I learned the secret in 1989, while dutifully visiting my parents in Manhattan. Dad, 87, woke up more confused than usual. Mom and I urged him to see his doctor, and he reluctantly agreed. The doctor said to bring him in at once, so I called a taxi. Exam findings were negative. “Go home and take it easy,” the doctor advised, and I started calling another taxi, but Dad was adamant: “I’m walking. I’ll meet you at home.” I followed him into the increasingly blustery October weather. Two blocks later, he broke the silence. “I guess I have to tell you. I hope you don’t tell your mother. I have a date.” Then he led me to the McDonald’s at 72nd and Broadway.
Jean was a pleasant woman, maybe 25 years younger than Dad, a dental assistant for one of Dad’s clients before Dad retired at 80. She told me they often spent afternoons together, and that she was grateful that Dad had introduced her to opera, classical music and museums. Their relationship provided needed companionship without financial obligation.
Though taken aback, I understood. Dad was lonely. He and Jean enjoyed things Mom wasn’t interested in. When he met Jean, I supposed, sex was one of those things. By now, though, I thought that sex was probably unimportant for them. My mother was a demanding and jealous woman who openly begrudged my father and me even the little time we occasionally spent together without her. She may have been uninterested in going to museums with him, but he would be in for it if he took someone else.
The more I thought about it, the more sense it made. When I was a child, Dad sent Mom and me for long country vacations. Usually, he visited on weekends, but sometimes “work” kept him in the city. During the year, he often worked evenings, sometimes until after midnight. When he was home, he and Mom often argued bitterly about her demands. By the time I was a teenager, I could see what he was up against, but I couldn’t understand why he didn’t leave her. I wanted him to go, and to take me with him. “Why do you stay with her?” I pleaded. “Do you love her? Do you?” “Leave me alone!” was all he said. That October evening in 1989, I asked him calmly, “You’ve always had girlfriends, haven’t you?” “Only a few,” he muttered.
Would I keep the secret? Indeed, I would, because I finally understood why Dad stayed. It was the same reason I stuck by Mom after he died. It was simply the right thing to do, and Dad and I shared a belief in doing the right thing. By the time I was born, Mom was a mere shadow of the charming, competent and beautiful woman he married before they fled the Nazis, leaving a piece of her soul in Vienna. By the time I graduated from college, she’d been a Valium addict for years, unable to take care of herself, much less her family. But Dad had taken an oath when he married her, and keeping it gave his life meaning. Leaving her might have eased one burden, but would have added another, greater burden. So, he found a way to keep his promise.
By spring, Dad’s mind was failing badly, and he no longer kept in touch with Jean. Apparently desperate to know how he was, she risked phoning the house. Mom answered and figured it out. She panicked, packed a bag, realized she had nowhere to go, and called me. I don’t remember much about our phone call, but when it ended, she seemed calmer and said she would stay the night and think it over. She never mentioned it again until after Dad died, two years later. Mom outlived him by six years, during which she rarely left her apartment, relying on my wife Niki and me to manage her affairs, and on paid caregivers to meet her daily needs. We flew across the country to look in on her several times a year.
Mom mentioned Jean once more during those six years. “It was my fault. I never liked sex. My friends told me to do it for his sake, but I was selfish. Still, I think he loved me.”
“I don’t know about the sex, Mom, but I know he loved you,” was all I said. It was much more complicated, of course, but Mom had an explanation she could live with.
Did he really love her? Not in the way I love Niki. But he stayed with her, cared about what happened to her and looked out for her as long as he could, while finding the closeness he needed elsewhere. When he couldn’t manage anymore, Niki and I took over. As a teenager, I thought Dad was making the wrong choice. Now, I think he made one possible right choice. Does that count as love? Maybe. If so, I guess I loved her too.
Mature Content is a monthly feature from Age-Friendly Carbondale.