To start at the beginning, scroll down one post.
I've mentioned before somewhere, I think, that the reason I
married Michael was because...
he was the first man to ask me.
I was twenty-six at the time and literally afraid
that no one else would ask me to be their wife.
So, I said yes to him. Stupid.
I had nice boyfriends in high school.
I think I remember four dates in college.
After college, I moved to Florida and began to meet every
asshole, freak and jerk within a fifty mile radius.
Michael compared favorably to them. I thought.
The job we took at the motel was miserable. The details don't
really matter. Suffice it to say, we lasted six months there
before we quit and moved to a duplex a few miles north and
on the mainland. Of course, this meant Michael needed to
find another job. And, the bankruptcy was not yet final.
Not long after we left the motel, the Federal Bankruptcy Court
notified us that they were sending movers to repossess our
bedroom and living room furniture. They were the only things
of value that we had that could be auctioned off, and the
monies distributed to our creditors. They didn't get much.
The day they picked up the furniture was another humiliation.
The next episode involved my health.
I was experiencing pain in my lower right abdomen. It was
determined that there was some kind of growth in the area
of my right ovary. Turned out to be scar tissue. No big deal.
It required minor surgery to remove it. I decided to ask the
surgeon to cut my tubes since he was going to be in the
neighborhood anyway. Michael and I had already decided
that we would not have children. I wanted to stop taking the pill.
I did not want to have his children.
This was around 1982 or '83 when insurance companies still
allowed patients to stay in the hospital a couple of days after
any surgery. I was scheduled to be there for two days.
I honestly don't remember if Michael was working by then.
If he was, he took off the entire week. To be with me? Nah.
The morning of the surgery, he came to the hospital carrying
some kind of potted, flowering plant and put it on my table
beside the bed. I was in shock. He had NEVER given me flowers
of any kind. Ever. He had always said flowers were a waste of
money because they always died. (Never mind the money he
pissed away, literally, on the beer he drank.)
When I thanked him for the flowers, he said, "Well, I figured
that if you die I'd feel bad because I never gave you flowers
while you were alive. And, this is a plant so maybe it will live
a while." So much for that emotional moment.
As soon as I woke up from surgery, he went home.
Next morning, the doctor released me to go home. It was about
10 a.m. I called the house so Michael could pick me up.
No answer. I waited half an hour and called again. No answer.
The cleaning crew came in to get the room ready for the next
patient. Hard to do with me still in the bed.
By noon, still no Michael. I called the local police department.
Neighbors were all at work. The police called me back and said
they couldn't tell if he was home or not, but they got no response
when they banged on the door. Terrific.
I thought about calling a taxi, but I had no cash on me.
So, I kept calling the house. Finally, around 3 p.m., he answered
the phone. Slurred speech. Said he had taken some Tylenol for
a toothache and had been sleeping. Right.
When he showed up at the hospital, he reeked of alcohol and
was staggering. I drove home.
Did I mention that we had to buy a new bed because we lost
the last one in the bankruptcy?
Did I mention that Michael arranged to have the new bed...
a king size waterbed... delivered on the day I got home from
having surgery? SO I COULD HELP HIM SET IT UP.
And, I did. And, it hurt. Stupid.
It was either help him or sleep curled up in a pappasan chair.
He didn't ask friends for help. That's what his wife was for.
I will try to post again tomorrow night...