The police, of course, have ruled it as justifiable homicide. He should have known better. What was a poor woman to do?
The reality is that I am 51. 51 years of growth and wisdom and experience. 51 years of living and mostly loving it. I have never been one to shy away from my age. It seems that every year has brought me new experiences and new perspectives. I am quick to tell people my age – I have nothing to hide. Well – okay – I may disguise some of the aging effects with some gentle cover-ups, but that too is part of the aging process for most of us. I am not in denial about my age. I am not hiding it. I am not rejecting the facts. BUT….. the finny thing is that most days I seem to be a little oblivious to result of each day adding up to a cumulative 5 plus decades. I know I am 51, but I seem to be oblivious to having become 51.
You see, I wake up in the exact frame of mind as I did 20 years ago. I do not consider myself being 5 plus decades into this battle. Some days I may feel all of these 51 years, but never had I considered myself as a 51 year old. Like I say, it is not denial – it is just pure and beautiful oblivion.
I am not old…. I am vintage…. I am retro…… I am a classic………
Back to the real story here – Marc and his own oblivion. I remember when I was pregnant with Jacob. I was a little bit hormonal, and embraced this new non-remorseful me. When Jake would give me a kick in the night, I would share this experience with Marc by poking him hard in the belly. Many a night he was woken up with me elbowing him in the gut, or pushing on his belly. I considered it an act of love on my part. He thought I was stark raving mad. I was pregnant, and therefore not liable for my actions. He should have known better.
And now, at 51, I have been living in the horrific and unrelenting depths of menopause for over a year. I live with a fan by the bed, and am quick to turn it on in the middle of the night to offer me some reprieve. This is done without one single moment’s thought of the possible disruption to Marc’s blissful sleep. He has no rights to a good nights sleep when his better half is struggling. And much, like the elbow to the ribs offered during pregnancy, I believe that he deserves to suffer alongside of me. For better or worse……..
Menopause seems to be like a disease that takes a larger toll on you as time goes by. A little agitated, becomes a little grumpy, and then turns into a raving lunatic, and eventually transforms a perfectly sane person into a homicidal sociopath. It happens over time, and Marc was there to witness every step of the transformation. He really should have known better. The police officer was so kind to me. He offered me ice water and a magazine to fan myself. He allowed me a little time to just close my eyes and breathe.
He took down my statement. As soon as I told him about the “grey hair” remark, he wrote a few more words, closed his book slowly,and looked upon me with sympathetic eyes. He understood at first glance that I was not responsible for the tragic and ever-so agonizing death of my husband. He consoled me for having to put up with the abuse for so long, and assured me that my life would be better off being free from this monster. He told me that his beautiful wife was also going through the “change” and that the man’s role is to offer kindness, comfort and understanding. And beside, he said, grey is not a color.
I glanced at his notes. In bold letters, he had clearly written. “JUSTIFIABLE HOMICIDE. THE HUSBAND WAS A COMPLETE MORON. HE SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER!”