Early 1990s, Washington, DC

By Dan Snodderly

“Um, Dan, this is Carol. I have to come to Washington on Friday for a medical check-up. Do you know any inexpensive places I can stay?”

“No, Carol, but I’ll check it out and call you back.”

“Uh, can I stay with you?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want you to.”

It just so happened that my wife was planning on coming to town on the very day of the hearing for our uncontested divorce.

“What’s the check-up for?”

“Um, I’ve been having heavy menstrual bleeding — you know, that old problem of mine — and the doctors think I should have it checked out.”

“What clinic are you going to?”

“I can’t remember — it’s somewhere in D.C.”

“Why do you have to come to D.C.? Cincinnati is not exactly a medical backwater.”

“Oh, the doctors think it might be cancer and Washington is the best place to check that out.”

“So when is your flight?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll call you later this week to let you know.”

It was Monday, and Carol didn’t call all week. On Saturday, she finally called and apologized. She said she’ll try to come next Friday. She didn’t call that week either, until Sunday, when she again apologized and again said she’d try to come the next Friday.

No call on Friday but on Saturday afternoon, Carol called from the D.C. airport.

“Can you come pick me up?”

“No.”

“How do I get to your place?”

“You can’t stay here.”

“I know, I just want to talk to you. How do I get there?”

“Take the Metro or a cab.”

“OK, I’ll take a cab. Bye.”

I was stunned. I hadn’t seen Carol in more than two years. I never really expected her to come. I thought she’d probably made up the story about the check-up. For years, Carol had been struggling with clinical depression. I thought back to her first breakdown, when she began claiming that the phone was tapped, that certain groups in town were conspiring against her, that she could read messages in the white smoke left by jet planes as they streaked across the sky. And later, after our separation, when she would arrive at colleagues’ houses late at night and accuse them of having an affair with me.

The cab arrived and I stepped out onto the porch, carefully shutting the door so that it locked behind me.

“Hi, can I come in?”

“No.”

“Can I leave my bag here while we go get a cup of coffee?”

“No.” I picked up her bag and began to walk down the street, trying to figure out what to do. I couldn’t believe this was happening.

“Where are we going?”

“To a hotel near here.”

“Why can’t I stay with you?”

“Because I don’t want you to,” I repeated. I knew there was no use in trying to explain. In the four years since our separation, I had tried on dozens of occasions to explain my decision to leave our marriage. Every time, the discussion had degenerated into accusations, and then into tearful promises by Carol that she would change in this way or that. But I knew from past experience that neither I nor Carol was likely to change.

“Can we get something to eat? I haven’t eaten all day and I’m starving.”

“OK, let’s go in here,” I said, selecting a sandwich shop so the meal would be short.

Carol looked pretty good, especially for a 42-year-old who’d been clinically depressed for 10 years and who’d been taking anti-psychotic drugs for most of that time. She had clearly had her hair done and gotten dolled up for this visit.

At the hotel, she couldn’t find her credit card, so I paid. I carried her bag up to her room, agreed to meet her for brunch the next day, and headed to the elevator. Outside, I walked quickly to the Metro and took a train to Arlington to meet my girlfriend.

At my girlfriend’s house, I unburdened myself, describing in detail Carol’s major personality changes, her growing dependence on me (and her resentment of that dependence), and the months of fruitless couples therapy, as well as the post-separation harassment — the abusive notes, the late-night visits, the barrage of phone calls.

The next morning, I checked my answering machine. There were two messages — an urgent one from Carol’s mother, and one from Carol asking me to call her at the hotel. I called Carol’s mother first.

“Hi, Opal, what’s up?” Opal told me that Carol had called her the previous night in an extremely depressed mood and threatened to commit suicide. It was a threat that I had heard more than once during our 15 years of marriage and didn’t take too seriously. First, because I didn’t think she’d do it, and second, because she used it as a form of emotional blackmail, as a tool to control my behavior. It had taken me years to learn not to be manipulated by Carol’s threats.

I asked Opal about the purported medical check-up; she didn’t know anything about it, nor did she know of any special medical problems that would require a trip to Washington. I promised to call Opal with a report later. Then I called Carol and we made plans to meet at noon at Cafe Splendide.

As usual, Carol was late. We ordered and then talked about mutual acquaintances and our jobs. When Carol attempted to talk about our relationship and why I left her, I cut her off, launching into a now familiar spiel: “Look, Carol, our relationship is over and it’s time for you to accept that fact. We both need to put this all behind us and move on.” After brunch, she asked if we can have dinner. I said no, I had other plans. I wished her good luck with her appointment and we parted almost amicably.

