Chances Are…
I sat quietly on the indoor porch swing of Cottage 64, Tabby Lane, waiting to hear the news that the papers had been served. It was a solemn hour or so, but this time there was no game playing, no “reality check” that was being issued…just a decision being made! This was a signal that would represent the strength I was capable of harnessing to take back my life; to move forward with courage, integrity and the truth on my side, as well as the confidence and commitment of the fierce advocates, who finally “had my back.” My new lawyers had said they would let me know immediately when the deed was done, and while I was anxious about receiving the confirmation, I also felt, oddly, both calm and empowered. My Mom had taken me aside for a moment on Christmas Day, hugged me gently and said quietly…”honey, he gave you a gift; you would never have initiated or been able to go through this, without serious provocation.” It seemed oddly coincidental that the same swing, my favorite spot in Cottage 64, where I found myself waiting on January 11th, was the very same place I had been sitting back in September when Emily shared with me the weighty secret that would change our family’s dynamics forever.
What an honor to feature this beautiful work by the talented artist Carrie Pittman, to accompany the sentiment shared with me by my Mom on Christmas Day, 2007!
Carrie started painting in 2014 to bring beauty and a real element to her own life and space. Carrie “loves the fact that art has no rights or wrongs, do’s or dont’s.” Carrie believes, “there is no end, no limits to what I can do and create. I am only limited by my own mind and imagination. There’s so much power and confidence in that! I work with oil, acrylic, water color and paper mache. The biggest compliment I’ve ever been given is that people can feel I put my heart into my pieces.”
In 2016, Carrie decided to branch out from paintings to hand painted fabric in order to share her work in multiple formats. This has turned into her brand ‘Carrie Pittman Collection’ of handbags, pillows, window panels, wallpaper and accessories. Each piece Carrie paints is a one of a kind creation that represents the uniqueness of each client.
Carrie works with fine retailers, design professionals, businesses and individuals who would like original art. “I am passionate about bringing beauty and personality to enhance the environment the art occupies.”
Please visit her website: Carrie Pittman Art Collection (carrie pittman.com), and follow her on Instagram @carriepittmanart.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007 - Emily, PJ and I were sitting in Tramisi’s eating an early dinner, when my cell phone rang; I excused myself to take the call and speak in private outside. The caller I.D. displayed who was on the other end, but I didn’t want to talk, either in front of the kids, or in the crowded, noisy restaurant. Once outside, I proceeded to inquire of the caller what was going on? Al answered briefly and in a very shaky voice. He had flown home to California a few days earlier to see a Cardiac specialist, as he had been experiencing chest pains and tightness for well over a week. He relayed that he had been at the doctor’s most of the day, but was now being admitted to Cottage Hospital, and was getting ready to be prepped for open heart surgery. His voice, haltingly, relayed what was about to happen. Al was imminently facing multiple bypass and valve replacement surgery, and asked (actually begged) if the kids and I could please get there as quickly as possible. It wasn’t the first time I had heard his voice sound that shaky, nor the first time I had been summoned in the midst of a crisis to be with him. The last time had been many, many years ago, back when it was only Emily and I that had been there to fly cross-country to be at his side. Now, we were three, with the addition of PJ, who was already eleven years old, and we were flying from Georgia to California, rather than from California to New York. Al continued talking… saying our jet and Greg, the pilot, couldn’t get to us before Monday, but he needed us there sooner; would we come? I didn’t hesitate, and responded yes, we’d be there. Al gave me the details of his surgery time, the surgeons name, and said he would make sure Freehaven was unlocked and ready for our arrival. He also directed me to fly into LAX, and call Lawrence, (the gentleman who had, long since, been driving us from Santa Ynez to LAX, and vice-versa). Al would make certain Lawrence was alerted and pick us up upon my notice. I simply said “ok, I would make the arrangements and get there asap.” He hung up, but not before saying thank you, and that he loved me! My knees and stomach were a quivering mess when I walked back inside the restaurant and sat down once more at the table. Thank heavens we had already finished most of the meal when the call came, so it was fairly easy to pay the tab and make our exit without much fuss. Once the three of us were safely ensconced in the G-Wagon, I then explained as succinctly and unemotionally as I could, what had transpired and was about to unfold. By the time we got back to Tabby Lane, and I started calling airlines, it was pretty clear that the only flight that we’d be able to make in time and had seats available was the early morning flight out of Jacksonville, so I booked it, and called Larry with the details. PJ and I then walked to his room, and together we got a bag packed for what I knew would be a quick, back and forth trip, as Emily had semester finals all the next week at Franklin Academy prior to the Christmas holiday break. After getting PJ packed and settled in bed for a very early wake-up the next day, I went down the hall to Emily’s room and helped to get her packed. We quietly discussed all that was happening, while folding clothes and filling her suitcase. I tried to calm the worried expression so evident on her face and the words that accompanied that fear, but my own thoughts were such a jumbled mess, I didn’t know if I was helping her, or making everything worse? The next morning arrived quickly and if I had managed to sleep for even four hours, I would have been shocked. Nonetheless, it was time for the car to collect us and make the hour (plus) ride to the Jacksonville airport. I had called PJ’s main, “home school” teacher the night before to relay our abrupt travel plan, and in her usual manner, she was a rock, both calming and comforting; she assured me, that she would relay the information to his other two teachers, and we were not to worry for one moment about anything other than what was directly in front of us. Her soothing manner and words eased my mind, but still the prospect of what might be ahead felt awfully daunting! The Headmaster at Franklin Academy was, surprisingly, equally thoughtful about Emily’s absence for both that day and the next, and said not to worry a bit; he and the rest of the faculty would be sure that, even remotely, Emily would be well-prepared for her finals the next week. He hadn’t always been my favorite, but our conversation that particular morning removed a bit of the residual sting from a past and painful memory.
