Five minutes after I arrive at the first party, I get a text from Rowan’s father, who never texts me when my daughter is with him. “I’m taking Rowan to the hospital. She is doubled over with stomach pain and I am with a doctor friend. He said her pain is not normal and to take her to the hospital,” he writes.
I call him immediately. “What’s going on? What’s going on?” I’m fucking freaking out.
“She started to complain of stomach cramps and she’s in a lot of pain,” he tells me. “My friend checked her out, and felt around her stomach, but says that she shouldn’t be in so much pain. We’re on the way to the hospital now.” In the background I can hear my daughter crying hysterically.
“Put me on speaker phone,” I demand, and he does.
“Rowan baby. Rowan baby. Listen to me. I’m coming, okay? I’m coming!”
All I can hear is her sobbing.
“What hospital are you going to?” I ask Rowan’s dad.
I get an Uber and leave the party immediately, racing to the hospital. I text Boyfriend, telling him where I am heading, but he’s still in the air and won’t get my desperate texts for another hour, when his plane lands. At this point, he’s still the first person I go to when I have good news and the first person I run to when there is bad news.
I am freaking out, as any mother would be. The Uber driver is taking forever, I think, when in reality the drive takes less than ten minutes, the longest ten minutes of my life.
Because it’s not actually Halloween, I must look nothing short of a lunatic running into the emergency room, where I find my daughter lying in a hospital bed, doubled over in pain, as the nurses take her vital signs and hook her up to IV lines. I burst into tears when I see her writhing in agony.
“Make it go away, Mommy. Make it go away,” my daughter screams out. Although I’m dressed as a superhero, I feel like anything but. Rowan’s dad is calmer than I am, but I can tell he’s worried because of the sweat stains under his arms, just as he had the night before our daughter was born via C-section.
My daughter is admitted to a private room, where nurses pump morphine into her IV line, a Band-Aid for her pain that also makes her loopy and somewhat hilarious, asking nonsensical questions. By now, Rowan’s father and I have been here a couple of hours. Every forty-five minutes or so, my daughter’s pain comes back with a vengeance and she starts crying out, holding her stomach as tears stream down her face. I am beyond desperate. I feel helpless.
So where is Boyfriend during all of this? His plane landed over an hour ago.
“Since you’ll be there waiting a while, I may as well go to this party,” he texts me.
Um, what?
I’m floored. If this were one of his biological children, I’m 100 percent confident that he would be racing over to the hospital to be with them. But while I’m freaking out at the hospital, watching my daughter in agony, he’s at the Halloween party. To say I’m beyond disappointed in him would be the understatement of the century. He should have come to her. He should have come to me. He should be there for us. I think he may have offered to come, but after I read his text, I don’t want him around. It is clear to me that he really wants to go to that Halloween party.
But I can’t think about how disappointed and angry I am. My thoughts are on my daughter, and I’m running around asking nurses for more hot packs to place on her stomach. Blood work has been taken. We’re waiting for her to have an ultrasound, and I’m hoping that my daughter has appendicitis, because at least we’d have an answer.
The fact that Boyfriend has gone to a party, knowing where I am and that something is wrong with my daughter, breaks my heart. Falling in love is a process. Falling out of love can also be a process. But like those who profess they fell in love at first sight, I know I’ve fallen out of love in an instant.
I know, after he texts that he “might as well” go to the party, that I no longer love him. Or, for that matter, even like him.
October thirtieth is the night I clock out of my blended family. I’m simply done with the bullshit. It’s not blissful anymore. It will never be blissful again. If anything says to me that he’s not all in, it’s him “might as well” going anywhere but straight to the hospital when he gets my text. I. Am. Done.
It’s not only that he goes to the Halloween party. I expected him to at least stay at home in case I need him to bring something to the hospital or just so I can talk to him, to have a shoulder to cry on and help calm me down. But he isn’t there for me or for Rowan. He is not there for my family, in my opinion, when we really need him. It’s not “ours” anymore.
