us expectantly. This is our first encounter with her. But it wouldn't be our last. 

Upon returning to the park, it is evident it is inhabited by abandoned cats and dogs. Joggers, fishermen, picnicking families, people on their lunch break, some homeless also use the park. But it is the animals that dominate. And upon careful inspection, we see the bowls, dishes, paper plates and take out containers left here and there by caring folks. The park is surrounded by salt water, so thoughtful residents leave cups and tubs of fresh water. 

One day while we were there, we encountered a man standing in the thick brush surrounded by cats. Peter hops out of our truck to ask if he's seen the black puppy. By now, we've seen other dogs besides her. Dogs that look freshly bathed, happy, healthy, unlike the black pup. He says, he's seen her, but not that day. Sometimes, she naps on that side of the park. He's found her sheltered under bushes surrounded by a broken down fence. He's tried to capture her, he tells Peter. He almost had her in a trap but someone honked their horn and she was gone. She won't go near him now, he says. She's a smart dog. 

We borrowed a cage from the St.Croix Animal Welfare Center. When I called to let them know about her, they said they were aware of her. Could we capture her, they are so short staffed? After Hurricane Maria decimated their kennels, knocked down their gate, vandals stole and destroyed what was left of their facility. They were just starting to get back on their feet, finding an old Veterinary office as their temporary in-take clinic and soon were going to open a new adoption storefront.

With residents still out of power, thousands of homes still in disrepair, residents have had to abandon their pets. Over 1,000 school children and their families have had to relocate to the mainland since the two hurricanes hit in August. Evacuated residents were not able to bring all of their family members, which meant there has been an influx of strays. 

We set up the cage and lured the pup to us. Many times, we could have caught cats, no problem, even one of the other dogs. But the black dog evaded us. While she was not afraid of us, she didn't come to us to be petted, either. Not wanting to stress her out even more by just grabbing her, not to mention, the possibility of her biting, we took it slowly and tried to gain her trust.

After spending several weeks observing her, we determined that she most likely spent the past month at least, living on her own out here. We estimated her age based on her size and coordination to be around 3 months, maybe a little more. She had probably spent half of her young life living by her wits.  As the guy said, she’s a smart dog.

One thing we realized is that there were lots of people feeding the animals. This would make it harder for us to capture her. She wasn’t that hungry. This says a lot about the people here. In the two weeks I went with Peter to get this dog to Animal Welfare, we met four people who had tried to catch her. With her mange, everyone knew she needed help. Four people and countless others who cared for the abandoned pets, giving them water and food. A mother daughter out for their evening walk told us they’d seen several people trying to get her. They had noticed her for the first time about a week before I landed in St. Croix. Were we going to keep her, they asked. No. We were going to turn her over to Animal Welfare. They knew the shelter was destroyed but they didn’t know they were accepting animals again. Good to know, they said. Good to know.

One day, we actually had the pup in the cage. But when Peter went to close the door, she scooted out. She was a little less trusting after that, but still, she’d come to us. She’d eat the hot dogs. She’d look us in the eye and when she was full, she would leave.

A cat was standing near the water dish one day and the pup was thirsty. She didn’t charge the cat, but the cat hissed and arched her back. The black pup slowed her approach and the cat left reluctantly. But no scratches, no bites. Another time, there was this adorable Corgi/German Shepherd mix, a puppy too, who spotted us with our hot dogs and came prancing over. The two dogs exchanged sniffs and she gave him a wide berth, sitting a few feet away. I would catch her looking over at us, but she let the other dog have his fill. Then, when he as done, she returned. She understood the rules of the park, rules of engagement. She is a smart, smart dog.

Peter had plans for us for Valentine’s Day. We were going to go for lunch and head over to see the Whim museum, and then spend the rest of the day in Fredricksted where we had dinner reservations. Ok, Ok, he agreed. We’ll go check on the puppy. Afterall, we had not caught her and I was to leave in two days. We can only spend a few minutes, he said. An hour later, I was covered in mosquito bites, she had evaded us yet again, and disappeared into the thick bush only to appear so far down a mud path we couldn’t get near her.