Commercial travel between Sea Island, Georgia, and Santa Barbara/Santa Ynez, California was never easy and at a minimum required at least 13-15 hours, if everything worked and went according to plan. Alternatively, on a bad day, with poor weather or other unpredictable delays, the travel time could be anywhere from 16-21 hours. We had experienced it all, and I prayed that this day of travel would be an easy one? God knows what we were “flying into” was sure to be fraught with uncertainty, or worse! I had let my Mom and sisters know what was going on, but hadn’t spoken to either of Al’s older daughters. It wasn’t unusual for me NOT to talk with Carol Marie, the younger of Al’s two older children, but the lack of communication that had become the new normal between Maren (Al’s eldest) and me was definitely atypical, and I was hesitant about the reception that might be awaiting us? As I could have predicted, it was indeed a long day of travel, and Lawrence’s limo, carrying the kids, myself, and our assortment of bags pulled up to the entrance of Cottage Hospital in Santa Barbara around 11:30 on Thursday evening. Lawrence was the same steady, reliable, if somewhat unpolished, driver and friend that he had become over the past 8-9 years. Even though we had seen much less of Lawrence since Al had acquired the Lear in 2003/2004, the old, familiar rapport still existed, and after opening the door for us to exit the car, he gently touched my shoulder and assured me that he would be right there waiting to drive us to Freehaven after we saw Al, were caught up on his condition, and ready to go. No matter what had transpired during the past many months, there was nothing that could have prepared me for the flood of emotion that swept over me as the kids and I walked into Al’s small hospital room. Almost instantly, PJ grabbed my arm and I glanced down to see his face had turned completely ashen; he looked as though he might collapse on the spot. I quickly turned and walked him into the hall directly outside Al’s room. We both sank to the floor and I held him tightly; in a few minutes, when I felt his small frame relax a bit, I asked if he’d prefer to remain there while I went back in the hospital room, where Emily had remained and a nurse tended to, and hovered over Al? He just nodded his head in agreement, and after hugging him again, I rose and slipped quietly back into Al’s room. Emily was tentatively standing at the foot of Al’s hospital bed, while two nurses were checking the various monitors and investigating Al’s gown clad, but gaping, stapled chest area. I reached for Emily’s hand as I moved closer towards Al; we were just inches from his head and face, when he opened his eyes and looked our way. With a gravelly, and somewhat muted voice, he attempted to speak and slowly raised his arm to reach for Emily and me. The nurses subdued Al’s efforts and urged him to remain still. He continued to reach out for us, however, so I inched, carefully, forward. Lightly I touched his hand, assuring him that the three of us were there and that he should try to rest; I promised we would be back to visit for longer early the “next” morning. The two nurses looked at me, as Al lowered his arm and once more closed his eyes. Both Emily and I quietly turned and crept out of the room, followed by one of the two attending nurses, clad in matching turquoise scrubs and appearing surprisingly fresh and upbeat, but maybe that was just in comparison to how “run over” I felt, as it was 1:00 Friday morning by then? She explained she was one of the night nurses and would be overseeing Al for the duration of her shift; she went on to say Al’s surgery, albeit intense, had gone well and if we could return to the hospital by around 7:00 a.m. (just six hours later) we’d probably get an opportunity to speak with the surgeon and learn more about Al’s prognosis. I thanked her, took Emily’s arm, and we walked towards P.J. still slumped against the hospital hallway wall; we lifted him to his feet and the three of us made our way back outside and to the shelter of Lawrence’s car.
The car pulled out from the hospital porte cochère and drove until we were stopped in the motorcourt of Freehaven; Lawrence helped us get our bags inside the front door, said he would keep us in his thoughts, and told us to call should we need anything. The comfort of friendly words, and the familiarity of our home helped release some of the tension from my body, and I then worked as rapidly as possible to get Emily and PJ to bed…the “next” morning was going to be another early one. Sure enough it was an impossibly short sleep til we arose and headed back to check on Al, meet his doctors and learn his status. The small space that surrounded Al’s hospital bed was aflutter with activity. At first glance I counted one very tall Doctor, with a head covered in silver hair, then saw what appeared to be a second doctor, but much smaller man in both stature and demeanor, also wearing a white doctor’s coat, loose blue shoe coverings, and finally two nurses in more shades of blue scrubs. Amidst the activity, there was a break in the conversation, and a thin sliver of space opened just long enough for Al to catch sight of us; he animatedly exclaimed “my family is here” beckoning us towards him. He grabbed my hand and called Emily to come closer. PJ once again opted to stay in the hallway, as just walking down the sterile halls of the cardiac wing had turned his face, almost instantaneously, the same shade of white as the sheets that covered his father. Al was introducing both Emily and I to the doctors, and already looked more alert than our visit mere hours earlier. It seemed important to Al that the staff knew we were, respectively, both his wife and youngest daughter, but the pride in his voice and on his face as he gave our names, was something I hadn’t heard or seen for quite awhile. As disconcerting as the circumstances were…both the immediate situation, as well as the past several months, I was relieved to see Al’s obvious improvement as well as his elation at our presence. By the time we spoke to the doctors, then visited with Al alone for awhile, I received a call from my Mom saying she was parked outside the front entrance to pick PJ up. She pointed out there was no value served in his sitting in hospital hallways, when his Grandmother (whose grandkids all affectionately called her “Nee”) was eager to see him and might provide a distraction, and an easier way for PJ to deal with his father’s condition.
I walked him down to the main entrance, greeted my Mom effusively and thanked her for coming to our rescue, so to speak. After returning upstairs, sitting and talking with Al and Emily for nearly 30 minutes more, two more visitors appeared in his doorway. Standing just a few feet away were Al’s two older, adult daughters. It was the first time we had seen Maren since August, and closer to a year, or two, since the last time we had an occasion to be with Carol Marie (CM). The facial expressions they wore, made it fairly apparent the displeasure that my presence had created, and I was uneasy about how the rest of the interaction might play out? One of the nurses came in to explain that we could not all be in Al’s room simultaneously, so we turned to say goodbye to Al, in order to give Maren and CM their own time with their father. Al said goodbye but asked if we’d please return later, and Emily and I both assured him we would. Emily and I left the hospital, got in my CLK, which had been parked in the garage at Freehaven, and made our way towards Via Vai in Montecito’s upper village, where we had agreed to meet Mom and PJ for lunch. We tried to keep the conversation light throughout the meal, which got tough at times but was the goal, as both kids were always my top priority, and “light heartedness” seemed a necessity for PJ’s sake. Poor guy seemed to get queasy at just the mention of the word “hospital,” never mind any discussion of Al’s entire chest area, which had been split, entirely, open to undergo the surgery, and was unfortunately, something PJ had seen, albeit only for a moment, prior to our discovery that PJ was absolutely not well-suited for any “up close and personal” hospital activity. When lunch was finished, PJ asked to go back to Nee’s house until later, as we had all agreed to meet at Freehaven for an early dinner, and Mom was going to stay over so the kids could get a good night’s sleep and not HAVE to continue going back and forth to the hospital at the “ungodly hours” we had been keeping, but which were also the times when doctors made their “rounds” and would be present to relay any and all pertinent news.