My daughter is having stomach attacks every half hour or so, and not even morphine is working anymore. She’s admitted to the hospital for three days as they do tests, her biological father and I switching off nights and days so our daughter is never alone, not even for a second.
Boyfriend has a different take on this night. When I confront him, he says that he had too much to drink on the plane, which to me is a pretty pathetic excuse. What else sobers up a parent than their child being at the hospital? Not just at the hospital, but admitted! Hospitals don’t admit people unless it’s fucking serious.
Perhaps it’s also true that I told him not to come because Rowan’s father was there and it would make us all uncomfortable. Even still, I did think, even if I did tell him to stay away, that maybe he would, or should, at least come and sit in the waiting room, showing his support for me, or even offer to bring me a change of clothes, since I was still dressed as sexy Batgirl. He says that he offered to do this, and maybe it’s true that he did and maybe I didn’t hear him, because I was beyond distraught.
For three days, I barely see Boyfriend or our son, spending all my time with Rowan, who is still in pain, still undiagnosed. Boyfriend doesn’t visit once. Neither do his children. The two times he drives me to the hospital, I have to ask him to do it. During these three days, I try not to focus on the fact that I hate him. I lie beside my daughter. I hold her hand when she’s in pain. I scream for nurses to help. All my energy is on my Rowan, and I don’t really have it in me to try and figure out why Boyfriend would go to a party instead.
But, once we think we have a diagnosis and are discharged and back at home, I do allow myself to think about my feelings for Boyfriend and how they changed with that one text.
How could Boyfriend enjoy himself at a party knowing how worried I was and that my little girl — my everything — was in such pain? I know that if either of Boyfriend’s children had been admitted to the hospital, and even if it would be awkward to be there, and even if Boyfriend had told me not to come, I still definitely wouldn’t attend a party and get drunk with friends. I’d be waiting by the phone for updates. I would offer again and again to come be with him. I would drop off food for the nurses to give to him, even if he didn’t want me to come.
Even though he says he wanted to come and that I told him not to bother, how could he actually have fun, and get even drunker, while I was watching my daughter double over in pain? Why wasn’t he preoccupied with worry? It’s like he gives entirely no fucks about the person in the world I give the most fucks about. I am … beyond gutted. I know I will not be able to forgive him.
Exhausted beyond belief, I finally lose it on Boyfriend, who for the first time, actually apologizes. Or maybe he says he was “wrong.” But, still, it’s a defensive apology, as he reminds me how long things take in the ER (so what’s the rush, I guess?) and that he was drunk and wasn’t thinking about much more than continuing to party. Over Halloween weekend I finally see his mask come off, literally and figuratively. The fact that he said he “might as well go to the party,” since my daughter’s father and I were both with her and the wait would be long, is not something I can forget. So I yell at him for choosing to go to the party. I yell that I would never do such a thing if it had been one of his children. Life is a series of choices, I howl.
“You made a choice,” I scream. “First, you made the choice to g
o home and change into a costume. Then you made the choice to go to the party. You made a choice to order an Uber to go to the party. Then you made a choice to stay at the party. Then you made a choice to continue to drink at the party. What if I needed to get in touch with you?” I ask him, sobbing because I am beyond hurt and exhausted. I may have slept for four hours during the past three days. I feel broken.
“Well, I did have my phone on me,” he says.
Wow. Just … wow.
Boyfriend digs himself into an even deeper hole. There are no words to describe the depth of my disappointment. Whenever his children were sick, with fevers or sore throats, it was me who demanded that Boyfriend or his ex take them to the doctor.
“So, over the noise of a party, you think you would have heard your phone ring or hear an incoming text?” I scream in disbelief, since I know how loud this house party gets.
Eventually, Boyfriend realizes that, or at least says that, his decision to go to the party was wrong. In fact, it’s the first time in our years-long relationship that he actually says the words “I’m sorry.”
