The Ugly Fight

Hooter Hotline #12: The Ugly Fight

February 9, 2010

Dear Hooter Hotline Friends,

Please forgive me for my absence. I was suffering from an emotional “writer’s block” due to a very ugly fight I had with my husband. Yes, I’m talking about the very same husband that left the hard–to-reach cereal bowl out for me. Ever since we received the cancer diagnosis the first week in November, the affirmations of love, affection and simply cherishing each other have escalated to the level of newlyweds. It’s not exactly like newlyweds. We haven’t been ripping each other’s clothes off or doing giddy, mushy, nauseating smoochy stuff, but there is a depth to these demonstrations that comes with having logged many years together. I remember talking to my daughter about sex and abstinence when she was a teenager. The main point I wanted to impress upon her was how truly amazing marital sex can become over the years. Sexual activity in short-term relationships or “flings” in no way comes close to the satisfaction of making love to the one person you respect, cherish, adore and feel completely safe with. This intense marital gift has, on more than one occasion, been overwhelming and brought me to tears on an uncontrollable visceral level. Fortunately for Rog, the tears only roll in the afterglow. It would be too cruel if it swept over me before his satisfaction was complete. While his bafflement at such a response is justified, I think that women understand its origin. Everything a woman hopes for in a man, marriage, life, personal happiness and a relationship, culminates in those moments when she is freely giving everything she has and is openly receiving every thing he is giving. It just doesn’t get any better than that. So, these affirmations and demonstrations of affection have been like that without the physicality of sex. Direct eye contact without words while holding my chin in his hands, sitting on the couch side by side with hands on thighs or fingers interlaced and just more touching in general as if to say, “I’m so glad you’re here. I don’t want to lose you.” We even said openly that there was no reason to waste time fighting ever again.

So that’s how we’ve been grooving along for three months and then it happened. I still can’t believe how ugly it was. It was shocking that in a moment’s time, we fell abruptly from an “A” grade to a full-fledged “F.” There had been no signs or symptoms that war was brewing. This happened like the sneak attack on Pearl Harbor. The worst part is that the provocation was not about tyranny or world domination, but was sparked by the dumbest, most inconsequential thing on the planet…the light over the kitchen stove. Usually, Rog is the one who puts the house to bed. After my surgeries however, I have often been the one up late and putting the lights out. One night I made my usual rounds of turning off this and switching off that, when halfway down the hall to the bedroom, I noticed that it wasn’t dark behind me. I turned around and went back to the kitchen to see that the light over the stove was on. It is a small light that is controlled by the microwave mounted above the stove. It is also a very subtle light that isn’t noticed until all the other lights are off. I can’t see the light button on the microwave because the kitchen is too dark and it only shines downward. So I go over and turn on the kitchen light in order to see the microwave button and press it off. No big deal. Some one must have left it on after making dinner. Turning off the kitchen light again, I go to bed. The same thing happens the next several nights. I’m getting a little irritated because I always have to go back to the kitchen and turn on a light to be able to turn off a light. The night of the fight, we were putting the house to bed together. I turned off the living room lights and then progressed to the kitchen. After turning off the main light, I saw that the stupid microwave light was on AGAIN! We had dinner out that night and I knew we hadn’t turned it on, so of course I exploded, “Who is turning on that damn light!” Rog was shocked by my outburst and responded, “My, my, my!” He might as well have said “Temper, temper, temper,” because I was so irritated now that Henry Kissinger would have jumped off the tracks after one glimpse of my train beginning to barrel down the hill. I thought Rog was being condescending and that he didn’t realize I had been fighting with the Light Gremlin for a while now. And to add gas to the fire, I was at day fifteen of my menstrual cycle. A wise man would have fessed-up immediately that he, “Techno-guy,” had recently programmed the light to come on automatically as a nightlight for those seeking a nocturnal glass of water. A confession followed by an apology for any frustration caused and perhaps the offer of a backrub would have quelled the volcanic eruption, but as perfect as Rog is, he hasn’t yet mastered “Irate, Unreasonable Woman 401.” I have found that whenever I am irate and unreasonable, I actually block his ability to perform well and therefore perpetuate my own unhappiness, which is my just punishment for lack of control. I’m not sure when the subject actually turned away from the light, but it did and the fight went down the well-worn dysfunctional path that every couple establishes in their immaturity and we spiraled to the fights ugly demise. Demise of the fight does not mean it was resolved, only that it had stopped. Yuck. While tucking John in bed the next evening, the ugliness of our fight was further highlighted, “Could you try not to wake me up tonight?” Ouch. Hand over the cat-of-nine-tails and I’ll flagellate myself. Nice going, nice way to help your child feel secure when he’s already afraid you might die. Good job. Real good job. Are you proud of yourself? Huh? How’s that feel?
It took us a week of approaching the damage and fall-out from different angles to finally reach a truly peaceful place, but now all is well.

The good news in all this is that I’ve realized that Rog and I are so connected that I cannot be productive or creative unless things are “right.” That’s a good place to be and I need to do all I can to protect that. The bad news is that maybe it was just time for the whole cancer thing to win a round by having it’s stress bring out the worst in us in a way we least expected. I’ve been thinking about ways to be proactive in dealing with all the negative energy I’m trying to overcome. Oh sure, I can exercise, have sex, do yoga, blah, blah, blah, but what I’m actually thinking about doing is making a large breast cancer target and shooting at it off the deck with our shotgun. I’m envisioning a large piece of plywood painted with the picture of the breast from the handout the doctor uses when she explains where you have cancer. It is a side view of the breast that shows ducts and lobes. Since I had cancer in both places, I really can’t miss! Last night before going to sleep I asked Rog what the range of our shotgun was. He’s allover the idea. John can get in on it too with his beebee gun. I’m not sure this will become a mainstream family therapy tool, but I can’t wait to pop off a couple rounds!

Thanks for hanging in there with me folks!