Zenith’s mission includes connecting and coaching on a personal level so I can’t think of a better story to share for my first new blog post. This is my very personal, very intimate experience with marriage, money and divorce. I hope it resonates with you.
I was just shy of 22 and a recent college graduate when I got married. A few years earlier my husband-to-be’s sister had gotten married and then separated after six months. At the time I thought, how can you date someone for years and decide you don’t want to be married after only six months? Fast forward to the morning of my six-month wedding anniversary and I distinctly remember sitting across the kitchen table from him and saying to myself, oh yeah, now I can understand that. Even though I knew I had made a huge mistake, it took me another three years before I could get up the courage, and money, to leave.
My new husband had been a graduate student at Northwestern when I was an undergraduate. I was hired as a research assistant by his thesis adviser, and about a year after that we started dating. He finished his PhD when I was a junior and accepted a job as an assistant professor in Montreal. We dated long distance for my last year in school, and as my graduation approached we faced some decisions and geographical complications. I couldn’t get a job in Canada without a work visa, and as a new graduate with no experience it was going to be nearly impossible to convince a company to sponsor me. I wanted to go to graduate school anyway so I decided to add McGill University in Montreal to my applications and not only got in but received a stipend and teaching assistant job.
All in I would make about $12,000 a year as a grad student, which even in 1994 wasn’t close to enough income to get by alone. Throw in the fact that my mother was very opposed to the idea of living with someone before marriage and we decided to tie the knot. It was very much a practical decision with no romance involved. It went something like, “so I guess we could just get married.” “Yeah, OK, I guess that makes the most sense. We’ve been dating for almost 3 years and we’re not ready to break up.” “Alright, how about July.” “Sure.” A month after graduating I found myself standing at the head of an aisle in a puffy white dress thinking to myself, is this really it, forever? My college roommates smuggled in shots of vodka for me (I love them). My sister’s last piece of advice to me before I began the wedding march was, “you can always get out of it.” Not an auspicious start.
I couldn’t support myself on my salary, so as desperate as I was to leave I was stuck until my studies were completed and I could get a job. I was miserable. I was in my early 20's, living in the suburbs (his choice) and sporting a minivan in the driveway (his choice). A few years earlier I had dreamed of living in a high-rise in downtown Chicago and a driving shiny Beemer. Watching any movie set in Chicago brought me to tears.
He was pushing to start a family but thankfully I held him off. One day he told me that I wouldn’t know the difference if he replaced my birth control pills with a placebo, so I started hiding them. He questioned everything I bought, which was minimal outside of groceries and household supplies, but that was a way to emphasize his monetary control. I was a full time student and teacher commuting to school by bus and train while he took the car to work, and yet I also covered the lion’s share of household responsibilities. Once I confronted him about this inequity. He dove into a lengthy analysis of how an hour of his time was much more valuable than mine because of the gap in our earnings, and so it made sense for me to take care of the menial tasks (incidentally, he was an economist). Meanwhile, his research career wasn’t progressing well at the university, he was depressed and playing SimCity in the basement until the wee hours. Happy times.
Despite the deterioration in my relationship I simply couldn’t afford to strike out on my own. I cried every day on my way home on the train. I thought about transferring to a school in the U.S. but that didn’t solve the money problem. I stuck it out and finished my degree but it took me six months after that to find a job as Canada struggled through a recession. When I finally started a full time job I still was not making much money, but it was significantly more than my student salary. I could see a light at the end of the tunnel. Each day I planned to go home and tell him I was leaving, but I was terrified because I had no idea where I was going. I did anything I could after work to avoid the conversation – I went out with work friends, I took up running despite the sub-zero winters – and I continued to cry on my way home. Finally, after 11 months at my job I mustered the courage to pull the plug. It was Thanksgiving Day in 1997.
I waited downstairs on the scratchy couch in the basement for him to come home, and when he walked in the room I calmly told him that it was over. He had very little reaction, nodded and seemed to expect it. I was shocked but relieved. I said all I cared about was the kitchen equipment and china and he could keep everything else including the car and the house – my first of many incredibly dumb financial decisions, but I offered that olive branch because I felt guilty for leaving. He agreed and we started talking practicalities. I hadn’t planned ahead so I had no choice but to stay in the house for a while and we became ships passing in the night. Eventually I arranged to move into an extra bedroom with some friends. Everything was still proceeding smoothly with the separation and I couldn’t believe I had waited so long, maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad after all.