But, really, it’s too late for an apology. I’m not longer interested in hearing the words “I’m sorry,” the words I’ve waited to hear our entire relationship. The damage is done. I don’t tell Boyfriend that, much like when you squeeze too much toothpaste out, you can’t get it back in. Our relationship will never be the same. I lose all respect for him. Once you lose respect for your partner, there’s no turning back.
I think of the costume that I was wearing as I raced to the hospital. I know about Batman because of Baby Holt, who is now a toddler and is obsessed with superheroes. Batman’s greatest weakness is also his greatest strength. He doesn’t have superpowers, but he still has the courage to face crazy villains and dangerous criminals. Batman will not stop, and he will take on any and every challenge thrown at him, but he can be worn down.
I was once up to the challenge of being in a blended family, but now I feel extremely worn down, not just from the emotional toll of watching and trying to figure out what was the cause of my daughter’s stomach pain, and not because I haven’t had more than four hours of sleep in more than three days, but because I would do anything, like Batman, to save my daughter from the pain she was experiencing.
After much crying and asking Boyfriend what the hell he was thinking, I think he finally understands why it hurt me so much. Still, I ask myself why I even need to explain this to him. I mean, isn’t it common sense? Could you imagine a parent in a traditional family who would think it was okay to go to a party, knowing their child was in the hospital with unexplained, agonizing pain? How could I not question just how much he truly cares about both my daughter and me? And I don’t think I will ever forget that when I really needed him, he wasn’t there. What hurts even more, though, is that he wasn’t there for my daughter. And, with one foot in a relationship and the other foot out, I am stuck in limbo.
I know Boyfriend didn’t mean to hurt me. I know Boyfriend is regretful and remorseful. I know that people don’t make the best decisions when they’re drunk. But it’s too late. I’m beyond disenchanted with him, believing that our relationship is now past repair.
Falling out of love with someone is so fucking sad, because at one point I thought Boyfriend was my soulmate — The One. How could someone I was once so crazy about now suddenly make me feel that our relationship is an emotional flatline?
For months after, I treat him like dirt. For months, I will look back on that night in October and think, That is the night I should have ended our relationship. I no longer believe I can rely on him. No longer can I hear any love in his voice.
Yet, for the next two years, I stay with him in our blended family. Why? Well, it’s a good question. Maybe a part of me hopes that, after that night, I could forgive him. Some people who are cheated on in marriages seem to find it within them to forgive, so me moving past this indiscretion is always a possibility, theoretically. Part of me is just indecisive, believing that I will regret ending the relationship I put years of effort into. So, I hold on to see if I can, once again, be the Bigger Person. But being the Bigger Person has made me feel small. It’s made me feel invisible. I can’t pretend anymore. I won’t.
Relationships, especially in a blended family, never die a natural death. They are murdered by ego, attitude, lack of respect, and lack of giving fucks. Our home is a crime scene. And I’m somewhere between giving up and seeing how much more I can take. I find myself asking, Was this really ever supposed to be more than a rebound fuck, a one-night stand? Maybe, at the end of our first date, I should have handed him the meatloaf, walked him to the door, and never looked back.
There are many more notes sent to me with the subject line “Us.”
“I would like to finish our conversation. I am not trying to blame you for where we are. I want to be clear on that. I am having a hard time understanding why you sometimes talk to me the way you do. I do still really love you and want to be with you, assuming that you won’t talk to me the way you sometimes do. I am not perfect but I never rip into you like that, so it is extremely hard on me when you do it, and my coping mechanism is to walk away and seek companionship from friends,” he writes me in one text. He continues, “Neither of us wants that, so the question is this: Is what I do or how I treat you so bad that I deserve to be talked to like that? If the answer is yes, then we should not be together. If the answer is no, we have to learn how to cope with things when they happen and deal with them in a calm manner so shitty things are not said. I think that is the key, and if there is calm I really do think it will have a more positive effect on me and I will want to hang and do more things with you. Does that make sense?”
