musingsonwomenshealth.com

Reflections on 40 years as a doctor in Women's Health

The silence often of pure innocence persuades when speaking fails.


I get tired of arguing; tired of explaining over and over what seems perfectly clear to me. But I sometimes wonder if in that rush of words which creates the most anger is where she feels the most comfortable. There is little space for debate in a shouting match; there is even less for weighing the value of your response; considering whether your retort was an accurate reflection of whatever words were aimed at you; deciding if any response from either side makes sense anymore. After a while, it is all just noise, staring eyes and spittle…

It wasn’t always like this, although I sometimes have trouble remembering when our words were soft and smiles cushioned what we think we heard. I suppose it starts that way with everybody, though -otherwise what is the attraction? There are always quieter choices, and yet they present fewer challenges and less excitement: merry-go-rounds instead of bumper cars or rollercoasters at a fair. We all need arousal when you get right down to it; each of us who decide to partner need incentives…

But at some stage, the veneer wears thin, and what had at first seemed challenging becomes an aberration. A burden. I am reminded of Sisyphus rolling a rock uphill only to have it careen back down each time he succeeded. At some stage in his process, though, what had started off as a meaningful atonement for his previous hubris became a senseless punishment. An apostasy now long regretted.

Of course, at the beginning of any new relationship, there is veneer; only a fine decorative surface presents itself for inspection. It’s how we all festoon ourselves; it’s a type of social fashion I suppose: how we decide to display ourselves this time because the last surface we used dented and rusted like an old car after we’d driven it for a while…

Still, Hope springs eternal in the human breast; we all think we have learned something from our past…well, the mistakes… and yet instead of Alexander Pope’s Essay on Man, I am more inclined to Blake’s Tyger -some of his stanzas describe those relationships I seem destined to try. Like, for example: In what distant deeps or skies. Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand, dare seize the fire? And what shoulder, & what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? & what dread feet?

Okay, I suppose we both get what we deserve, but isn’t there a manual somewhere online? An instruction booklet in the library? Wasn’t it the Spanish philosopher Santayana who said that those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it? I, on the other hand, do remember the past, and yet still repeat it, time after time…

*

“You’re such an idiot, G,” Emily said as soon as I got home from a tiring day of work.

I was in no mood to argue; I just wanted a glass of wine, and maybe order in something for our dinner if she had decided it wasn’t really her turn to cook. We had tried to divvy up responsibilities around the house; we both worked; we both arrived home, tired after long days at our respective offices. That had seemed a fair compromise we had both decided.

“Why am I an idiot, Em?”

“It was your turn to do the laundry this week, remember?” She glared at me as if she didn’t have drawers full of clean things and a closet full of previously laundered clothes. “When are you going to do something  around here?” she said, stamping her feet in a pique. “No way I’m going to cook if you don’t do your fair share!”

I shrugged it off; she was right, I had forgotten to put the clothes in the washing machine last night -it was her turn for cooking, and I figured the clothes could wait another day. But the best way to handle an angry Emily, was often to admit to a breach of duty. “I’ll put the clothes in the machine right now, okay? Sorry…” I admit that I didn’t use my supplicatory tone of voice, and since I was tired and she seemed angry anyway, I raised my voice.

Her eyebrows immediately shot up and she put on her ‘glare face’ as I had taken to calling it. “Why do I have to do everything around here?” she sighed unnecessarily noisily. ‘So, instead of cooking, I put the clothes in the washing machine when I got home.” She used her angry teacher voice. It was as if I had failed to do an expected assignment –again.

“Sorry,” I yelled. I wasn’t at all repentant, and I suspect she could tell by my tone that I was cheeking her back.

“Don’t use that tone of voice on me!” she hissed. “You seem to think you’re the only one who works for a living, G!”

We both contribute to the mortgage payments, so that was a little unfair. It was my turn to shrug;  I struggled to make it a capitulatory shrug. “So why don’t we just order a pizza, or something?”

Her whole face -her whole body– scowled. “That’s always your answer isn’t it, G? Order in; order in; order in!!” Her eyes narrowed and I could see the anger bubbling away like the water in an unwatched pot on the stove. “You’re so inconsiderate!” She began to grit her teeth; she was incredibly angry, and inconsolable for some reason.

I answered her challenge with silence -eyeful silence. I couldn’t think of anything positive to say, and frankly, I was tired of yelling; I decided to see where quietude would take me.

“You could have brought something home, you  know,” she hissed between her teeth. “That, would have been the considerate thing to do; you knew I’d be tired; you knew I had a meeting with some parents after my class today; you knew I was upset about that…”

I continued to watch her face. She was right, though – I had forgotten how stressed she was about the meeting. She’d been worried about it for a week now. I should have remembered…

My silence, though, was getting to her.

“For god’s sake say something, G! Tear my face off, or something.” She took a deep breath, and her scowl began to fade, wrinkle by wrinkle.

I took a deep breath and forced a smile. “I’m sorry Em… I did forget about your meeting.” My smile started to spread across my face. “Just like I forgot about the laundry yesterday…”

Her fists unclenched and her eyes softened.

“Tomorrow’s Saturday… Why don’t we go out for a good meal tonight? It’d do us both good to debrief over some pasta, don’t you think?” I closed my eyes, to rest them after the joust.

The next thing I felt was her arms around my waist and her head snuggling onto my shoulder.

“Sometimes I just need someone to listen to me,” she whispered in my ear.

I held her close to me. “It’s what we both need, you know,” I added. “More than sometimes…”

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