NONFICTION

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The Anguish of Compromise
by Marsha Michaels

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The time has finally come for him to do the things that interest him without me. I appreciate that he always wants to include me. I believe I have extended myself to most all his needs that a wife or partner should over more than thirty years. This guilt of mine ends today.
 
Not only can I no longer physically do what he asks, I don’t want to. No matter what miracle he thinks I can pull from “my house of cards,” his requests are not well thought out. I cannot tolerate hearing that I’m “bailing out.” I believe he doesn’t see or hear the howling that is in my head and, when I’m alone, screamed out. Why should he? It’s so much easier seeing me seated, looking well. What could possibly be wrong? It’s so easy to live in denial when the pain is not yours.
 
I went with him on a camping trip years ago, just when the struggle slightly showed itself. The campground was a rocky area with the thundering rapids of the American River that he and his friends would raft the next two days. I was put on the drive team, taking the rafters up the river and then, if they made it all the way down, I was to pick them up. I remember thinking that something good would come out of the trip. I was wrong. I was with a group of young people; cigarette smokers and cocaine users. I had already done my time with this scenario. I said not a word, as he was having a great time, totally unaware that I wasn’t.
 
I accompanied him to the second marriage of his countryman on the wedding day in the scorching heat of the California valley. Thankfully another couple, a woman traveler from Australia and her date, who was also a close friend of the groom, drove with us. The poor dear was suffering from women’s problems, and comparing hers to my secret worries, I relaxed. “Misery loves company.”
 
The party went on for hours, while dancing, singing and playing live music captivated all but the two of us. We endured, sitting on the outskirts, and told each other intimacies of our lives.
 
Later that week, she left for Siberia to work on an icebreaker. She had lost a child, divorced her husband, and was traveling the world trying to find her soul. I loved that woman and, to this day, wonder whatever happened to Sally?

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My husband continues to ask me to go on trips that are long rides, to stay at places I know will be challenging, all for his entertainment. It could be with his buddy who sells motorcycle parts.
 
“Let’s check out his place,” I hear.
 
But I see in pictures. It’s all very beautiful; much like his English estate in Cambridge, where he grew up. But it’s in Grass Valley or somewhere close, but more on the outskirts. Can he sense that this leaves me uninspired?
 
“We have our own little cabin,” he tells me. “You can read.”
 
“Yes, but you will be in the garage with all that excites the two of you. Then tell me, when we are all in the big house with all its steps and no banisters, low toilets with no bars to help me stand, then what?”
 
I explain that while he enjoys hanging out with his friend, I have no interest in his friend’s children or their mother.
 
I don’t need a cabin, as nice as that sounds. It’s just another boring waste of time for me. I would rather be doing anything by myself in San Francisco. I don’t need to read to pass the time in a place I’d rather not be, just to please him anymore.
 
And now, once again, a fishing cabin that the owner says is “good to go” for me. My husband is sure everything will be perfect because the father was an invalid and everything is supposed to be disability-equipped. My husband has invited another friend and his female partner to drive to Nevada City, where we’ve been before. It’s a charming town and I almost said yes, and then I realized it’s about the guys checking out the fishing. Being in the same car and listening to Spanish for hours is not high on my list. Besides, I barely know the woman. And let me not forget—I might be relegated to the back seat. Good luck with that one!
 
The way I see it, there will be grocery shopping and dinners to be made. The beds to be turned down. I assume sheets and towels are to be brought with us. At this stage of my life, I am looking for service, not more work.

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“Please go and play with your friends,” I tell him. “Even if I had no limitations, these are no longer activities I care to partake in.”
 
Today I listed several things I’ve committed to in the name of love. I explained the stress of his present requests and so I asked, “Are you afraid to leave me home alone? You realize that everyone thinks that if I don’t go, that’s why you don’t follow through with activities you want to do. Is it fair that you put that on me?”
 
I get a defensive reaction. “You go to work every day and I’m alone and I manage to survive,” I respond.
 
I often wonder if this is what marriage comes down to. Is it love or selfishness?
 
I certainly go through my day doing many activities and he has no idea of where or what I’m doing. I can tell him but he rarely listens. He’s got so much on his mind, workwise, why bother? He also suffers from both hearing loss and selective hearing, which I know is common.
 
I’ve made compromises to keep a marriage together. I have regrets, but I suspect the role of this 21st century woman is to be content with her days. And that is one pleasure no one will take away while I try to live and breathe peacefully. 

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Marsha Michaels has been a student at OLLI at SF State since 2009. Her first writing class was with Barbara Rose Brooker. Barbara helped Marsha self-publish a memoir called, Pulling At Straws. She also took a class with Dave Casuto, and they developed a website, where many of Marsha’s stories and recipes can be found. Marsha has been published in previous issues of Vistas & Byways. Marsha takes writing classes and other diversified subjects at OLLI at SF State. She finally feels that she’s been educated where she missed out in her youth. Marsha thanks OLLI at SF State for the enormous difference it has made in her life.

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