The next morning, Emily and I made our way back to the hospital, and had almost reached Al’s room, when a voice called out to us from the small waiting room in the hallway of the Cardiac wing. It was Maren, who was standing just inside the doorway, with CM by her side. We exchanged brief, uneasy hugs, before Maren started to speak, informing us that the nurses had suggested Al might be released as soon as Wednesday, slightly less than a full 5 days away, and asked where was he going to go? I didn’t know what to say, but a response wasn’t immediately needed, as CM started to speak, and relayed that she planned to return home to New York as soon as she could make the arrangements. She continued on, expressing that Al’s prognosis appeared positive and there was nothing left for her to do. There was little emotional warmth present in that tiny room, and I felt so sad at the chasm dividing the four women that were the majority of Al’s immediate family, (absent only PJ), who simply couldn’t be in this cold hospital environment, which was currently housing his father. Emily had been a stalwart participant in this whole odd mess thus far, but as she stood next to me during this combination of conversation and potential confrontation, I could feel her trembling, and my need to prioritize her wellbeing gave me an added little punch of gumption that I so badly needed at the moment. I had been hesitant to be too forward up until then, with the current circumstances being so tenuous, but I finally gathered my courage, and spoke directly to both older girls, concentrating mainly on Maren, as CM had already made her intentions clear. “Do the two of you have an idea of how to care for your father when he is released,” I asked? Both girls had overheard Al’s effusive and affectionate introduction of us to his doctors and the attending nurses, as his wife and youngest daughter, as well as his gratitude that we were right there with him during this huge scare. I knew we all were tiptoeing around the drama that had occurred over the past four to five months, and what might happen next. After I inquired about their proposal for Al’s care, Maren spoke up and suggested “the best solution would be to hire private nurses and have him recover at our Roblar home. After all, she and Alfie were just a few miles down the road and Al’s assistant, “MP” was usually around; her plan seemed to make the most sense.” Emily and I listened and agreed that Maren’s proposal sounded reasonable, but also suggested that any decision should most likely include input from Al. I knew far too well what kind of mercurial patient he could be, after tending to him for the past 18 years, which had recently included two separate cataract surgeries. Both CM and Maren said they would pose the solution to Al, and asked Emily and I to leave so they could speak to him. Later on the same day, now Saturday but so hard to keep track, Emily and I returned to the hospital and found Maren in Al’s room. When she saw us approaching, she raised the proposal of Al’s recovery at Roblar with nursing staff, to him. Al seemed to gain strength with every hour, and there was a bit of color coming back into his face, as he smiled and greeted Emily and I entering the room. The duty-nurse gave permission for the three of us to stay, saying we could all visit with him for a little while. Maren picked back up on her train of thought and went about outlining the details of Al’s proposed care plan following his departure from the hospital. She hadn’t even completed her opening sentence about Al returning to Roblar, when he interrupted her and said, “absolutely not; he wouldn’t allow a total stranger to be alone with him at Roblar in this weakened condition!” Maren’s composed demeanor and expression became at once crestfallen, and I wasn’t sure what to expect next. My concern was well-founded, as Al was getting worked up, and his face reflected a mixed portrayal of disappointment, frustration and indignation. Without much (if any) serious contemplation, I spoke up, and tentatively offered that Al could recover at Freehaven with the kids and me, following his release from the hospital. We already had confirmed plans that Emily, P.J. and I would be spending our Christmas at Freehaven, and I continued on, saying “it made sense that Al should be with family; the kids would be good for his morale. Freehaven was well set-up to accommodate all of these arrangements, and it was also far nearer Al’s cardiac team, as well as providing good access to a supply of day nurses that might be available to help, and keep close watch on his progress. Roblar was a good 35-40 miles away from the type of qualified medical attention he might need, and it was awfully remote should an emergency arise. Plus, I added that Clara (our Freehaven housekeeper) came to work five days a week, and could serve as a much needed extra pair of hands and eyes.” Emily shot me a surprised but supportive glance, and Maren looked both taken-aback and dubious. Al, however, squeezed my hand while saying the plan I suggested was what he wanted, and would be exactly how everything should proceed!
There must have been at least thirty-seven (plus) conversations with a variety of family, friends, and associates that followed, all replete with sage advice, but none of which was solicited…unless it came from Al’s doctor or lead nurse. Everyone and anyone, whether appropriate, reasonable, or not, had “invaluable” input to share with me about plans, scheduling, and all the thousands of details that this new circumstance required. Conversation aside, the plan was finalized and the kids and I flew back to Georgia on Sunday, in time for Emily’s semester finals, which were condensed from four and a half days into two, and then we made a quick “u-turn” for our trip back home to California on Wednesday, all so that we could be in place for Al’s release from the hospital. That the next few flights were made MUCH easier due to the use of our jet was definitely a bonus, and made the entire arrangement, which amounted to 49+ hours of travel, and three cross-country trips in less than seven days almost palatable. The adrenaline that filled those seven days, somehow made my apprehension about being in the same home with Al again less overwhelming. I had no expectation of how the next few days, much less weeks, would work out, and was more than a little nervous, to say the least. Much like I imagine oil and water would feel (if oil and water were capable of feelings) when swirled together, was the only analogy I could think of when I thought about Al’s and my upcoming blending of environments. It was an unsettling mixture of benevolence combined with responsibility, and a considerable amount of residual suspicion. Nonetheless, I continued to try and reassure myself, even as we entered the hospital, that this was the right course of action. It was an awkward and silent drive that the four of us made together in the Bentley on our way to Freehaven.
The walk from the Cardiac wing to the elevator, then down to the hospital entrance, where I had tipped the valet a $50, just to let me leave the car right up front, was just enough time to exhaust both Al’s repertoire of small talk, as well as his new physical weakness. He had initially been excited and anxious to see us all walk through the door to his room, but by the time we loaded Al, his tiny duffle of belongings, the small bag of hospital “tricks,”(like the oxygenation “thingie”), the thin binder full of “do’s, don’ts” and other discharge instructions, plus nurse’s notes from the past seven days, and got him situated in the car, it was clear that the surgery had taken a toll on not just his physical wellbeing, but his emotions too, and he appeared both frail and weepy? Over the course of the past week, between the in-person visits, as well as numerous phone calls, we had forged a bond with one of Al’s nurses, and struck a deal with that same Cardiac “charge nurse,” whose name was Jean, to make a few house calls over the next week or so to check vitals, inspect Al’s incision, and even hired her to spend several hours the following Sunday, the 16th, with Al at Freehaven so that the kids and I could attend my nephew’s birthday dinner in Santa Monica, knowing that we were leaving Al safely in competent hands. Everything seemed to be moving forward fairly smoothly. I had been straightforward with Al during one of our phone conversations prior to the hospital departure, and told him, “I’m happy to care for you and have you spend this time with the kids to make your recovery easier and not so solitary, but there is one condition. Neither Morty, (one of Al’s recent friends that I not only seriously distrusted, but almost loathed), or Candy M, “the bimbo/girlfriend” were to be anywhere near our Freehaven home, during his recovery and our Christmas break. I didn’t think my terms were unreasonable, as we were still married, with the divorce proceedings officially “on hold,” and I felt confident that my offer of caregiving after the upheaval and heartbreak (no pun intended) of the past several months was more than fair.
