In many respects, I expected the November 16th hearing to basically be a formality. Mentally, I had been likening it to T2 at Ironman – a relatively quick stop to finish up one thing and prepare for the next. The “next” being the house preparation for selling. As usual, reality kicked me in the nuts again.
It is my nature as an ENFP to find meaning in things. I sometimes extend this propensity by doing mundane things with intention. For example, I wore my wedding ring to bed Monday night – my last night being married. I’d hoped it may spawn some profound dreams. It did not. I also wore it during the final divorce hearing. Clearly the ring is a powerful symbol for marriage and commitment. It was a tangible object to help me emotionally resolve things and assist with some sort of closure (more on this in another post). Surprisingly, I still had the sport coat I wore for our wedding on a stack of things to donate to Goodwill so I put that on as well. I was happy it was a bit too big for me.
Courthouse Stairs - Last Day of the Ring
In an attempt at some sort of normalcy, I went into work. The results were less than promising. I had been getting quite a few messages of support and had to stop checking my phone for texts and emails because it was becoming increasingly more difficult to hold it together. Had to open the fresh box of kleenex on the way downtown. Got to the courthouse early because I didn’t know exactly where I was going within the building and didn’t know for sure what to expect. I also figured it would help me get a little more comfortable.
After I checked the court schedule, I walked around the fifth floor a bit to kill some time and ease the nerves. There was a loud lawyer outside 5B on his cell phone. I realized that he was talking to my judge who was in her chamber 50 feet from where we were standing and some other folks via conference call. Ridiculously surreal.
Court Schedule
About 10:10 AM the bailiff came out and checked in with me. She said I could sit in the court room or could wait outside for Michele to arrive. I opted for the court room and she explained that I could take a seat at either table. She further explained that when Michele got there, we could sit at different tables or if we comfortable, we could sit at the same table. I chose the right side table for no particular reason and took the chair next to the aisle.
As I waited, I looked around the room and was immediately struck by the woodwork. This place had to be one mother of an FTP! The waiting was excruciating. So hard to hold myself together. A few minutes later a bleary-eyed Michele walked in. The bailiff gave her the same information as I’d gotten. Michele looked at me and asked if she could sit next to me. I was surprised and think I mumbled something resembling sure.
Courtroom 5B - The jury box is to the right and the bailiff and other table are to the left.
She sat down and pulled out a kleenex and started dabbing her eyes. I couldn’t look at her for fear I would completely lose it. Then sniffles to my right. I reach for kleenex, dab my eyes. Pull out the iPhone. No checking email or texts or Facebook or Twitter or I’m a goner. Where’s the app for this? I end up checking the weather as that seems the only thing safe enough for distraction at this point.
I was somewhat taken aback by her raw and painful emotion, it seemed very uncharacteristic of her. I thought about extending a hand to her, but knew I couldn’t. I couldn’t because I wasn’t strong enough to hold myself together. I couldn’t because she had to take care of herself. I couldn’t because I was still bitter and never wanted this to be over in the first place.
Part of me was satisfied she was hurting. Part of me was ashamed to be satisfied. A different me wouldn’t have had so much of his own pain to cover up and excuse the satisfaction; a different me wouldn’t have felt satisfaction in the first place. Unfortunately, the only me available was all of these things and just another sniffle from becoming a puddle.
Thankfully the bailiff asked us all to rise for the Honorable Judge Gaylord, breaking up the bar fight with me, myself, and I going on in my head. The judge suggested we all sit down and then swore us in under oath. As I was reciting the oath, I mentally cringed at the inevitable “so help me god” bullshit coming up at the end. Amazingly she didn’t say it so I didn’t have to face contempt charges or get off on the wrong foot with what seemed to be a perfectly nice judge.
We were presented with a number of exhibits that were actually documents we’d prepared and filed previously. The hearing consisted of us reviewing the exhibits and individually acknowledging the information as truthful and accurate. Michele and I quickly assumed an organized response of her going first in answering questions.
Its funny to me now, especially after we proficiently dispatched the task of dividing all of the kitchen articles Monday night, at how effective we were are at quickly identifying and assessing a given situation before formulating and executing a workable process to deal with it. Our complimentary skill sets positioned us well and this was something we were very, very good at. Except, apparently, when it came to our relationship.
The judge’s questioning pace gradually accelerated. The three of us became an efficient waltz of dusty questions and detached responses, reminiscent of my catholic mass childhood. A trance-like response pattern with no need to stand up or genuflect. I was becoming confident I’d get through this unscathed and then the bombshell question dropped. Is the marriage irrevocably broken?
