Maria and I have loved one another for more than a decade, and our love and care for one another have grown and deepened from the first. As people often say in their messages, we have a “perfect” or even “beautiful” life.

We do have a good life and a meaningful one – and in many ways, a happy one – but it has also been an authentic life with the ups and downs of real life – from my open heart and foot surgery to bankruptcy and anxiety and severe panic attacks to family failure to the trials and fears and challenges of life as an artist.

Being a full-time writer and artist almost guarantees a life of insecurity and financial trouble. We have gotten through a lot, much of it challenging and frightening. We will never give up our lives or run from them.

We have always stood with each other and supported each other in every way.

But our love was tested unexpectedly, shockingly, and painfully last month. Maria, not I, should describe the details of a triggering incident in a doctor’s office.

The doctor did nothing wrong, although he was especially non-communicative and insensitive. The circumstances of the examination for ear infections sparked a severe and frightening trauma in Maria and brought back terrifying but essential memories.

Maria was as upset and nearly paralyzed as she had ever been. I’m not a shrink or a doctor, but I had a serious role to play. I needed to support her gently, patiently, and completely.

From the beginning, I told myself that this was the challenge of our relationship, and I had to meet it, putting myself aside and my issues.

I was confronted with something I had not experienced before, and I was challenged to be supportive, not just say it—we live in intimate contact with one another, as do most married couples.

But this was something that I had never experienced and needed to prepare for. More than anyone, I wanted to help her in the first few days until she and her friends and therapist could help her recover. She is recovering every day in every way. She is tough as nails.

As awful as it sometimes was, she never quit on her art, her friends, her love of our animals, her love of me. She is strong and brave, and I admire how she responds.

 

 

I was central to her healing, recovery, and support at first – there was no one else here.

She contacted her gifted and experienced therapist, but I felt a new and powerful obligation to help her get through it and to a better place. The first few days were frightening to her and to me.

I want to share what I learned not in the need for sympathy – it didn’t happen to me – but in the hopes that other people, especially men – might benefit from things men are rarely taught to deal with.

First, a word about love: I love Maria dearly and believe my love has been returned, but I have learned to define love in a particular way. For me, love is about the ability to care more for someone else than for yourself.

This did not come naturally; I never experienced that kind of love. But it was essential.

First, I listened to her as she poured out the pain, memories, and feelings that had been opened.

I am not always the world’s best listener but listened to her. I knew it was not my job to advise her about what had happened and what had caused it.

It wasn’t my job to save her – she had to want to do that –  but to be a source of trust and comfort.

She had to come to that herself and in her own time. I wasn’t looking to be a hero, just a safe space in a sometimes frightening world.

I contacted my therapist – I also wanted to get help and make sure I was doing the right thing – and she cautioned me not to try and figure out what had happened and put pressure on Maria to recall any details or feel as if she had to recall memories from long ago in her life.

That was her job, her therapists, and, if she chose, her friends, and in her time.

My job – my therapist agreed – was to reassure her, to be someone she could trust and feel safe around. She might never know what happened, or she might.

It didn’t matter. It only mattered how it felt now.

I repeated to her that she was in no danger now and that whatever happened long ago would not happen again. She never quit on her life; she was never broken.

I was here for her in every way when she wanted me. She could talk to me anytime.

I did tell her that when she experienced this trauma, she left the real world behind and was brought to a different place by the heart and brain and the awful fear she was feeling.

Sometimes, she didn’t want to speak to me, but that was okay, too. I didn’t take it personally.

She was okay now, I told her.

I reminded her that when I had panic attacks, she was right there to reassure me that I was not in reality and needed to talk with people I trusted who could walk me back to life now.

So this is what I did for her. When she came to me shaking in fear, I said softly and repeatedly that she was not in reality.  That is not who she is now. She is safe.

What she was feeling was real but from another time. She was in no danger. She had friends and someone to trust.

I reminded her that she had worked long, hard, and successfully to be an artist, a gifted one who sold her work all over the country and was admired and respected.

She was beautiful with the animals on the farm and had walked me back from the edge of the cliff in much the same way I was prepared to do for her. I found that I did know a lot about what to do.

I did what I wished had been done to me in my early life and that Maria had done for me more than once.

I went online, did some homework, pulled out the book on trauma I read a few years ago, and read some pieces online.

Maria and I had talked about trauma many times; we saw it in ourselves and others. I said this could be a gift, a release of unexplainable and relentless anxiety she experienced around certain people in certain situations.

We agreed that she needed to pick the people she wanted to talk to carefully; with trauma, well-meaning friends can often trigger it while trying to help.

Maria knew this intuitively; she was determined not to turn her life into drama or a self-pitying trap.

We reminded one another that we had built a beautiful and loving life together, which could not be taken away.

Realizing how strong she was and how much she had done to get the life she wanted gave her perhaps the most incredible comfort.

None of that was easy, I said, but through all the pain and suffering, she never stopped or wavered from living her life.

I was the witness, I said, I saw her do it. I can say wholeheartedly that what happened was something old, not new.

It could not happen again. She was helpless then; she is not helpless now. She said having a witness to assure her this was not her was very helpful.

I told her I would be there for her anytime, not to talk but to listen.

This was and is a difficult position, and I am so grateful I asked for help and got it. Maria was intensely fearful for a few days, but she recovered bit by bit every day. I needed to be patient and careful.

As an older man, I know how difficult it is for men to deal with raw and painful emotions.

Most men I know have never seen their fathers or brothers do it—I didn’t—and I say this with empathy and compassion.

Men have no movement to turn to, and few men will want to talk to them about it. I didn’t know a single one I could discuss it with.

It’s not easy to deal with men; it’s not easy to be one.

I did not tell Maria to “suck it up,” or “let go,” or to “not make a big deal of it,” the things fathers love to tell their children.

This kind of support meant a lot to her. I told her I had no doubt she would be comfortable being intimate again, but it didn’t matter; I would love her no less.

She found comfort in my hugging her, holding her hand, and sitting with her outside for hours in silence while she worked it out.

I am happy she has almost returned to calm, peace, and safety. I am not surprised. My faith in her is genuine.

Her fear is mainly gone, and she is feeling safe again. We are taking it slowly and carefully. Maria is back to making beautiful art that people love, loving the farm and the animals, and fussing over me as I navigate my cataract surgeries.

She is familiar with my surgeries; she has always been there for me. I know she will be by my side.

I have done the same thing for her. More than any other time in my life, I could step outside myself and my needs and think about hers. I was also willing to let the experts take over.

This was a jarring and frightening experience, but it has become a blessing and gift for both of us. Our love is stronger than ever.

Maria is learning how talented she is now, how much she has to offer, and how strong and determined she is. She knows how to take care of herself.

What happened last month will never happen to her again. She did that. I helped.

___

P.S. Maria read and approved every word of this piece. We both thought it was a good idea.