Official notice from Al’s attorney to my counsel regarding the “hold” put on the Divorce proceeding.
Al had accepted the condition, but because we discussed it over the phone, not in person, I wasn’t able to read his expression or see what must have been the irritation that my stipulation had caused; surely that was a mistake I could count as my own? The kids helped me unload the car and we all walked with Al to the master bedroom; PJ was still awfully quiet about the whole process, and slipped out of the room quickly. Emily went to the kitchen to bring her father the drink he had asked for, as well as a small tray to set on the bedside table with both the glass and his meds. Al’s attitude and self-carriage was uncharacteristically demure, as he said it wasn’t necessary for me to vacate the master suite on his behalf, but I was quick to assure him, that I felt that it would be best. I was there to help however possible, but I thought the quiet environment of the Master Suite portion of the house was the best place for him to be. Both kids had left for another part of the house when he asked me to help him change and get in bed; I brought him fresh sweatpants, socks and one of his favorite sweatshirts from his closet, which always was stocked with the essentials.
The bedroom portion of the master suite at Freehaven.
As I helped him get situated on the bed and then reached down to put his socks on, it struck me how small he seemed at that moment. This contrast to the menacing personality that had inhabited Al’s being for the bulk of the past year still loomed large in my mind, and I found myself struggling to absorb it all. The rest of the afternoon and evening, however and thankfully, was mostly uneventful. Al slept the majority of the day, and the kids and I tried to limit ourselves to the kitchen and family room wing, where we were close enough to frequently check on him, or hear his calls for various items, but could still laugh, cook, and hang out together watching Christmas movies. Both Emily and PJ had expressed doubt about my suggestion that Al be with us at Freehaven during his recovery, but they were also being incredibly sympathetic and supportive thus far, and I was both appreciative of and impressed by my children’s empathy. The rest of my family had been pretty clear they considered my decision unwise. My Mom’s reaction was the most mild of the bunch, because she just so badly wanted us to be home and to be close, but my two younger sisters made their criticism and thoughts very clear. Dorothy had doubled down on her reaction and original assessment, when I shared the news of Al’s heart surgery, and she had quipped, “oh, I didn’t know he had one?” Lillith simply said she thought I was creating unfair drama and confusion for everyone; she couldn’t fathom how I might possibly entertain the notion of caring for Al after what he had done? I understood all their feelings and felt a good bit of them myself, but there was still a bigger part of me that felt compelled to try again. If there was anyway to salvage our marriage, I needed to make the effort. No matter what had transpired to date, the one thing I was always certain about, was that I didn’t want to get divorced. Being the product of my own parent’s multiple divorces, I knew the painful costs divorce exacts; I knew how divorce affects all members of a family, especially the children, and those eventualities were things I desperately wanted to prevent if at all possible.
Back in September after the initial blow-up, Al’s service of the divorce papers, followed five days later by his grandiose delivery of roses and card of explanation; then his pleas for counseling, mixed intermittently with hostility, denial, as well as the crushing reality that his decision to file in Georgia, had essentially rendered me and the kids prisoners of Glynn County. I was hard-pressed to know exactly what to do. My first lawyers had filed a false answer about our Georgia residency in response to Al’s divorce motion and I was stuck. “They” (George Stern et al…) maintained that because the kids went to school in Georgia, that was where we lived, and where the divorce should take place. My insistence, accompanied by a litany of reasons and volumes of documentation, that California was our home fell on deaf ears! The only solution they could offer was to suggest that I, somehow, perform a small miracle and get Al to drop the suit. The likelihood of that occurring, however, with the wide range of anger, paranoia, regret and even desperation that Al could experience at any given moment, was about as likely to happen, as me becoming an astronaut…..slim to NONE! Even though we had gone to two to three sessions of counseling with Father Liam, the Episcopal minister in Brunswick that our own Catholic priest had referred us to see, the most Al would concede was his agreement to “put a hold” on the proceeding, which we did. The weeks following that, however, passed quickly, with several back and forth trips to California made by Al. Meanwhile, I had my hands full with the kids, their school schedules, extracurricular activities, the new demands on my time answering lawyer calls, gathering information, and combined with the constant emotional upheaval and nonstop stress that felt almost crippling, life was a blur of days that became weeks, and before I knew it, Thanksgiving had come and gone. The next week brought the news of Al’s chest pains, the ensuing trip to California and his subsequent, emergency surgery…..all leading up to the point where we were now! Those two months of October and November proved to be both an overnight and, simultaneously, languishingly long road to where I found myself that particular day. Did I dare think this could be a second, or at least yet another, chance to save our marriage and family?
The second day of Al’s recovery at Freehaven evoked a confusing mix of thoughts and emotions. Jean, the nurse who had agreed to act as temporary help, arrived in the afternoon to check Al’s vitals, his condition and the state of his incision, all of which Jean pronounced were progressing well. She wanted Al to take a good shower and get fresh dressing on the large scar that was now sealing nicely down the center of his chest, but suggested he rest a little before starting that process. While he sat in the media room, his attention fixed on the enormous flatscreen tv that occupied the custom-designed Tabor, Mesquite entertainment piece which spanned one entire wall of the huge room, I offered Jean a glass of iced tea and we sat together in the smaller family room adjacent to the kitchen and engaged in an easy conversation getting to know each other better. After about ten minutes, she asked if I had read any of the nurse’s notes documenting Al’s stay in the hospital? I explained I had started to a number of times, but was interrupted on each occasion. She appeared, momentarily, reticent but continued on, explaining that after my first visit to the hospital and Al’s very public introduction of me to the doctors and nurses as his wife, she assumed our marriage was “normal” and like most others, even though there had been a couple of unexplained visitors, as well as discussion overheard between Al’s older two daughters indicating a separation? Jean then relayed, in a hushed voice, that after the kids and I had left the hospital Sunday for the short trip back to Georgia, another woman had, both, called and visited Al in the hospital, and left several messages with accompanying phone numbers. Jean shared that she felt an odd energy around her. She didn’t want to make assumptions or share information that she wasn’t absolutely sure of, but she strongly urged me to read the notes in the thin folder, now sitting on the floor of Al’s closet in the original bag in which it had made its trip home from the hospital. I thanked her for the information and told her I would make a point to do so later that evening. All of a sudden, I remembered the torn scrap of brown paper I had found on Al’s hospital bed table last Saturday, during one of those early hospital visits, and a chill ran through my body; was there a connection between the two?