With no thought or even a waver from the established cadence, Michele answered first with a clear and dry yes. It felt like an ice pick in my chest. Never expected this question. I briefly considered some sort of Hollywood plot where she may reconsider but I knew it was broken. Irrevocably, and then some. I really didn’t want her to change her mind. Yes, I finally responded.
The questions finished and the marriage announced officially over. I looked at the clock – 10:27. Judge Gaylord then took a significantly warmer tone as she she noted we were “off the record”. She mentioned that divorce is obviously a very difficult process and that it spoke very highly of the two of us and of what we had that we could sit next to each other. That type of thing is apparently a fairly rare occurrence. She then gave us the option to complete the last Findings of Fact form in the conference room so we wouldn’t have to wait to have it mailed to us and then return it.
Through out the nearly 18 years Michele and I had been together, we had been constantly complimented on our relationship. We took a certain amount of pride in being somewhat of a “model” relationship. People expected us to handle the divorce process as well as we had handled our relationship and that everything would be amicable and supportive. I think Michele kind of expected that too. The divorce started out that way but it just did not feel right to me and I couldn’t continue playing along with everyone else’s expectations. Too much hurt. Too much anger. I may have been very hard for Michele to deal with. Not intentionally, but difficult none-the-less.
I was surprised to be complimented in that situation by the judge. Shocked actually. I wasn’t even sure I wanted Michele to sit next to me. Had I gotten there after her, I probably would have taken the other table. I started choking up and mumbled some sort of thank you to the judge as the bailiff began to usher us out of the courtroom.
Michele and I sat down in a conference room just outside 5B and being the well-tuned process machine we are, immediately started working through the form. As I slid the form over to her so she could complete her contact information, I realized I was still wearing my wedding ring. I had fiddled with it while waiting for the hearing to get started and it had popped off with no effort. Apparently the stress and anxiety of the experience caused my finger to swell. A lot.
I yanked and twisted. Yanked a bit more, and off it popped. Flying right out of my hand and across the floor. I moved back a couple of chairs from the conference table and couldn’t see it anywhere. Michele had stopped what she was doing and I glanced over to her and said “that’s pretty fucking funny”. A few seconds later, after getting on my hands and knees under the conference table, I found it and slid it into my pocket as we finished completing the form.
Once the form was returned to the bailiff, we rode down the elevator together. She asked if was heading home or back to work and if I minded her being at home. I said no and asked her – she didn’t care either way. She left sobbing. I left numb.
I found a bench around the corner in the sun and sat and cried for a few minutes before returning some texts and posting on FB and Twitter. Funny how I didn’t want to talk to or be around anyone but I could use all of these other tools to communicate and connect to so many others in my support network. I can’t have imagined what that experience would have been like in the stone age before smart phones and social networks. A few steps out of the courtroom doors I was able to connect with friends across town and across the country, from Paterson Street to Salt Lake City. I’m not buying how technology only moves us further apart as real human beings. Today proved otherwise and I am grateful for it.
After a few minutes of stabilization time, I made my way through a tattered carpet of ginkgo leaves to Starbucks on the Square for a well-deserved mocha. The whole way there I vacillated between calm, hopeful confidence and teary-eyed meltdown. Even walking past the Ironman Finish line on Martin Luther King Blvd where I triumphantly celebrated my Trifecta only two months prior, did little to fill the emptiness in my chest.
Mocha in one hand and overused kleenex in the other, I made my way to the Monona Terrace. I knew I wasn’t ready to get in my car and drive. For some reason I felt the pull of the lake and the sun. The pull of a new beginning perhaps; maybe one I wouldn’t have to wear a wetsuit and goggles for. I shuffled through more ginkgo leaves covering the walkway up to the deck where a maintenance guy was just finishing up covering lights for the winter and was making his way down. I had the entire deck and view of the lake to myself. Under a nearly cloudless sky I could barely see the lake and wished I’d have armed myself with more kleenex. There was no anger, no bitterness, not any pain really. Just an emptiness of deep black sorrow. Like lying inches from a person in pitch darkness and not even knowing for sure that they’re really there. Like wanting that person to be there so badly that you won’t risk reaching an inquisitive hand out for fear of really knowing they are not.
After several minutes of flushing my nasolacrimal ducts, I turned and headed back towards the capitol. As I looked up scanning the stark white of the Capitol dome to its golden apex, the curious gravitational pull of the Terrace suddenly became a bit more clear. Apparently it wasn’t for the solitude or for the lake view. It was to perfectly position me to face the inspiring gilded statue with her right arm outstretched to symbolize our State’s motto: Forward!
Ever vigilant atop The Capitol: Forward!
