Supermodels In My Midst

    

     The shift had started out fairly routine on the inpatient psychiatric unit I worked on. After getting my patient assignment I went to speak to each of my patients. One of my patients had very serious substance abuse problems and had told me about being a dancer and an artist* overseas in her earlier years. So, of course, I googled her name and yes, she had, in fact, been a very beautiful model at one time. The years of alcohol abuse, eating disorders, drug abuse, and multiple medical issues had aged her significantly. She had been physically beautiful with strawberry blonde hair, chiseled cheekbones, and clear aquamarine eyes. What remained was shades of her former beauty, wrinkles around those beautiful, now-faded blue eyes and blotchy skin. The most attractive thing about her was a sharp, intelligent and slightly sarcastic wit.  I liked her. We talked extensively about her life and I found her charming and brilliant, if not sad and aging in a most melancholy way.

     I went to my next patient to check on her. She had no psychiatric history but a dabble in recreational drugs landed her in my psychiatric unit. She was very bizarre and stunningly beautiful. She worked in the government sector,* but could've been a supermodel. She was slender and without one bit of makeup she had beautiful skin and cheekbones with bright green eyes and silky, rich brown hair which flowed over her shoulders in soft curls. She took her hospital issued green pajama top and tied it above her navel and wore tight bicycle shorts. She was rather flirtatious and limits had to be set on her clothing and her behavior. She was also very strange in what she talked about and how she acted. However, when her friends visited her, they were stunningly beautiful as well. They were a sight to see, worried about her, showering her with gifts and expressing worried exclamations. The whole lot of them glowed in loveliness and museum-like paintings of beautiful, perfect people.

     The next order of business I was assigned to was to round with the treatment team. This team included, but was not limited to, the attending psychiatrist, at least one or two resident psychiatrists, one medical student, one social worker, a nurse (me) and possibly a nursing student. It was a big group! I was assigned to a team which rounded on a patient whom I was not assigned to. I entered this male patient's room with the rest of the psychiatric professional entourage and, thankfully, was wearing a mask as it was the end of covid. This young male patient was short and rotund, with messy blonde hair and patchy facial hair with spotted acne over his forehead.* His facial features were pleasant, but rather plain from a purely aesthetic view. The resident psychiatrist began asking the patient why he was in the hospital. The patient answered, straight-faced as can be,  "Well, I'm a star athlete at the college I go to. I'm also one of the smartest people at that school. And I'm a supermodel." As I mentioned before, I was thankful to be wearing a mask because I couldn't help but smile broadly underneath that thin piece of yellow paper and suppress a chuckle. He didn't look like a supermodel, but adamantly and confidently asserted that he was one. Talk about delusions of grandeur! I exited the room earlier than the rest because I was so worried I'd laugh out loud.

     It was an interesting, and dare I assert, beautifully bizarre day on the psychiatric unit. 

*All descriptions of any identifiable data of each patient have been drastically altered to comply with HIPAA laws. If you think I'm referring to you or someone you know, you would be completely wrong. 

"A Cord of Three Strands Is Not Easily Broken"

Tim and I had a wedding celebration in late November of 1992 after we married in Las Vegas several months earlier. It appeared to be a normal wedding, complete with a wedding program. On that program the verse was written: "A cord of three strands is not easily broken." We liked that verse because we added Jesus to the other two strands that made up me and Tim. With Jesus intertwining our marriage, we would be a strong unit, so the sentiment and hope went. But "not easily broken"  is not "not broken."

     

 It was November 8, 2020 and I was walking into Wal-Mart early Sunday morning. I felt a sharp sensation as my finger touched my wedding band. What was that? I looked down and there was a crack in the outer band of my wedding ring. I tried to twist it off my finger but found it too sharp for the fingers trying to remove it. Soap in the Wal-Mart bathroom did nothing to help slide it off either. I finished my shopping and went home - or that is, to the home we had just moved into the day before in Arcadia. Our house in Sierra Madre had sold in 10 days  for full asking price with an all cash offer. We tried to get out of the sale, having changed our mind that there was no bidding war and that the price had not gone higher, but we could not. We moved out about two weeks later.

     It was a long, grueling move. We only had two hired helpers and it was a rainy day. It took all day long, but finally, we were moved out and the Sierra Madre house was cleaned. I was exhausted from the move, but needed to get some things from Wal-Mart the next day because I was scheduled to work on Monday morning. When I arrived back home, I tried in futile pursuit to remove that ring, but the sharpness cut into my other fingers. I knew I had to go to Urgent Care.

     It took three people and a huge tool from REI to cut and twist those two thick gold inner and outer bands off my finger. I remember the PA holding my arm up to reduce the swelling and so facilitate the removal of the ring. The two nurses and one tech pushed, pulled, yanked and finally got that ring off my finger. They handed it to me and I looked at it all twisted up and open. I said my thank yous and walked out the door.

     "You are free to go. So tightly have you held on to your marriage that it took three people, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, to set you free. I want you to know that I have done this; you had no part in the end of your marriage." I was a little puzzled by the impression, but knew that it meant something. I doubted that I had heard accurately.

     Two weeks later Tim came to me and told me he wanted a divorce. I was shocked and said, "Why don't we go to counseling? We have the money now to afford a really good counselor." Tim solemnly and with no expression shook his said. His mind was made up and our marriage was over. I was part stunned and part elated. I know what the Bible says about letting an unbelieving spouse leave a marriage if they want to go; let them! God had heard my desperate cries to deliver me from such a miserable, painful and hopeless marriage. I had brought up divorce when we were cleaning out and fixing up our house to sell it about a month prior. My heart had been utterly broken when Tim sided with Elena in a disagreement she and I had. His lack of support and care for me was more than I could bear. I told him the marriage was over. He didn't say anything. And he said nothing when I told him a few days later that I didn't want to divorce him because of how devastating that would be to our finances and the kids college money. He said nothing, just waited till after everything got settled in our new rental home.

     Several weeks later I appealed to him again about a divorce eating up the money we had gotten out of the sale of our house in a divorce and two separate households, as opposed to our children's education. He listened to me and appeared deflated, but didn't say a word. The tension in the months to come was palpable, even when he spent weeks at a time up north helping his elderly mother out. The boiling point came several months later when he yelled at me and came very close to my face. He was so angry and I knew: let him go. It still took me a couple of weeks later to approach him and ask him if he wanted to still be married to me, if he still had feelings for me as his wife. The answers were yes and no, respectively. I clarified and repeated the conversation just to make sure he was sure. He was sure. 

     Thirteen months later, at the end of July 2022, I got the notification from the court that the divorce was final. It wasn't a happy moment then and it still isn't now. However, I am much happier and freer in so many ways. Tim and I are good friends and we are kind to one another. He is remarried and I am single. I love the peace of mind, heart and soul I have being single, but early post-divorce dating foolishness wounded me deeply these last two years. I'm not sure if I'll find someone, but I do miss physical closeness, intimacy and the companionship that comes along with marriage on the better days.

     For now, I'm content and trusting God for whatever and whomever he has for me. I just noticed that the indent on my ring finger has finally lessened to where you would never know from my ring finger that I was ever married for almost 30 years.