Scraps of notes left for Al, while in the hospital.
Jean rose to go back and check on Al in the other room. She asked Al if she should stay to assist with the shower, but he dismissed the offer and said he would be okay on his own; he explained the master shower was a large walk-in and he could navigate it just fine. I had already been instructed and shown how to dress and bandage his incision, so I felt satisfied it was safe to let Jean be on her way. About 15 minutes following Jean’s departure, Al made his way back towards the master wing; his gait was slow, as was to be expected but still he appeared steady, and I watched him make his way to the far end of the hall. The sound of water could be faintly heard from where I stood outside the master doorway, checking to make sure everything seemed ok. It was just seconds later when I heard Al call for me. I rushed in to find him standing halfway in the shower, and leaning against the door frame; he looked weak and slightly afraid, as he told me he had felt dizzy and faint. I reached his way and helped him ease downwards to the smooth limestone, bench seat that stretched across one wall of the shower. I told him to stay put and I’d be right back. Going to my closet just outside the bath area, I slipped out of my clothes, put my hair in a ponytail on top of my head, pulled on a thin pair of leggings and t-shirt, then returned to Al and the shower. I walked inside and proceeded to bathe Al, just as I had bathed my kids so many times when they were small. He was strangely quiet, submissive almost, and I was deeply torn between feeling sorry for him all the while grappling with the realization of how truly uncomfortable this situation was becoming. Once the shower was finished, Al confessed to feeling exhausted and sore. After helping him with fresh bandaging, clothes, and bed, I suggested he rest, and said I would bring him a tray when dinner was ready. I was so preoccupied with Al’s recovery, that I hadn’t really been paying close attention, until maybe that very day just how quiet Emily and PJ had both gotten since we had arrived back home. Now with Al safely resting in the master suite, I moved towards and sat down in the small TV area outside the kid’s rooms where I found them watching the end of a movie. When it was finished, I brought up possible plans for the week ahead and asked what might be some fun things to do? I rattled off a list of options including picking out a Christmas tree, doing some much-needed “decking of the halls,” and maybe a movie or two with their cousins? Neither of them were even a little bit enthusiastic in their response. Instead they both, almost in unison, said “anything but being stuck here would be good. This house now, and having Dad here feels like being back in the hospital; we just want to spend time with our cousins and family, hang out, and have everything feel normal again!” As supportive as they had initially been with this “recovery plan,” they looked at me anew with puzzled expressions and asked me, ”Mom, why? Why are you doing this for him…it’s weird?” I didn’t have a ready answer, and wasn’t sure I knew myself. Al had made a good part of the last year, certainly the past nine months feel like one enormous nightmare. WHY, then, was I doing this?
With Al staying in the Master Suite, I had unpacked my suitcases and was using the small maid’s room and bath at the far end of the kid’s wing of the house. We had been separated since September 5th, and regardless of what I thought or hoped might happen, or even just tried to wrap my mind around what was in the midst of happening, I desperately needed some clarity. I couldn’t just pretend that life was back to normal….it wasn’t! That said, I wanted to be close enough to the Master to hear if something went wrong, and if Al needed help, so I made myself a little bed with blankets and my favorite pillow on the velvet, corner sectional in the cozy family room, adjacent to the kitchen, that was the kids and my gathering place in that huge 7000+ square foot house, even though there were two large, beautifully appointed guest suites just upstairs. I awakened early the next morning, around 5:00, to the shadow of someone standing over me. It was Al; I sat up quickly and asked if he was okay. His eyes were red, and his face looked much more worn and defeated than the day before, but he just looked at me, and slowly, almost eerily said, “thank you for doing all this, I don’t deserve it!” It wasn’t a comment I was ready to hear, or a topic I was prepared to address. I rose from the couch and asked if I could make him some coffee. That was the most I could manage to say, and I was feeling increasingly uncomfortable with his sad and solemn face just staring at, or rather almost through me. Thankfully, he agreed to the coffee, which provided a distraction for the next few minutes. He explained he hadn’t slept well at all and had been standing over watching me sleep for quite a while before I woke. I urged him to go back to the master and said I would bring his coffee there when it was ready. The rest of that day wasn’t especially difficult, but it was disconcerting nonetheless. Thankfully, it was also a quintessentially-California day, and the sun, blue sky and temperatures made it a natural choice to sit outside and soak in the pool, patio and outdoors; if even only temporary…it would provide a much-needed distraction. I asked Lilith and Dick if they wanted to come over for the afternoon, bring the kids, as well as Mom, and I’d get some sandwiches from the Village Deli, or pizzas from Via Vai, and we could all relax outside. They were reluctant, as all of my family was feeling ill at ease, and no one wanted to be caught in the middle of a potentially ugly interaction with Al, but I finally persuaded them, and the happy sound of kids frolicking and playing, with the Pacific coastline as the backdrop, managed to erase some of the gloom that had been enveloping the entire Freehaven house and property for the past several days. Sunday morning arrived and once again, I reminded Al what the plan for the rest of the day entailed. The kids and I were going to Santa Monica for my nephew, Dorothy’s son’s, Birthday party; we were going to leave around noon, and probably wouldn’t be back until late that evening. Al was annoyed that I had hired Jean to come spend several hours during the afternoon with him to make sure all was going well, but I just couldn’t leave for what might be ten to twelve hours, and not be certain that Al would be safe. After 18 years together, I was used to Al’s little tantrums; while that behavior had once left me shaky and intimidated, I wasn’t feeling either of those emotions right then? I wasn’t sure if the impact was affecting me less now because I knew I was doing the right thing to keep him cared for, or if it was because I felt a new and certain detachment that I hadn’t experienced before? Either way, my feelings were incompatible with my prior life experience, our entire relationship, and were once again reminding me of how desperately I needed a break. Around noon, Jean arrived, the kids and I got in the car, and I felt enormous relief as we drove off. We had turned left onto East Valley Road from Freehaven and were on our way, when I did a total double take as I saw and recognized a car approaching on the other side of the road. Emily looked my way, and we exchanged a knowing glance, both silently processing that it was Morty, in Al’s Bentley, speeding by. Was he headed where I thought he was? All of a sudden, any remnant of fear that Al’s very “being” might have caused me to feel in the past, had been transformed to little more than a feeling of disgust at the possibility of yet another betrayal. I wondered if maybe I just didn’t care any longer about my previous attempts to hold our marriage together? I had been acting as both parents already for far longer than I allowed myself to accept, and knew that was a priority and something I’d never change. Did I actually NEED Al? Could I move on and put Al behind me, or perhaps more importantly, was it realistic to think he might let that happen? Regardless of Al, the mental image of Morty speeding down East Valley Road in Al’s Bentley, or any other, potentially, ugly scenarios I might have contemplated, I was determined that this day was going to be about something else, something other than and something bigger than…Al. My kids deserved a day without the heaviness that we had all felt for three plus months, and in reality much longer than that. I was going to try and return to the person I once was; attempt to recoup some sense of lightheartedness, and an easy-going nature, if only for the rest of that day. And indeed, that’s exactly what happened.
