If you read back through my blogs, you will find a few rare
references to ‘Mister’. He was my husband. His name was Michael McNamara and he
passed away three months ago.
There were two Michaels. I truly believe that he had an
undiagnosed mental illness that caused him to have two separate personalities. There
was Good Michael and Bad Michael. About six years ago, Good Michael went away. That’s
when I lost my husband. That’s when I did my grieving.
Good Michael was brilliant, funny, kind, sensitive, sexy,
and hard working. Good Michael had a photographic memory and understood
industrial engineering like I understand breathing. He was a talented musician,
a proud veteran of Desert Storm, and a devoted father to our son. He loved the St. Louis
Cardinals and classic 70s rock. He was fun.
Bad Michael was a verbally abusive alcoholic. Bad Michael’s
biggest fault was that he expected life to be perfect, not bumpy. When it wasn’t perfect, he felt
cheated and wronged. This caused him to fan the flames of bitterness, rather
than looking for joy in life. This likely started with the death of his father
when he was nine, but he carried it on. If our car needed new tires, he was
mad. If the electric bill was too high, someone was clearly to blame and must
be punished. There was no 'dancing in the rain'. There was no sense of ‘team’
in my marriage. Everyone, including me, was the enemy. Paranoia ruled him.
I know you are asking yourself why I would marry a man like
that or why I would stay with him. The truth is complicated. Partly it was
because he was a mixture of the two Michael’s for a really long time. I loved
Good Michael. When I left him, which I did twice, he was able to become Good
Michael for an extended period of time to work on issues and win me back. By
the time I realized this last time that Good Michael was never coming back, Bad
Michael was totally dependent on me emotionally and financially. He was not
able to support himself and he had driven away any friend that might have taken
him in. He had nowhere else to go.
I no longer saw him as my soul mate, my friend, my husband.
He was a disappointing dependent. I and his sister tried desperately to get him
the help he needed, but he was his own worst enemy, incapable of remaining
sober for long. Once he no longer had the ability to drive and go get alcohol,
he began abusing his prescription medication. Anything for a few minutes of
high. Eventually, I locked up his medications and hid the key, but he was able
to find the key (because I am not hardwired to be sneaky like he was) and he broke
into the stash.
Last February he went to a residential rehab program. For
almost a month, Good Michael was coaxed out of the depths of his soul and began
tentatively peeking around the corner to see if the coast was clear. He left that
program with a burning desire to be a better man. I allowed
myself to hope for just a little while. But Bad Michael was too firmly in
control. Ultimately Good Michael scampered back into hiding while Bad Michael committed
slow motion suicide.
I know so much that I never wanted to learn about liver
failure, transplant lists, kidney function, and a tragic condition called
hepatic encephalopathy. For the last five months of Michael’s life, I was the
most intimate of caretakers. Hospice was my lifeline, as were a few close
friends and my mother who knew the truth and came to help.
Mostly, I kept that part of my life hidden. I glossed it
over. I would like to say it’s because I wanted to keep my private business
private, but it’s really because I wanted to keep my pride. I did not want
anyone to judge my life, feel sorry for me, or lecture me on how I should
handle it. When I left home every day, I just wanted to be Jorgi. No more, and certainly
no less.
Michael had not been my partner in life or love for
literally years. I was widowed a long time ago. I truly loved Good Michael. I
wish he had been stronger. But he wasn’t.
I grieve for his lost potential. I grieve for his son. I grieve for the dreams
I had of having a best friend and lover with whom I could laugh, travel, and
grow old. But I do not grieve for the actual loss of Michael anymore. He has
been freed from prison, as have I.