Not long afterward, about 6 weeks since the Thanksgiving Day denouement, a friend asked when I was going to serve my estranged husband with divorce papers. The thought had never occurred to me. I was thrilled I had gotten the words “I’m leaving” out of my mouth and myself out of the house. The next step seemed unimportant at the time, but I realized she was correct, I needed to get the process in motion. I didn’t know where to begin and thankfully she took the wheel. Her husband’s cousin was a lawyer and he asked her to refer me to a divorce attorney. I engaged the lawyer, we served divorce papers, and then the fun really began.
The next day my roommates and I heard someone pounding on the front door and shouting that “he knew I was in there.” I ignored it and hoped his anger would pass. After all he hadn’t been happy in the relationship either and he must realize this was the best for both of us. I finally agreed to talk to him after a few of these door-pounding incidents so that we could get on with our lives. I asked him what had changed – those last few weeks I thought we had been moving toward this result. His response was that he thought I had a temporary break down but that I would never have the “balls” to go through with it. I’ll never forget the way he looked at me when he said that – I didn’t have enough inner strength to see my decision through to the end. I said, “well, you have underestimated me.”
That conversation was among the most memorable of my life, and now I look back on it as a turning point. I pushed ahead and only communicated through our lawyers. He had hired a well-respected attorney based on his assertion that he was going to get some money out of me. Blood from a stone? I couldn’t imagine what he thought I had to give. The reality was that he had income, a pension and a house to which I was entitled half but I just wanted out and was willing to walk away from all of it for my return to freedom. I thought he was getting a pretty sweet deal.
Shortly thereafter, I learned his plan at a deposition. He had bought the house we lived in prior to our marriage and his parents had given him the down payment for it. It wasn’t an expensive house, if memory serves it cost just north of $100k back in 1993, and I think they had given him something like $15,000 or $20,000 for the deposit. At the time I asked him why his parents were gifting him this money and he responded that they had helped his sister through her divorce financially and they wanted to even the playing field. Sounded reasonable and it really had nothing to do with me since we weren’t even married yet. But during this deposition he claimed that the down payment was a loan to “us” and that I owed him half of that in cash. He even had his mother call my mother and record the phone conversation with the hope of bullying her into some type of bizarre admission. My relationship with my mother was strained at the time due to her negative views of divorce, and he wanted to leverage that against me.
This was a ridiculous sum of money that I did not have, not to mention that the logic was completely flawed. First of all, I had never signed any type of loan document and the money had been a gift from his parents to him. Second, even if it had been given to both of us, then any equity in the house was half mine as well – and there was equity in the house at this point. But the third reason was the final death knell. I tracked down the mortgage loan application from his bank, not an easy task in 1998, and found that if the down payment was borrowed in any way then it must be declared as such or risk defaulting on the loan. Boom! I knew he hadn’t declared that so we presented his lawyer with this information and asked if he preferred to pursue this ridiculous vendetta or have his mortgage called by the bank. The silence was stunning. He vanished.
My lawyer couldn’t garner a response from him or his attorney for years. I had a four-year relationship in the time between this and when we were legally divorced. Every day I feared that he could have some claim on the income I’d made during those years, and I had come to the sad conclusion that I might be legally married to this person forever. I changed my beneficiary on my 401k to my sister but I was told that as long as I was married I needed his signature for it to be valid. Areyoukiddingme?? He refused to respond to any correspondence and meanwhile I was still paying my lawyer for every unanswered letter sent.
One day in 2003 I was sitting in my office when my phone rang – it was my lawyer. My ex had called him and wanted to finalize the divorce. Oh my g-d, holy miracle Batman, I heard angels singing and church bells ringing. Where do I sign? Then my lawyer told me to hold my horses. He had not spoken to him, and could not speak to him without representation by counsel, so I had to call him. I said I had no desire to speak to him, and he said if I wanted to get divorced in my life time then I had no choice. I took a deep breath and dialed the number I had been given. An answering machine picked up (it was 2003 after all) and it was his voice welcoming me to leave a message for either him or that of a woman. Ahhhh, now it made sense. He was living with someone and I assumed they wanted to get married. When we finally spoke on the phone it was perfunctory. He expressed his desire to end this charade and he was willing to use my lawyer as a mediator as his had abandoned him long ago when she realized there was no opportunity for financial gain. This translated into me paying for all of the legal and mediation fees, but again I was so eager to exit this situation that I didn’t care about the money despite the fact that I still had student loans under my belt. Not long afterward my divorce papers arrived, I signed them with glee, put them in the mail, and proceeded to celebrate with copious amounts of wine.
The lesson I learned, and the one I’ve seen play out with clients in my career, is that often women want to exit the world of emotional hurt they’re experiencing during a divorce at any cost. They sacrifice their financial security by making decisions before they fully understand the situation. I was young, educated and gainfully employed so I didn’t worry about walking away with nothing, but it was still the wrong decision. For a woman who has been out of the work force for a number of years raising children the stakes are even higher.