As usual, Dorothy and her knack for creating a carefree, fun-filled, celebration delivered exactly the diversion needed. My preoccupation and worry about Al’s physical condition, his secrets, the endless lies, lawyers, daunting retainer fees, billable hours and the fate of my kids and I, managed to disappear for a few hours, and when we got in the car later that evening to drive home, it had been a truly wonderful day, a welcome reprieve, and I absolutely felt “lighter.” PJ drove back with Lillith, Dick, his cousins and Mom, as they had asked him to spend the night with them and he had been elated. I’m sure Emily would have wanted to go too, but as usual, she was worried about me, and didn’t want me driving the two-hour ride home alone, especially since I was suppose to turn right around and make the same trek back to L.A. the next morning. It was close to midnight when we walked through the back door from Freehaven’s motor court into our house. I could feel the hair raise on the back of my neck when we walked down the hallway towards the kitchen; something wasn’t right. On the drive home as we hit Ventura, with just 30 to 35 miles left, Maren had called and reported that Al was fine. She and Alfie had driven down to visit Al earlier in the afternoon, had stayed for a number of hours, talked with Jean, visited with Al, and all was well. They had left several hours earlier but said Al was watching basketball and assured them he’d go to bed shortly. That conversation had not prepared me for what was waiting when I reached the kitchen? The large center island was littered with opened and emptied Chinese food cartons, dirty plates, silverware, crumpled napkins, several empty wine bottles, and just as many glasses. Immediately, I noticed the couple wine glasses that were stained with lipstick around the edges, and I was 99% sure that particular shade wasn’t Maren’s color? This did not look like the scene of a restful afternoon and evening, and as disgusted and betrayed as I felt, I was also gripped by the strongest sense of direction and purpose I had felt for a very long time.
The sky outside was hardly light yet, but I could feel a pair of eyes piercing down at me. For a second time, Al was standing over me, just adjacent to my “make-shift” little bed on the family room corner sectional. This time though there was no regret or kindness in his expression, as there had been on the first occasion just a few days earlier; there was just the steely scrutiny I had seen him direct at others so often in the past. I sat up immediately and asked him what had gone on yesterday? Who had he entertained, and had Morty been there? I said we had seen Morty making his way down East Valley Road towards Freehaven in Al’s Bentley, as the kids and I were driving away. I was angry, hurt and repulsed by Al’s continued deception, but kept on pressing him with my questioning…“the one requirement I made as a condition of your recovering with the kids and I in our home, was that neither Morty, nor Candy were to be present, much less welcomed here. You agreed, and then violated that? The kids and I have contorted not just ourselves and our feelings, but Emily’s final exam schedule and our Christmas holidays to care for you, as YOU stated you wanted, and once again my trust, and your family’s emotional wellbeing has been discarded? I’m already quite certain that Morty was here, but did you, actually, also allow that woman in our home…your kid’s home? What could you be thinking?” I was furious, and on a roll. Suddenly, his recovery didn’t seem as critical as the blatant disrespect and abuse with which he had chosen to treat this situation. I kept talking, ”it’s not like you were left alone; Jean was here, Maren and Alfie came to visit, and still that wasn’t enough to satisfy you? You just had to go ahead and include, that sleazeball, Morty and your ‘common piece of work,’ girlfriend too? The hospital nurses shared their notes with me, and I know both Morty and Candy were at the hospital many times, and still I ignored my instincts, the warnings, and actually thought if you were staying here and had the opportunity to have your children around you, that would have meant more to you than those two scumbags? What’s wrong with you, and just how many chances do you think you deserve?” His tone was bitter and icily detached, as he stared back at me saying, “you’re far too controlling, and don’t know what you’re talking about; it’s not like I had a party. I just had a few friends over to keep me company.” With a steeliness that for once matched Al’s, I added, “Well, I guess that means you must be feeling much, much better; I’m glad. I’ve got an appointment today, and need to go get ready, but Emily is here, Clara will be here at 8:00, and I’m sure they can help you with anything you need until I return.” With that, I took my cup of coffee and turned towards the direction of the maid’s room and bath, which I had been using in lieu of the master. Al had nothing more to offer; he turned his own direction and shuffled back towards the master suite.
An hour later, I was in the car again heading south for Los Angeles and the address that was printed below Sorrell Trope’s name and phone number.
