Mr. Write's Page

In 1989, I arrived at an unexpected milestone in my life when I was slapped with divorce papers after two decades of marriage.

Slapped is the right description. I had no idea it was coming. I wasn’t guilty of anything, and, I eventually concluded, her reasons for leaving had little to do with me. People change.

But it happened, and it caught me off guard and left me reeling. In time, I coped and adjusted and moved on. I wasn’t the first guy to get dumped.

After several years, I began casually dating again. Some of those relationships lasted a while, some didn’t.

Happily, most of my dating encounters were positive. None became permanent, or even lasted long, but they were pleasant at the time. For the most part, good memories.

But not always. A few times, the women I met had issues — carried baggage in their lives that wasn’t healthy.

One turned out to be clingy and needy to an unsettling degree, as if her self-worth needed proving. The evening was awkward. I felt bad for her.

In cases like that, when the alarm bells went off and I felt uneasy, I distanced myself as soon as I could politely do so.

I suppose that’s how the dating scene goes, especially later in life. By then, everyone has a history. Kids and grandkids often are in the mix. Everyone carries baggage, some benign, some toxic.

I mention this because of an old memory that surfaced recently, a sad memory, about a woman I dated not long before I retired. At the time, I was living in the community of Between, Georgia. I moved there, fittingly, because it was located between work and family.

Her name was Carol. She was 10 years my junior, which was intriguing, and divorced for some time. She was an accountant for a large Metro Atlanta construction company, and she lived in a subdivision about a mile from my place. One of my co-workers knew her and thought we should meet.

So, I called her, and we talked, and we agreed to a Saturday lunch date at Ruby Tuesday.

The anticipation as I walked into the restaurant was intense. Blind dates will concentrate the mind, no matter your age.

I told the hostess I was meeting someone. She gestured toward a nearby booth, and there was Carol, smiling at us.

She was disarmingly attractive. Slender, stylish, coal-black short hair. My immediate prayer: that her personality would be as good as her looks.

And it was. She was charming, intelligent, interesting — superlatives all around. I tried to be my nicest self and not act too giddy, but giddy I was.

The reality, of course, was that we both were trying to make a good impression. This was our first meeting, much too soon to assess or understand someone. You have to be realistic and patient.

And soon, I got my first glimpse of the real Carol.

I had told her that my passions were hiking and kayaking, that I spent most weekends either on a trail somewhere or paddling. She replied that she had been canoeing a few times, but she was unable to walk very far because of an accident.

She explained that, several years earlier, she fell and broke several bones in her right foot. The injury never healed properly. She underwent surgery twice. She remained under treatment and was no longer in pain, but she was left with a slight limp.

She explained all this with great intensity. Her voice had an edge. It was clear that she was fixated on the accident and her situation.

When we finished lunch and were leaving the restaurant, I got to see the condition she described.

To my surprise, the limp was barely perceptible. I didn’t comment, but, to me, this thing she spoke about with such feeling seemed relatively minor.

To Carol, it wasn’t remotely minor. What happened to her was unfair, unacceptable, and anguishing. As we walked to the parking lot, I knew she was both embarrassed by the moment and furious that fate had dealt her these cards.

After that, we went out two more times. It was clear that she was consumed by the matter and the perceived unfairness of it. It dominated her life.

Maybe, in one rosy scenario, I could have helped her get beyond the bitterness and deal with her situation. But I knew almost nothing about her life and background, and I had no real skills to offer. Not without regret, I decided to walk away.

We all handle adversity differently. I’ve known people who faced significant life problems — medical, marital, financial — with grit and grace. They didn’t always prevail, but they handled their issues with dignity, maturity, and class.

I’ve also known people who found themselves in serious situations, but couldn’t cope.

At about the time I met Carol, I got a call from an old college friend who was working as a NASA administrator in Florida. Over the years, we had been in touch periodically.

He said he was the victim of botched renal surgery that left him damaged and in chronic pain. The doctor was incompetent. A lawsuit was in progress. He mitigated the pain with prescription drugs.

For the next couple of years, he called me every few months, stoned and miserable. As he rambled, usually incoherently, I sat quietly at the other end of the line. My role was to listen, not speak.

Apparently, his drug use got out of control. He lost his job. His parents took him in.

I dreaded his calls, but I took them.

Then the calls stopped, for reasons I can only guess. I was relieved and despondent at the same time.

What happened to Carol was less dire, but a tragedy nonetheless. She simply couldn’t find it within herself to cope with a problem that, in truth, amounted to bad luck.

That failure poisoned her as surely as any drug.