When he  left, the girls and I thought it would have been easier if he had died.  We would have been able to mourn, but know that he still loved us and had to leave.  Instead, he moved out.  He said he couldn't do this anymore.  He was sobbing.  I was traumatized.  I asked if there was some one else.  He said there's a good possibility.  Who is it?  I'm not saying.  I knew it was one of possibly two or three women in his life...a neighbor who was an artist and teacher and had dated his best friend D., D.'s sister who was younger and very attractive, or his long-time nurse and office manager whom I had encouraged him to hire away from the hospital because he felt so much confidence in her.  Did it really make a difference who?  Not really, except in my mood fluctuations, I had no qualms in confronting women who threatened my home and security, as had happened once before.  I could make things very very uncomfortable.  I probably would have, had I known.  She would have had to quit her job and leave town.  I guess I could have found out who, and chose not to, to give myself some credit for a bit of sanity.

As he told me that he would leave on October 1st, six months away, he cried and said he didn't know what to do.   I found myself comforting him, and telling him that it would be okay.  That I would help him figure it out, like I had always done.  At the same time I was screaming at myself and saying, "What the hell are you talking about?!?  You're going to HELP him with a divorce that you don't want?"   That is sick.  He agreed to counseling because it is mandated in our state.  I kept thinking...this is going to work out.  He won't leave...it's too hard.  He would have to move on his own and he has never done these things on his own.  So I didn't help.  And he did do things himself.  He found a lawyer that several of his partners had used, and I found a lawyer out of town because none in town would actually ask for what I wanted.  We worked very together as well as we always had. Both his and my lawyers complimented us. During the time between when he left and we filed, went went out once a week and talked more than we had in the previous five years.  I felt loved.  After a counseling session where the counselor had pushed me to believe that this really was happening, he held me lovingly while I sobbed.  I felt loved, but intellectually knew it was over.  Through my sobs, I said, "This isn't fair.  How can I separate from you when I still feel like you love me!"  He let me go.

He called at 8:15 yesterday morning to wish me my first "Happy Birthday" of the day.  I was surprised, but thanked him, and talked a little bit about some business before he had his first patient.  I assume his wife is in her place at work at his office.  After we hung up, I sat in my meditation chair, looking out the window at the red birds in the snow, eating the black sunflower seeds.  Tears rolled down my cheeks.  Sadness for the lost gentleness of his familiar voice, for the feeling of home, sadness knowing that I caused the break up as much as he did by my depression and unpredictability.  Today I saw him again because I went to the hospital with M. for a MRA her doctor had ordered.  I asked M. if she had called Dad, and she hadn't, so I did.   The test was in his specialty, at his  hospital.  We arrived and sat in the crowded waiting room.  He came up to us in his long white coat as he always did, and we joked and laughed, and talked about the test.  He thought it would turn out normal.   We waited for five, ten minutes or more.   He went back to check to see if the techs were ready for us.  (They were sitting around waiting for the front desk to call them and tell them they had a patient.  This is the efficiency of our privatization of medicine.)  After he went back, we were called immediately.  When the test was over (normal, of course), he thanked us for supporting the hospital's economy, and walked us down the hallway toward the parking lot.  We talked a bit, then hugged good-bye.  It felt so wonderful, loving and comfortable.  My eyes teared up.  We walked away. He called us back. He didn't have any patients yet;  would we like to see his new facility?  M. and I followed him back, and looked over the new equipment, new flooring, new walls that had all been replaced after three inches of flood water had inundated the hospital in the record-breaking June floods.  It was beautiful.  He walked us again down the hallway.

 I want to think there was something for me in this, but there wasn't.  He has been separated/divorced not only from me,  but from his three beloved daughters who had no sympathy for his chronic unhappiness.  They are grown, but that has made it worse I think.  They can choose where they want to be, and generally, they are not comfortable with him.  What they saw was an absentee parent who was never interested in them.  They didn't remember the days when he laid on the floor with them eating popcicles, built them their swing-set, lead them on their ponies.  They remember only that he made fun when one wanted to go to cheerleading camp, or wanted to be a doctor like him.  They remember he was cynical about everything, and at times "an ash-hole."  They remember the times when he drank too much.  I know though, they have to remember how we all laughed together.  When we all went on an Alaskan tour and were complimented by everyone on the tour for having such well behaved young children on the three week trip.  When he tied our pony Jason to the swing-set, took the picture and gave it to his mother saying, "It's okay Mom.  I got my own."   Because he wanted a pony when he was a kid that he would feed grass and keep in their Kansas City backyard.  

I thought we had it all.  Maybe he would say what others here have said...that we didn't ever match....that we never should have been together.  I don't know.  I know he said that, like his mother before him, he was "just staying for the sake of the children, and now they were gone."  As he was leaving, I asked many times if there was anything I could do.  He said there was nothing.  His mind was made up. His heart was made up.

I sit here, at my library desk, warm and comfortable, the day after my birthday, writing and crying.  Watching the tiny flakes of snow drift down like white ashes from the sky while stupid salty tears roll in little rivulets down my cheeks.  I am listening to the kirtan music of the heart again.  I wonder yet again, what I should do to move on.  I have done so many things in the three years since It was Final.  Why haven't any of them stuck?  Why am I still here, living with my children in the town less than two miles from where he lives with his new, younger, organized and efficient wife?  

I'm still here because I haven't finished yet.  I haven't put away the thirty-three years of marriage, the pictures, the paintings, the furniture.  I have only put them aside.  I haven't put the farm to rest, or the horses, or the fruit trees.  I still have responsibilities to be handled.  Financial and work.  A house that was flooded and has to be restored and rented or sold.  Two daughters who still need a gentle boost before heading out into the world alone.   A menagerie of animals who cannot be abandoned.  

Yet, I find peace here, and joy and beauty among the challenge and chaos. I find blessings in friends and family, and comfort in a warm house.  And, with all of this, I still believe in "Happily Ever After."   It just comes in small joys, and in its own time.