Emily was still asleep when I left, so I had written and left a note for her, and waited for Clara. She arrived a bit earlier than 8:00 and was walking towards the backdoor, as I was about to pull my car from the courtyard and aim it towards the top of the long, olive-tree lined, winding driveway; it was perfect timing. I told her Emily was asleep, I’d be gone a majority of the day, and asked her to fix Al a light breakfast. That done, I waited until I was on the freeway, where cell reception was more reliable to phone my Mom, fill her in on the news of last night’s goings-on, and asked if she might phone Emily around noon to check in. She agreed, and said she’d be happy to pick Emily up, or whatever else was needed as well. She attempted to assure me everything would be okay, and I should just focus on the business at hand and what was immediately in front of me that day. Knowing that both Emily and PJ were tended to, allowed me the first opportunity, in what had been well over a week, to think about the appointment I was headed to and what might transpire subsequently. This appointment had been scheduled before I got the news of Al’s surgery, before the insane travel days, before the potential of “patching up” our marriage seemed remotely possible, and before caring for Al during recovery from heart surgery had even been a consideration, much less reality. After last night’s shenanigans though, I was very thankful I hadn’t made the same mistake I had made in August, and cancelled the whole thing, but instead found myself heading south on the 101, anxious to meet in person with the legendary Sorrell Trope. I was eager to speak with him again (this time in person), get his take on our marital status, the Georgia Divorce action, and subsequent “hold” on the legal proceedings that was currently in place. Trope & Trope’s suite of offices comprised two entire floors of an enormous white building on Wilshire Blvd, right between Westwood and Beverly Hills, and I found it with no trouble at all. The nervous knots that had my insides doing cartwheels and leaving me feeling very out of sorts, were obviously much more to do with the unknown I faced ahead, rather than the solo car ride and my navigational skills. Once inside the small, but luxuriously appointed, reception area, I sat perfectly still, anxiously waiting to be ushered somewhere, and concentrated on taking long, slow, deep breaths to calm my nerves. It couldn’t have been five minutes, before a soft-spoken, attractive blond opened the door to the reception area where I sat, introduced herself and asked me to please follow her to Mr. Trope’s office; follow I did, and within seconds she opened a second solid, heavy wooden door. The space behind that door was stunning. Two entire walls of the enormous corner office were floor to ceiling, spotlessly sparkling windows that looked out upon the expanse of Los Angeles below and beyond; a beautiful antique Regency round table surrounded by four, richly-upholstered arm chairs occupied one corner, and a beautifully carved “Partners Desk” with matching, handsome book cases just behind, sat opposite two more, upholstered formal chairs, with a small antique side table in between, all arranged perfectly atop an enormous and exquisite Persian area rug. The young blond, who had introduced herself as Ainsley, made the formal introduction to the elegant and perfectly-presented gentleman who stood as we walked through the door, and extended his hand for me to shake before pointing to the leather chair where I was to sit. As Ainsley left the office, Sorrell spoke, and his voice possessed the same steady cadence and soothing tone that I recalled from several weeks earlier on the phone when I was still in Georgia. There was something so reassuring about his manner, I couldn’t help but feel comforted by his mere presence. As he sat down behind the imposing desk, my eyes took in the several vivid details that accented the scene and will always live in my memory of both that man and what would become the first of our many meetings. The gold, monogrammed cufflinks that punctuated the French cuffs of his crisp white shirt worn along with the perfectly tailored Navy suit, and slightly lighter blue silk tie, as well as the rich Mahogany framed pictures on the bookshelf behind the desk, revealing a smiling, handsome couple, together with a picture or two of what must have been his entire family on a ski slope, and another one at a very formal-looking graduation ceremony. There wasn’t a sign of clutter or a detail out of place on the leather inlay of his desk, and as he lifted a substantial black pen from atop the yellow legal pad, I thought of my Grandfather, Pa, and how he had similarly exuded that same air of civility and grace that is almost extinct these days. Our meeting lasted just over two and a half hours, and was peppered with the appearance of two associates, one female and one male, both of varying titles and positions, respectively in that order. Sorrell reiterated his understanding of my situation which we had discussed weeks ago on the phone, and I caught him up-to-date on the events that had transpired since we last spoke, as well as what had happened just yesterday. When he asked what I was prepared to do moving forward, I summarized by saying that I had been somewhat conflicted by the entirety of what was at stake until the occurrence of last night’s events. Now, however, I was newly committed to going through with the divorce at any cost, but felt more strongly than ever that I had been bullied into the Georgia court system, and that California was the correct and only true jurisdiction that should apply. While I relayed to Sorrell the explanation that my Georgia attorneys had used, “because my children attended school in Georgia, that’s where the proceeding should occur,” Sorrell sat pensively, just listening. When I finished speaking, he proceeded to carefully counter my explanation with a different position. At this juncture, the woman associate he had invited to join our meeting was sitting in the leather chair next to me, and he continued on addressing both of us with his thoughts. “Suppose this case wasn’t about a wealthy, real estate developer/architect and his family, who happen to have multiple homes in various states, one of which was located where the husband’s most recent work project is also based? Imagine, instead, that the case was centered around a military family, and the husband was a General who had taken an important post overseas that required the entire families relocation for an extended period of time? Does the acceptance of that position and his family’s presence and support in making the transition a smooth one, indicate in any way that the family’s intent is to stay overseas, and never return to their permanent home in the States? No…it does not. It was an accommodation made to further the General’s career, and I believe the same argument exists in this case. Furthermore, there is corresponding case-law we can cite in court to illustrate the precedent. Children are moved to different schools all the time because of their parent’s professional affiliations and career advancements; that is NOT the determining force when considering jurisdiction!” I could have stood up, thrown my arms around him and hugged him for as happy and relieved as I felt. Finally, someone, (a very impressive, intelligent and powerful someone) saw and understood what I had been trying to convince so many others of for the past four months. With that, Sorrell buzzed on the office intercom for the male associate to come in; he was directed to sit at the larger corner table and start taking notes about a course of action and how we would proceed. After outlining several directives for Bert to research and report back on, Sorrell spoke directly to me again as he said, “your husband is what I call ‘an Outlaw;’ he genuinely believes that the law does not apply to him, and so he lives his life operating outside the norms that govern the rest of us. That’s about to be challenged, and if you can find the courage to stick with this, you will prevail, but first…you need to smile!” That unexpected and quirky suggestion provided a moment of levity. He continued on saying, this was sure to be a long process, and not an easy road, but that I absolutely could not be so serious and sad through it all. “You are still young and lovely; try to relax and enjoy this Christmas break and time with your children. We’ll get to work on the rest of it, and for the time being, do the best you can to co-exist, as you’re both in the same house, and there is no need to raise any red flags. We will need you to fill out a good bit of paperwork, and will be in close touch as other questions and thoughts arise. Promise to call us with anything else that might come up, or… even if you just need a pep talk.”
I left that office feeling as positive as I could remember for a long time; I knew there was the issue of another retainer that I’d need to “magically” produce, and much more unpleasantness that would surely arise, but for that moment, that one glorious moment, I was flying!