After I left, Peter’s work doubled, so he couldn’t go to the park as often as he’d like. He’d tried several times, starting to rethink the idea of a cage over a trap. There were several days when he didn’t see her. Some days he didn’t make it at all. But one day, he half-heartedly swung into the area he’d seen her last and there she was. She hopped up and came right up to him. He put out the cage, threw in a few hot dog pieces and she went right in. Easy. The easiest day so far. He closed the door and loaded her onto the back of his truck and away they went. Finally, she would be seen by a Vet. Finally, they could treat her mange. Finally, she would be fed, bathed, and cared for. Only, she didn’t understand. She was scared, shivering and sad. She yipped for the first time. And she sneered and growled. She threw up all of the food she’d had that day. She peed herself. She didn’t know what was happening. She didn’t know it would be for her own good. Or was it?

Two days at the Center and they hadn’t really been able to go near her. They even kept saying she was a he. Her tail tucked so close under her body made it impossible to see. She was a bite risk. The Vet and staff and volunteers were so overworked, a mangy stray dog was the least of their concerns.

But not ours.

At the risk of making a pest of myself, I kept emailing the Center. I kept sending Peter in. He volunteered to help them get FEMA to pay attention to their needs. We wanted to make sure this puppy was not forgotten. Was not put down.

One day, three days after he’d brought her in, he went to see her. He had to sign a waiver and as such, became an official St. Croix Animal Welfare Center volunteer. He asked to walk her. “Sure.” She’d been out earlier, but they were sure she’d want to go out again. He was confused. Wasn’t she a bite risk? Guess not. He brought her outside, she peed right away and walked nicely on the leash. She still wouldn’t go near enough to him to let him pet her, but she wasn’t pulling to get away either. He feared he stressed her out, afterall, he had been the reason she was now trapped. But after a few more visits, she relaxed a little. Enough so that he could check out her underside, and with her tail now up in the air instead of being tucked under, he confirmed that she was indeed a girl.

In the last few days, it’s still been hard for him to get much info about her. But she has been spayed, seems to be housebroken, has less scabs and more black glossy hair covering up her bald scaly patches. She is smart, he can tell, although he’s not sure why he thinks that.

Mid-March, he gets to take a week off and return to our home in NY. He hopes he can bring “Cole” the name I’ve given her for now. With so many unwanted dogs in St. Croix, the Center encourages travelers to transport them to the mainland for other shelters to find them forever homes. At first, Cole was considered a very poor candidate for adoption. Did we want to adopt her, the Center asked? Of course! But we have two big spoiled poorly behaved male dogs at home. And Peter lives with other disaster relief workers in a home rented by his company, he can’t keep her there. And so, what to do?

We (well, really Peter) captured her so that she could have a better life. We certainly didn’t rescue her only for her to be put down. So…if Cole and the story of her capture has captured your heart, please let me know. If you can provide her a loving home, a life where she is safe, cared for and loved, please contact me. There is no expense to you. The Center will make sure she is updated on vaccinations and treated for mange, and as I said, she has already been spayed. We will pay for her transport to New York from St. Croix. All you have to do is love her.

I can be reached at Cecilia at womensworkbw dot com. This very special girl who stole our hearts, I’m sure will capture yours. Please help me find her the home she deserves.

14 Romantic Things My Husband Did on Valentine’s Day

1. He forgot to make reservations at the restaurant I wanted to go to, but then found another restaurant I hadn’t even asked about since it was on the other side of the island. 
   
2. Peter offered, “I’ll bring us some lunch and then we can go spend the afternoon in Fredriksted.” I said I wasn’t hungry. Knowing what I really wanted to do, he made a sandwich, and we left to find the abandoned puppy we’d been trying to catch for nearly two weeks now. He knew I worried about the mange that spread throughout her body and knew I wanted to bring her to the St. Croix Animal Welfare Center. “We won’t have a lot of time because the historic buildings will be closing soon,” I nodded, OK. We spent over an hour trying to get her. When she finally had had enough hot dogs and enough of the crate, we packed it up. As we pulled away, he said “We can try again tomorrow.” That was all I needed to hear.  
   
