Outsider

Our neighborhood is mostly made up of modest 1970s split level homes, but there are a couple of larger, enviable colonials with beautifully landscaped yards. A young couple recently moved into one of those “nicer” homes. I did not meet them until they adopted a dog early in the pandemic, then they were frequently out walking and Phoenix would raise a ruckus whenever they approached us on the street. It was rather awkward until they graciously offered to let the dogs say hello. The dogs sniffed each other and we made some small talk. I discovered they are lovely people. If we were contemporaries they would likely be too popular, too fashionable to be close friends of mine, but as it turns out I’m a good decade or more senior to them and we can certainly be friendly acquaintances whose dogs now adore one another.    

For quite some time I wondered what this couple thought of me, the solitary middle-aged woman who plays numerous sports in the yard with her two kids, is pulled around by a large, poorly trained dog, and undertakes dubious DIY projects with no partner in sight. It troubled me that they might think I was divorced, then it bothered me that I considered divorce stigmatizing. Why do I care what they think, anyway?

I have not always been alone. Someone once chose me, treasured me, considered me his rock, made this place a home with me, took care of me just as I took care of him.

About a month ago, I noticed a change to their patterns. One car was gone for a few days while snow collected on the remaining vehicle. As I accompanied Phoenix on her countless walks from that cluster of days, I watched for signs of activity that would mark their return. I knew they were at the hospital for their baby’s birth. My vigilance, likely borne of PTSD, could not be set aside until I saw the baby blue decorations on the front porch complete with a cheerful “It’s a Boy!” banner. First came a rush of relief for his safe arrival. Then, on its heels came something much less attractive - envy crept in from the edges of my consciousness.

I had what they have and now it’s gone.

I want what they have.

Why didn’t I get to keep what they almost certainly will?

I used to be in that club. You know, the one that our culture worships yet withholds membership from far too many people. The club that proclaims if you have done everything right as a successful person you will be educated, land a great job, marry the perfect person, buy a beautiful house that is decorated just so, have 2.3 perfect kids spaced two years apart, celebrate 10 years of marriage, then 20, then enjoy an empty nest together, then retire and travel, then celebrate a golden wedding anniversary.

It’s an exclusive club by nature, unattainable for most. Just looking at the numbers, I’m puzzled at how the mystique of the club can persist with the divorce rate still hovering near 50%. And beyond that, we are not all so privileged to reap any one of those membership benefits if we simply work hard enough and do the right things. It’s a real problem that our culture worships that club, with its ladder laden with over-the-top wedding proposals, elaborate reveals for a baby’s biological sex, and ostentatious house renovations. It just sets people up for disappointment and envy.

I’m certainly guilty of buying into it all… I continually sought the next life notch – college, grad school, husband, baby, tenure-track position. The last stop was the home we purchased after I got my coveted job offer. It was all going according to plan and yes, I felt a bit smug. Self-satisfied. See? I worked so hard and I got what I deserved.

Then the train veered off the expected path with the surprise brain tumor… After a period of shock and intense treatment, I kept clawing at my club membership. We should have been kicked out with the terminal diagnosis, but not many people knew about it and I faked it. I enjoyed posting pictures of my perfect family and hid the fact that baby #2 was born to a father who would not live to see her out of childhood. I desperately didn’t want that to be true, so I didn’t advertise it. Instead, I shared the most flattering pictures of our intact family of four and basked in the approval of the club.

Oh, but now there is no more pretending. Dead husband, single mom. Those things get you kicked out of the club for good. The members are horrified that tragedy can strike someone like you, someone who did everything right. Nobody knows what to do with your struggle, your deflated affect, your distractedness, your solitary widowed existence. You are out.

I cannot blame anyone for my outsider status. In fact, the finger points toward me most of all. I bear guilt for revering the club in the first place. It smacks of privilege and I don’t like that, I wish I didn’t want what I do. Yet here I am, very much on the outside now, willing to give anything to be let back in.

That’s not happening. Not ever.

It’s something I have yet to come to terms with. You cannot go back. A person who has died never walks through the door again. Even if I were to remarry a new partner, we would make some kind of blended, grieving family that really doesn’t fit into the club.  

I’m an outsider now.

I hate it so much. Sometimes I’m downright surly because I spent my entire childhood being a nerd outsider, my college years dedicated to being a rule-following perfectionist outsider, my grad school years struggling as a feelings-driven science outsider. Just when things came together for me, boom! Permanent outsider status conferred as a young widowed parent.

On my good days, I try to make the best of it. When the couple up the street appeared to walk the dog with a stroller, I decided I needed to reach out. I made an enormous pot of soup and dropped some off, admiring their sweet baby and saying that they made a lovely family. Sincerely. The baby fussed a bit, and they looked tired. The husband implied the baby cried a lot. I wished them good luck and hoped they would get some rest. I told them I was always around if they needed a respite dog walker or anything else. I think/hope it was a normal social interaction.

They likely didn’t know that I swallowed the lump in my throat and held back my stories about how our first baby was quite difficult, too. They probably wouldn’t have known what to say if I described how Chris would allow our son to suck on his pinky finger and walk laps through the house with him until he finally fell asleep. 

My vision was blurred by tears on the walk back home. This is far from the only situation in which I felt like my contributions would make people feel awkward so I said nothing. My stories cannot spill out naturally anymore; there's not much to say that is lighthearted or fun or generally welcome in most company.

I’m an outsider now.