Back in my car, I checked my cell and saw there were multiple calls from the Freehaven land line. When I finally heard Emily’s voice on the other end of the line after three or four busy signals, I was anxious all over again; what on earth had happened? Emily was upset, rightfully so, as she elaborated on the conversation she had with her father about two hours prior…..just shortly before he left! Yes, he left our teenage daughter upset, crying, without transportation, and after harshly telling her “I’m not going to put up with your mother’s control tactics and paranoia. How dare she tell me who and who I cannot have in my home. I’ve called Maren and directed her to come pick me up; I’m going home to Roblar! This situation just won’t work any longer.” Emily was tearful as she finished explaining the awful exchange, and I felt horrible that she had had to go through that; I wished I hadn’t left her there to deal with such an eventuality. It was too late to change that now, but I did tell her to call “Nee,” and I was sure Mom would pick her up. I’d call too and explain what was happening, and then said I would drive directly to Mom’s when I got that far. Lilith and Dick’s house was just two doors down from my Mom and that was where PJ was, so we could all reconvene then! With relief I clicked off the phone, and thought about how much easier the rest of our holiday break would be without the constant stress that Al’s presence created. It was now more than a little obvious that any bizarre notion I might have held about second chances or Al’s “softening” regarding the state of our marriage following his heart surgery, was nothing more than a figment of my imagination. Eighteen years, the ups, the downs, the good, the bad, and the worse were going to come to an end, and for the first time, I felt good about it. I wasn’t proud that our marriage failed, I regretted that I had chosen such a narcissistic, deceitful man to be the father of my children, and I also didn’t relish the idea of being divorced, but I did feel as though I had done everything in my power, and had truly tried to hold our marriage and family together, over and over again! Plus, for once, I felt enormously relieved to finally have a lawyer who was committed to advocating FOR me, and was neither condescending nor patronizing. That was an entirely new feeling, and one I grew to appreciate more and more EVERYDAY that was to follow for the rest of the years I had Sorrell in my life. The remainder of that Christmas break offered a few more dramas, but none that held the power that the prior part of December and our “holiday” contained. I was continually bolstered and reassured by the optimism, thoughtfulness and carefully detailed plan that Sorrell provided, and which would continue to evolve over the next many weeks. Greg and the jet were already confirmed to return the kids and I to Georgia on January 3rd, and the trip was executed without a hitch. All that was left for me to do (so I thought) was wait for the next part of Sorrell’s plan to unfold.
Little did I know the extent of crazymaking that would follow….and thank heavens for that. At that time, January 11th was the most significant date in my mind; not because it was the day my Father passed several years before, but because it would forever represent the day I started the process of taking my power back? January 11, 2008 will be remembered as the day I served Al with divorce proceedings in California. The years and years of lies, lawyering, fraud, corruption, manipulation, and gaslighting, both before and after that date, serving as both education, and “sentence,” are almost incomprehensible. But, please, believe me when I say, my life has been filled with extraordinary blessings too; some I will share, some I may not, but anything I have the ability and privilege to share, you can count on! I’m thankful every single day for my fortuitous association with Sorrell Trope, and for the few lasting examples of both personal and professional integrity that he introduced me to, and which I’m resolute in following regarding my own life still. I hope to use some of that inspiration and gumption to start, and fund, a foundation that will lend support and resources for victims of narcissistic abuse, particularly when tasked with exiting such a toxic, deceitful and destructive relationship or marriage. Having a solid, trustworthy network of support, and real, human lifelines are crucial while trying to survive such desperate situations. Sorrell taught me that it just takes one person who truly believes in you to make a difference; I hope someday to provide that kind of significant difference for many people. How I get there and, ultimately, achieve that goal isn’t completely worked out yet, but by writing my intention here and sharing it with YOU, I’m laying the groundwork for it to come alive. Bit by bit, and step by step, it WILL happen. Not only do I try to inspire others, and myself too, with images or words that have hit a chord somewhere inside myself, but, sometimes, I use it as a way to remind myself to lighten up and smile. These days, there is much that needs lightening. If you ever find yourself with a little extra free time, (not that we find ourselves with much anymore, but maybe while waiting in the dentist’s office…ugh) and feel like browsing my Instagram a bit, you might find some posts that touch on the meaning and deeper significance of DearEasyDiaries, and my journey forward will surely reflect, and weave a story that shares insight into the very real experiences I’ve had. For better, or for worse, they are what has, and continues to, make me, me. I’ve always wanted to “make a difference” and give back to the world in some kind of meaningful way; I spent most of my years while raising my children, telling them, “to whom much is given, much is expected.” I sincerely believe that philosophy, and try to practice it, not always successfully, but at least I try, everyday! Somewhere along the many paths my life has journeyed, I became fascinated with art…all different kinds of art. I particularly love any type of art that ties an image, item, or words, to some tangible emotion, experience or memory I’ve either had, or am currently experiencing. Whether it’s the words to a song, like “You Can’t Lose Me” by Faith Hill, which will always be my song for my daughter; “Some Of It” by Eric Church, which, more recently, holds a painful reminder of my son, and the distance between us; or the especially significant, Charcoal artwork, “Life Is A Gift” by talented artist, Carrie Pittman, that helped me introduce this blog entry and represents the words my Mom shared with me on that Christmas Day in 2007. I hope you’ll see those sparks of magic continually intertwined within the words that tell my story, and I hope, too, to reflect that style while sharing the soul and poignancy of so much creativity and art that graces our world, as I cross the bridges laid out before me.
“Art changes people, and people change the world” ~Unknown
Another beautiful illustration of the meaning behind this quote, with art by the talented and soulful Carrie Pittman (Carriepittman.com, @carriepittmanart)
I guess, maybe, I’ll just always end every blog entry thanking you again for following, or starting, this journey with me. I started DearEasyDiaries as a way to share my story with even just a few people, and have been absolutely overwhelmed with the response so far, and as I’ve said before, and will repeat again, I am not a legal, medical, academic, or any other type of, “credentialed” expert; I am simply a survivor and a person who cares, and wants to “give back” in whatever way I may be able. My website shares a contact email (deareasydiaries@gmail.com), and while I never really thought to mention this before, I would be honored and happy to hear your input and ideas, or just to simply listen... You can also follow me, or “dm” me on Instagram (@deareasydiaries).
I’m not everyone’s cup of tea, and I have “undisputedly” strong opinions and convictions, but…“what you see is what you get,” and I do promise to always be straightforward and honest. XOXO
P.S., I’m already at work on my next post, ”Just Enough To Be Dangerous… or 145 Tidal Cove Way!”