3. He took me to a historic sight. When the manager asked why he didn’t want to show me something nice on St. Croix, his response was, “This is nice.” As we left and bid the manager good bye, she reminded him again, “Now, take her somewhere nice.” He promised he would. Putting his arm around me he asked, “Did you like it?” I said. “I did.”
4. I caught him looking at a woman in a mirror.
   
   Instead of it being some unsuspecting passerby, the woman turned out to be me. 
5. He rushed me while I was shopping for a t-shirt for our son. I was a little annoyed until he reminded me that there was a clothing store I was interested in seeing, but it was closed when we were here last. (It was closed when we finished with the dive shop, too. But he tried.)
6. He kept interrupting me, returning our conversation to my writing whenever I tried to change the subject.
7. He turned the car around so that I could get a better picture.
8. He commented on my make-up, saying you look great, but you don’t need any of that to look beautiful. 
   
9. He offered to let me drink the cocktail he ordered if I didn’t like mine.
10. He didn’t do one thing as he drove that caused me to gasp or pump the brakes that I pretend are on my side of the car.
11. He asked directions instead of going up and down the block a million times like we usually do.
12. He brought up a mistake he’d made and apologized for it, unprovoked.
13. He read the blog I wrote for him. He insisted I publish it even though it didn’t really paint him, me or us in the best light. http://ceciliadiniodurkin.blogspot.com/2018/02/with-or-without-him.html “Regardless, it’s so beautifully written, it needs to be read.”  He said.
    
14. When I first got to the Island, I started to unpack but stopped myself. This is his gig. I didn’t want to infringe. “No, please.” He said. I didn’t want to use his new hairbrush for fear I’d find another women’s hair coiled in it. I didn’t want to open drawers, in case I’d find evidence of another woman in his life. On Valentine's Day, when I began to pack since I would return to NY in a few days, I asked if I could leave a few things. “Sure, “ he said. What he didn't say was, “Does that mean you like it here? Does that mean you'll come back?" He looked at me and said one of the most romantic things he's ever said, "I was hoping you'd at least leave your tooth brush.” So, I did. 

With or Without Him

I'm visiting him here in the Virgin Islands. We were apart for a month, so I came down for two weeks. It will be another month after I leave before I see him again. He gets to take a week off after 4 weeks on. He's here as part of the Disaster Relief efforts. I'm hoping we can avoid any disasters at home. 

How ironic that I would be engrossed in a collection called "Home: American Writers Remember Rooms of Their Own." I slowly consumed the essays. I didn’t realize the significance of this book to me until I looked around the rental property where my husband now lives. I hadn't truly seen it for what it was. His new place. And here I was, determining a space of my own. Both of us looking for a place to call home.

As a product of abandonment, I am always trying to belong. I have moved several times with my parents, moved more times as a college student, then embarked on a ruthless moving schedule after being married, some years more than once. Our daughter would tell people, at 11, she had just as many houses as years of life. Was it tough on us? Was it welcome? Was it him? for him? Or me? for me?

This latest trial in our marriage is due to him accepting a job in the Virgin Islands. As I thought it happened, he was solicited; but in reality, he solicited the move. He contacted a former colleague and before we knew it, he had accepted. More money, a new job, and a new life.

Of course, he consulted me. Laid out all of the positives for him, us, me. (in that order). I said yes! I needed some time on my own. I craved some space. Now that the kids were both off on their own, I could focus on my writing, on my finishing my memoir. “Yes. Go.” I said.

Until it started to sink in. He would be living in the Virgin Islands for a month at a time. He would have a week off, but no time off in between. He would be far away. Far from me. What was this exactly? Were we headed for a divorce?

As I stewed in the unsaid, ruminated on the possibilities, fantasized about the many indiscretions he could get himself into. I voiced my objections.