Another note he sends: “You are coming down on me again and giving me shit again. I understand life can get hectic with the kids, but we are parents and choose to have them, so we have to deal with them when they are around. You say you are a single mom, but don’t forget about Holt. I do tons for him so if you want me to help and do more with Rowan, you can lessen my load with him. There are still two kids that need us. I think you just feel overwhelmed because you are tired.”
Yes, I am tired. I’m tired of him “diagnosing” me. I take care of my daughter almost twenty-four/seven. I had thought, early on, that once Boyfriend moved in and witnessed me having to drive my daughter everywhere, he’d offer to help. On the handful of occasions I can’t get my daughter or I ask him to drive her to school, which is located less than five minutes from our house, it feels like I’m asking for a favour, one that I will have to pay back. Very, very rarely do we take care of each other’s children. I have never once picked up his children from school, not only because it’s at least a forty-five-minute drive each way, but mostly because Boyfriend has never asked me to. Later, I will find out that Boyfriend will use this against me as one of the reasons for the demise of our relationship.
But he refuses to acknowledge that it takes two to tango and to break up, and that I shouldn’t always be the one apologizing, and why, why, why can’t he say he’s sorry when his actions, or lack of action, upset me? By the end, I also think it’s hard for him, being his own boss during work hours, to come home and be treated like an employee, not just by me, but by the children as well.
After October thirtieth, I no longer care that I hide in my bedroom. I no longer appreciate the little things he does. I start to tell Boyfriend that I’m sleeping with my daughter because he snores, but really, I’m just not into him. I make plans with my friends and tell him afterwards. I stop calling his mother regularly. I stop going out with Boyfriend and his children. Quite frankly? I no longer give a shit. After that night, I’m not even going through the motions. I have already given up in my head. But my heart likes to romanticize our history together.
For the next two years, it’s wash, rinse, and repeat when it comes to our arguments. It really isn’t a matter of things will change, or that we are just going through a rough patch, or that our rela
tionship just petered out, as with many other married couples. After that night, at various times I ask myself, Do I really want to make this work or not? I’m sure Boyfriend must also be asking himself the same question. I realize, for me, that the answer was already solidified that night my daughter was admitted to the hospital, when Boyfriend wanted to go to a party. No, we can’t and won’t ever make blended splendid again. The lid is off. Shit is flying everywhere.
For the next two years, we push through. We are as delusional to think we could make our blended family work now as we were when we first entered this insanity with zero forethought about what it would mean. I think we stay together because we both have already been divorced and neither of us wants to be seen as a serial divorcee. We know how taxing divorce is. We both have already had marriages that crumbled, and once you’ve been through that, it’s hard to make the decision to split up again. You do wonder if you’ve tried hard enough in this relationship. You believe that, this time, you are going to fucking make it work.
Interestingly, I also don’t want to break up for our son’s sake, though I am a firm believer that sometimes divorce is better for the children. I also worry about what kind of role model I am for my daughter when it comes to relationships.
One night, at a cocktail party, I meet a very friendly young woman who, when I tell her I’m writing a book on blended families, tells me that her mother has been married three times, and that in two of her mother’s marriages she had stepsiblings. She is best friends with the child of her mother’s second partner but not close with the children of her mother’s third marriage. She offers me her mother’s number so I can ask her questions about blending, but all I want to know is if her mother, by having two divorces, has skewed her daughter’s view on relationships. I want to know if she believes in happily-ever-after, or if going through two divorces has made her scared of relationships. I’m beyond relieved when she says, “No, not at all! My mom is and has always been my best friend. Her breakups didn’t really affect me at all.” I want to cry tears of relief when I hear this. I give her a hug. Mentally, I’m collecting a pros-and-cons list of staying in my blended family and, also, of Boyfriend.
Blissfully Blended Bullshit Page 22