Although it was Sunday, I went into work. When I returned home that evening, I discovered from my roommate that Carol had just left. I then decided I couldn’t stay in the house that night, waiting to see if Carol would show up again. I decided to go to a hotel. I packed a few things and headed out the back way, just in case Carol was waiting for me out front. In fact, my instincts were right, but my geography wasn’t — she was waiting in the alley.

At this point, I started to get mad, and I spoke to her with unusual bluntness. “Look, Carol, it’s time to face the facts. The relationship is over, and I don’t want to talk about it anymore. If I haven’t been able to explain my actions to you by now, I never will be able to.”

I walked down the alley toward the street and Carol followed me. She began to talk about how depressed she was, how badly her life was going, how I had ruined both their lives. Now I really got mad, and in a rare fit of anger I blurted out, “Bullshit. My life is going just fine. And I’m tired of your laying this guilt trip on me. Go away. Get out of my life. Quit harassing me. Go live your own life and leave me alone.”

After that last outburst, she grabbed my arm and threatened to kill herself, then she threatened to kill me. For a second, I considered whether she was capable of killing me, whether she might in fact be carrying a knife or gun. I decided probably not. “Carol , I don’t care if you kill yourself. That’s your problem, not mine. Now get out of my life.” With that declaration, I yanked myself free of her grasp, stepped into the street, and hailed a cab to take me to a hotel.

On Monday, I went to work as usual. About noon, Carol appeared. In order to avoid a scene in the office, I decided to take her to lunch. Our conversation was mostly a replay of earlier conversations that weekend. Feeling guilty about telling Carol I didn’t care if she killed herself, I fell back on my usual response to that threat — ”You have a lot to live for; I hope you don’t do it, but I can’t help you; please call your therapist,” etc. I tried to walk that thin line between being nasty and encouraging her to think, “Oh, he cares about me so there is still hope for reconciliation.”

She said she had a 3:00 flight back to Cincinnati, and we parted. But at 3:00 she showed up at the office again. At this point, I got mad again but managed to control my anger. I escorted her outside, said goodbye, and jumped in a cab. I learned later that she took the 7:00 plane.

According to D.C. law, an uncontested divorce becomes effective 65 days from the date of docketing. In my case, that date was Feb. 22. On Feb. 15, Carol called to say she was coming again for a check-up. This time, I immediately expressed my skepticism. “Carol , I don’t believe you. I know you have some medical problems, but I don’t think they require treatment in Washington. In any event, I don’t want to see you.”

On Feb. 22, Carol showed up at my job. I didn’t waste any time on this occasion. I decided to use cabs to elude her, since it worked so well the last time. During the next two days, she came to my workplace several times; each time I escorted her to the street, told her to leave me alone, and got into a cab.

But Carol soon realized she could run around to the other side and get into the cab before I could lock it. So I got out and walked down the street to find another cab, leaving the first cabbie more than a little confused. Eventually, Carol learned to stay close to me and the cab maneuver no longer worked.

Finally, late in the second day, I remembered that my office building was locked after 5:00; if I was quick I could use my key and duck into the building before Carol caught on to what I was doing. I successfully did so and then went straight through the building and out the back and caught a cab. When I returned home later that evening, there was no sign of Carol.

A few weeks later, Carol called and left a message on my answering machine. She said she had breast cancer and was going to have a mastectomy. From her tone of voice and the details she provided, I realized that this was the real thing, but I didn’t return her call. I can’t really say why. In any event, the irony of the situation was overwhelming — Carol came to visit me because of a bogus claim about cervical cancer, only to develop an unrelated form of breast cancer.

Being right didn’t make me feel any better, however.

But I still didn’t call. Then Opal phoned me the day before the operation and lambasted me for being so uncaring, so I capitulated and called Carol at the hospital. Not surprisingly, she was scared. We had a reasonably straightforward conversation, considering the circumstances, and I promised to call her back after the test results came in. All in all, I thought she was doing pretty well; it was as if the presence of the cancer has given her something concrete to fight against.

The operation was a success but the biopsy revealed cancerous cells in the lymph nodes, so the doctors recommended chemotherapy. Her body reacted badly to those treatments so she had to be hospitalized each time; on several of these occasions she called me. At this point I was using my answering machine to screen all my calls; sometimes I called her back, sometimes not.

When she began to talk about our relationship, I politely said goodbye and hung up. Gradually the calls decreased. I was relieved but I continued to screen my calls. One day, I knew, I would have to deal with the worst call of all. In the meantime, well, I would just try to get on with my life.

Dan Snodderly is an editor and publishing consultant in Washington, DC.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Wednesday, February 28th, 2007 | Email This Post

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