By phone, night after night we’d have long bitter brawls. Sometimes our connection would fail. Sometimes I hung up. Sometimes he did. Because the decision and putting it into action happened within a month of each other. The final date for his move was issued a week prior. There wasn’t really time to think.

Back in NY, the coldest temperatures hit with two snowfalls and the plow a no show.  He didn’t want to rub in that he was living in a $2Mil home with panoramic views of the ocean from every room. That he had a brand new truck he was driving that the company was paying for, while I struggled with our 10-year-old used contraptions. He only sparingly told me of the new restaurants he and his friend from Brooklyn, who also would be part of the hurricane recovery team, were frequenting and new bars he was discovering.

Even though I knew in my heart, this was what we needed to pay bills, to keep him from spiraling into depression after returning to his engineering office in Nyack, after years of autonomy in the office in Brooklyn, to help me focus on writing, I still was overcome and overwrought by my childhood fears. “This is for the good of our family.” He said. “We can pay for the kids’ education, allow them to have the things they need.” He assured me. “We can really save up and then live the life we want in Oregon or wherever we want. This is a good thing for our family.” He said one night while I cried hysterically on the other end. “That’s what my parents said, too.” I finally blurted out. And it was true.

My parents’ decision to move to the United States to take jobs and leave their young children behind was a decision that has defined me. From that moment on, I was abandoned. Of course, it would only be a year that we lived apart. They left us in the care of our remaining family members. But it was a tough year. Our unmarried aunt, the youngest of my mother's sisters, resented being our caregiver. My mom would tell me later that Tita Chet would not be able to study for her college exams because she was caring for us. Our mother's parents were strict and cold, unaffectionate. Our grandmother was a teacher yet did not know how to care for us, having maids do most of the unpleasantries. Our grandfather ruled with an iron fist. As it turned out, he was the reason we were separated from our parents for so long. Our mom and dad had only meant to leave for two weeks, get settled with housing upon which time our grandfather and aunt would bring us to the USA. But each week, our grandfather refused to board the plane. Finally, our mother threatened to return for us. That’s the only reason our grandfather relented. To him, raising children in the US was going to be a disaster. The children would grow up spoiled, disrespectful, forgetting their culture and leaving the Philippines behind forever. In many ways, he was right.

Nonetheless, while away from us, our parents presented a happy front. They sent pictures of them at parties with their new friends, laughing in front of landmarks, even holding other people’s children. I grew up thinking they had left us, did not care about us, moved on.

Many of the feelings were stirred up by Peter’s leaving. How could they not?

I felt like he was having a damned good time without me. His new acquaintances were fresh ears to tell his stories. Dominating the conversation, Peter would be able to speak ad nausea with no one to stop him. He’d be able to flirt and check out women with me nowhere in sight. Shit, we weren’t even on the same continent! He was free!

Sometimes, I truly believed he went there to get rid of me. Leave me to take care of all of the stuff that made up the life we put together and while he pretended to be doing it for us, he’d one day stop answering my calls and disappear from my life all together. On particularly dark days, that's what I believed.

After 34 years together, I knew Peter would “do the right thing” even if that wasn’t what he wanted to do. That is, he’d do it to a point, then, he’d convince himself that it’s OK to do this or that because…he’d fill in the blank. Entitlement, embodied in a middle-class white boy from America is pretty damn convenient. He let himself get away with murder over the years. But this time, I wasn’t going to let him.

Just admit it, I’d demand during some of my worst days, Just tell me already that you don’t want THIS life and this is your way of getting rid of it/me. He’d deny it. Tell me that you secretly think you can have your cake and eat it too? You can coerse me into believing that one day you’d like me to move here but in reality, you want the freedom to have affairs and flirt and check out other women until one day you find one that you want to settle down with. Tell me that you’ll push me so far that I’ll finally just walk away and then you can have this life and it won’t be your fault because it will be me who leaves.

But he swears this isn’t the case. He says things like  "You don’t understand. I am lost without you.” “If this goes on for longer than six months, I will just come home. I don’t want to be without you for that long.” “I’m doing this for us, if there isn’t going to be an us, then I’ll just stop doing it.”

