The White Rockers
Our marriage (thus far) in five acts

I. Me, in the driveway, sweltering as I assemble the chairs

We’d made a weekend plan for a project for our new-to-us home and looked forward to spending the time together all week. We first needed a trip to a home improvement store for supplies and stopped for a drink (or three) on a patio. Once home, the Texas heat was in full force and the planned tasks quickly felt unpleasant and overwhelming.

He retreated to our bed for some rest and to cool off. Unbeknownst to me, the drinks we’d had together weren’t the only ones he’d had that day. His “rest” quickly resulted in passing out.

So there I was alone, racing the slow-setting Sunday sun and hastily assembling the white rocking chairs as sweat poured down my back and into my eyes. Concurrently happy to have it done, frustrated that I was doing it alone, and missing him while I worked.

II. He, on the stoop, with my grandmother’s ring

For his 32nd birthday, we went to a comedy show. We sat front row, got heckled, laughed a ton, and used our included drink tickets (and then some). I remember that he wanted, verging on needed, to stop for a drink on the way home and then seemed relieved.

Once home, neither of us wanted the night to end. We extended the evening by playing music and dancing on the front porch. We dressed our dogs up in the swag we’d gotten and took pictures. He went to the bathroom just before midnight and emerged shortly after. Kneeling in front of me while I sat in a rocker, he asked if I would marry him. I replied, “How did you get my grandma’s ring?” and then, “Of course.”

III. Us, in our chairs, scared but confident in our choice

As with many who decide to enter rehab there’s often something precipitous — an intervention or an event. In our case, something did happen but it wasn’t much different than things that had before. It didn’t result in injury, incarceration, or even hurt feelings, really. What it did result in was the realization that our life could not go on as it had.

I went into action finding a facility, wrangling insurance, and figuring out what he could and should pack. He went into action trying (and failing) to stay sober and delaying the date of checkin. The morning he was scheduled for intake he woke up hungover, showered, and met me on the porch with his bag and tear-stained cheeks.

We sat in our rockers and smoked. He was calmer than usual, his eyes less turmoiled and tortured. He told me he knew it was the right thing to do. He told me he was scared. He told me it was necessary. He told me he worried it was too long. He told me it was time to go.

His honesty simultaneously touched and broke my heart. I hadn’t felt that close to him in months and didn’t want to break the tether. Why all this now? Why when he was about to leave me? But, I believed what he said — for the first time in a long time — so we wiped our tears and we left.

IV. He, on the porch, while I wait in our bed

After three chaotic days and two sleepless nights, he is outside in a rocker. He has finally stopped drinking but is most likely still drunk and is definitely still reeling from the effects of (yet another) relapse.

Meanwhile, I’ve retreated to bed with our dogs … listening as he rocks and for any sound indicating he’s decided to abandon his lonesome post and come to us. Wishing he’ll come in and pass out so that I can know he’s safe and hear his familiar breathing. Needing it so that I, too, can fall asleep and wake up with him still next to me.

I should be angry. I shouldn't want him anywhere near me or the dogs after how he mistreated us. The anger doesn’t come and its absence is welcome. If I want I can spend days, weeks, and years (a lifetime, really) being angry — starting tomorrow. Tonight, my only desire is for him to rest his mind and body with us.

What seems to be the final boundary has been crossed. He’s leaving. He has chosen where to go. There is no ultimatum and there is no return date. There are no milestones to achieve for a reunion. The only hope that remains is that he will leave that rocker and join us for a final sleep.

V. Me, in a rocker

Sitting still. Contemplating the promises that got made and broken, the boundaries that got set and crossed, the decisions that got made and undone. And then I stop because they left us exactly that — broken, crossed, and undone. So now I find relief knowing that there are no commitments to ask for or boundaries to set. I sit in solace and find comfort knowing the only decision I need to make any time soon is no decision at all.