Goodbye, Oreo!

Closure is good. I think it is underrated in our society and often woven into jokes for some reason. But when you've been through an emotional experience, it can be healing.

Before I was married, I dated a man named Larry. He lived over an hour away from me, so there was a lot of driving back and forth.  His house was older, but cute and kind of had its own personality, like houses did back then. Now most new houses look beige to me.  Not just the colour, but their personality.  They are soul-less boxes. Don't get me started on new construction vs. old craftsmanship! I can go on and on.

Anyway, I should have seen a breakup coming, but I didn't. There were so many red flags that we were not a match, you would have thought you were at the Indy 500!  I wanted kids, soon.  He wanted no children. Ever. I was just growing into getting serious about my faith. He wasn't at all. But, I will give myself a break here: This really was my first serious relationship in my life, and it was all new territory. He had been married for 10 years already, and divorced. I had never even had a serious boyfriend before.

We hadn't been getting along for quite a few weeks, maybe a few months. It was spiraling down and out of control.  There were more sad moments together than happy, and when I went on a vacation to California with my mom, I wondered if I would have a boyfriend when we returned home.

Why he chose a workday (at lunch!) to tell me "We have to talk; this isn't working," and "I want to get married again someday, and not to you," remains a mystery to me.  Of course, I couldn't work the rest of that day and left the company in tears. I couldn't work, but I wasn't ready to go home yet (I lived with my parents; I was very young). As I went out to my car to go God-knows-where, my very nice boss Art, followed me and asked if he could talk to me. He said he didn't know what was wrong but that he didn't think I should be alone. After a few minutes of me trying to talk while crying and him trying to decipher my babbling, he looked at me very seriously and said very slowly and carefully, "Well, I've learned that you can't make somebody love you.  They either do or they don't."

Yes, it's simple. But I have never forgotten it. He was right. And his caring and his words and the realization that this relationship was beyond repair gave me the courage to let him go back to work while I went to Larry's house (without Larry) to say goodbye. I knew it would be easier if I did this alone.

On the way there, I couldn't stop the crying. It had turned to sobbing now. I could hardly see the road. I almost pulled over, but remembered I wanted to get there before Larry, if he was going home at all.  I wondered if this was such a good idea. But something in me said to keep driving.  Get this done. Say Goodbye.


Remember the movie "Our Town," where Emily is saying goodbye to all the things she loved about her life before she has to go? And she says, "Good-bye Grovers Corners…. Good-bye to clocks ticking… and Mama's sunflower. And food and coffee. And new ironed dresses and hot baths… and sleeping and waking up. Oh, earth, you're too wonderful for anybody to realize you!"  Well, I hadn't seen the movie yet, but I did kind of the same thing.  I drove my little Honda for an hour to Larry's house, trying to see through hot tears, and trying to get myself together enough to say goodbye to all I loved at Larry's place, before he could get there himself.

I forced myself to listen to the mixed tape he had made for me (remember those?) so I put it on while I drove. And I kept rewinding to hear the saddest song on the tape again and again, just to try to purge this enormous grief I now felt.

"I bruise you,
You bruise me.
We both bruise too easily,
too easily to let it show.
I love you, that's all I know."

Thank you Art Garfunkel for one of the most real, honest love songs ever. But my heart was so recently torn and my emotions were raw. The song hurt like a dagger.

"All my plans, fallen through.
All my plans, depend on you,
depend on you,
to help them grow.
I love you, and that's all I know.

But the ending always comes at last.
Endings always come too fast.
They come too fast, but they pass too slow.
I love you, and that's all I know."

Well, here, listen for yourself.
 http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=endscreen&NR=1&v=5IuAQKuiPPE

When I finally arrived, everything looked the same. It broke my heart even more. I knew I'd never be back there again. Ever. I started by looking around and saying softly but out loud, my goodbyes.

Goodbye, house, so cute and small.  And goodbye neighbor, who I barely knew, but was a volunteer fireman for the town.  And goodbye trees and flowers on the lawn, and goodbye little room inside the house where the big picture window showed the backyard so prettily and we would listen to hours of records there  (remember those?).  And goodbye radio where we would listen to "A Prairie Home Companion" with Garrison Keillor on Saturdays.  And goodbye beautiful bathroom with the window seat.  Goodbye creaky staircase, and goodbye upstairs (where the bedrooms weren't quite finished).  I took what few things I had there, and came back downstairs.

I left a quick note on his kitchen table saying goodbye and that I came to get my things.  I left the key to his house on the note and walked out of the house, forever.  As I was leaving, I remembered my favourite thing about the place.  A beautiful little cat, a black and white little sweetie who would wander in and out of all the backyards, named Oreo. "And goodbye, Oreo," I said, with the tears streaming down. And I got in my car. And left.


Believe it or not, I was glad I did it. It was on my terms, and painful though it was, I did it without having to ask him to come get my things.  I knew I couldn't say all the goodbyes I wanted to if he were there. I needed to do it alone, myself.  And I did.

Now the healing could begin.

A month later I met Andy. That was in 1986. We are still together and I love him more than ever.