But we have a history. Over thirty years of him pushing me away, or hurting me, finding what pushes my buttons and doing it. This is the ultimate way of hurting me. Different from the time he left for Turkey, then England because at that time, I didn’t want him. He was so down all of the time and nothing I did could break his depression. I felt I was to blame. That was the first time I looked into a divorce. Would this be the last and final time?

Which puzzles me, because we were getting along. We had resolved to having a future. Growing old together. And then this.

We’ve spoken at length about his issues with his mother, his family, his childhood. How lately, he as a 12-year-old boy has needed to take control, to speak out and defend adult Peter. Why?

Is the 12-year-old really the one that tells him it’s OK to flirt and check out women? Not being able to control himself, making excuses for doing something I don’t want him to do? According to Peter, he came to understand how much it hurt me, how it stirs up my feelings of abandonment, how I couldn’t hear him when he said he loved me. All I could see was how disrespectful he was and lately, I believed more and more that he did these things to keep me at bay, to make me insecure, feel like I can and would be abandoned.

He had been gone since January 2 and we were arguing about this situation on a daily basis. A few days before my 55th birthday, I repost "Birthdays from Hell". I knew all along that he wouldn't be home for my birthday, so, I made due. I made plans of my own. 

It was Sunday, the day before my birthday, when he texted me. He heard there would be island-wide cellphone and internet outages. We had experienced several instances of this already. He just wanted me to know in case I tried to reach him that the cell phone service might be out. I said, OK.

I went about my day. Monday, my actual birthday, I was going to spend the day at a spa. So, on Sunday, I went to bed early. I figured he had no cell phone coverage, so I wouldn't miss his call. Since he’d been on St. Croix, we hadn’t had a night where we didn’t talk well into the next day. Poor guy. He had early morning meetings with his boss. I would keep him up past his bedtime. And so, I too was up late. This was a break in our arguments and in our sleep patterns. I was happy to get into bed, turn out the lights and sleep before 11pm.

I heard my phone go off. I was trying to wake up and focus on it when I heard someone open my bedroom door. “Markham?” I started to say. But when I heard my bedroom door close, I knew it wasn’t him. Our son tended to storm in with whatever thing he wanted to tell me or show me but leave the door open so he could exit just as abruptly. I heard shoes, footsteps coming my way. My mind started to formulate the words "Oh, Oh!" when I saw that it was Peter. “What are you doing here?” I gasped before burying my face into this torso to give him a hug. “Peter!” I exclaimed unbelievingly. 

“I read your blog." he said. "I was sobbing. I had a few things to do for work and then I called my boss (his boss of 20 days) and said, I am all caught up and don’t have any meetings for the next two days. Can I go home in time for my wife’s birthday? And he said, yes. So, I got a plane ticket, rented a car and here I am.” It was just after midnight and as was his master plan, he was the first to wish me a happy birthday.

After that, how do I question him? 

Because he’s insecure. Because, so am I. Because he wants to live here in the Virgin Islands and I’m afraid he’ll flirt or check out other women or worse and then I can’t be with him any longer. Because we’ve had over 30 years, a lifetime, no, several lifetimes of hurt that just keeps coming. Because,  I’m tired. I’m done.

A medium once told me that I this would be my last time on this earth. Peter and I believe we’ve been together as hunter and gatherers. We’ve been together during the end of the Roman Empire, during the expansion West and other times in between. When I told Peter that this was my last incarnation, he knew it already. He hung his head and said, “I know, and I’m going to miss you.”

Does that mean that I accomplish my task and move “up”? Or that I fail and don’t get another shot? Does it mean I have free choice and move on? Or does it mean I get him to change and so we move on together? I don’t know. 

We don’t really know what the universe has planned for us. What we do know is that we can believe in fulfilling our destiny to the best of our ability and hopefully, fulfill it with more happiness than pain. 

If I truly believe I’m meant to be with him, then I should be with him. Trust him. Put my trust in him. 

After all, what’s the alternative? A life without him?