Member-only story
When The Going Gets Tough, I Run Away
I’m not proud of the fact that I’m a coward.
I hang around as long as I can — I’m not a complete monster. Sure, I wheeled my crippled first husband into court for our dissolution hearing, but I also woke up at 4:00 a.m. to drive to his house three days a week and take him to dialysis because he didn’t like waiting on the van.
And sure, I eventually dumped him onto his family, but they offered to take him. They bought him a double-wide trailer which was nicer than anywhere I had ever lived, and he was a few steps from his sister and her family. They ate together and she cared for him. He kept our dog.
And sure, the second I heard he was dead, I forced my then-boyfriend-eventual-second-husband to drive me to Pennsylvania to rescue Peanut. Quick hug with the ex-SIL and back on the road.
And sure, I don’t know where he’s buried, but I’m not big on stuff like that. You die, your body goes in the ground. You’re not there. You don’t know if I’m standing weeping over your grave or not. (I’m not.)
And sure, when I woke up in the middle of the night to flapping noises, I bolted out of bed and locked him in the bedroom with the bat. But I opened the door just enough to throw in a badminton racket. I didn’t, like, leave the house.