I had the luxury of being the one to know in advance what was happening, so I had the opportunity to plan ahead but didn’t take it. Know what your first move is after that initial conversation. If you are not the partner leaving and you are taken by surprise, then it’s more difficult to plan ahead, but I believe it’s wise for any woman to have a safety net prepared. My advice to my younger self, and generally all women, would be the following.
Much of this advice is valid for anyone regardless of your relationship status. Maintaining a 6-month financial cushion, knowing passwords, having copies of documents and tracking your spending are all key elements in safeguarding your financial future.
In most scenarios it’s better to be the one with more information, but in the case of being the human to an aging pet I don’t think that holds true. My boy Jackson Brown, a Rhodesian Ridgeback and Labrador mutt, is 11 by best guess. The shelter I adopted him from thought he was around 2 years old back in November of 2006, full grown but just exiting that puppy stage. He grew into a handsome older fellow with a shadow of a grey beard. Jack is the kind of dog people on the street stop to pet and compliment, or at the very least give him a big smile as they walk by. He has a spring in his step and a sparkle in his eye. He’s a happy boy.
This wasn’t always the case. He was a stray picked up on the mean streets of Pasadena, CA, as they say. Actually no one says that. Pasadena is an upscale community, but in my mind’s eye Jack was the bad boy of the streets as long as he roamed them, which was probably about 15 minutes. As a result of his origins, I have no idea his history. I don’t know if he ran away or was abandoned. What I do know is that when I adopted him he refused to make eye contact and to this day is afraid of everything behind him, but he was potty trained, he could sit and lie down on command and he never chewed or destroyed a single item I owned. Jack immediately took to my couch, which remains his bed of choice. This leads me to believe that he had been a member of another family, which seems surreal to me. Who cared for him before I even knew he existed? After he reached the shelter he was adopted once but returned. This is another fact I find unfathomable. I’ve concocted a story in my head that he had been adopted by a family that wanted a dog who would be happy roaming a fenced in yard with no walks or play time, and that the first time he bounded toward the food-covered face of a child to lick he was promptly returned to the shelter. Regardless, he ended up with me and whatever road led him to that destination is just fine in my book.
Jackson has always been an old soul. He rarely barks, preferring to observe, and views most of the world with skepticism. Although he had many dog friends during his early days in California, he was always guarded when a new canine came sniffing around. He has become even more of a curmudgeon as he aged, but has adapted to the pace and aloofness of New York City very well. He avoids other dogs at all costs, and has been trained to get a treat to comfort him when he passes these canines who dare walk on the same path. He’s an introvert, as was assessed by his trainers in dog boot camp, and more than anything he just wants to be left alone. There have been many comparisons of his personality to Woody Allen over the years. Maybe when I’m approaching 80 in human years I’ll feel the same way.
There are so many stories I could tell about his younger days, but this is a story about aging. Jack has been remarkably healthy throughout his life. Routine vaccines and check-ups have gone off without a hitch. When he hit 10 I would brag about how good he looked and how much energy remained. But then something changed about 6 months ago. Suddenly his eyes were drooping all the time instead of only when he was tired. He wasn’t devouring his food the way he had in the past. His grey beard had spread farther across his face and mysterious lumps were appearing. Then he stopped eating most of his food, and when he did eat he was often choking. I took him to the vet and all of his tests came back normal. The vet suspects that it’s a neurological problem. The next step requires an MRI that costs in the neighborhood of a monthly rent payment, and if something is found then I imagine the surgery may be the price of a motorcycle.
As a human I know that 11 years is a pretty advanced age for an 80 pound dog. The problem is that Jack doesn’t know that. We still walk 3 to 4 miles every morning in Central Park, with great eagerness at first, but I see how the last mile or so gets slower and slower as the days go on. I feel his ribs when I pet him. He’s not enthusiastic about his meals. I watch his fatigue set in once dinner time is over, and his willingness to stay in bed as long as possible in the mornings. His lower energy level makes him an exceptionally easy dog to care for, but it also reminds me of the inevitable decline to come. The only thing I can do is smother him with affection and give him the treats that make him happy.
Jack has brought a tremendous amount of joy into my life since the day he came home with me in November 2006. I hope and believe he realizes that. Now I want him to enjoy the days that remain. Sometimes I wish I could explain to him why he’s not feeling like his younger self, but I happily keep him in the dark. The dark with a soft bed, a pillow under his chin, endless treats, and the hopes of one day catching that elusive squirrel in Central Park.
Also published on Medium: