Things I'll Never Have

Yesterday, I read Erma Bombeck’s book A Marriage Made in Heaven, or, Too Tired for an Affair. It’s all about her 40+ years of marriage, her children, and how she survived it still loving and needing her husband. Not my usual fair, I know, but she’s a satirist. And it’s summer, so it's too hot to even consider tweed.

Don’t judge me.

Anyway, Erma got married at 22, and stayed that way forever. Her parents were married forever, too, at least until her father died.

This August will mark 6 years since my grandpa Faber died. He had colon cancer, which isn’t what killed him. Instead, he developed pneumonia after the chemo weakened his immune system. One night, that was it. He was suddenly reduced to a series of phone calls, a memorial service we all attended, and a series of memories we sometimes talk about.

There are very few things I remember about grandpa Faber. I remember he always smelled like scotch. He always had a polo shirt and some form of khakis on. He had the best puns ever. And his hugs were even better than his puns. But, in the great tradition of men from his generation, he wasn’t overly forthcoming with his feelings.

A year before he died, I happened to be visiting the Fabers in Pennsylvania—I think it was the summer before I went to college. I was brimming with all kinds of dreams about becoming a forensic pathologist, complete with medical school and a successful career as chief medical examiner in some exotic place like Maryland. My dad took me to my grandparents’ house for a visit, as per usual. My grandmother fed me a sandwich and something chocolatey, as per usual, and we sat in their living room for about an hour as I talked about school and they talked about people their age whom I’d never met. As per usual.

The crazy thing happened when my dad and I went to leave. Dad had gone outside with Grandma to talk about gardening or something, and Grandpa pulled me aside in the little foyer just inside the front door.

“Don’t tell anyone this,” he said, “but you’re sort of my favorite grandkid. I’m really proud of you.”

At the time, I had no idea what to say, so I think I told him I loved him, hugged him, and went on my merry way. And I’ve never actually told anyone that he said that (although now, I suppose you know).

Flash forward 9 or so months. I was a second-semester freshman in college, and I had just made the big decision to switch my major to English after nearly failing everything that even hinted at science. I think it was Spring break, but maybe it was summer. In any case, I had gone up to Pennsylvania for my annual Faber visit. And the man who had walked a mile every day with his wife of 50 some-odd years, played golf several times a week, and had better annual check-ups than any of his grandkids, was suddenly hospitalized and diagnosed with colon cancer. Instead of taking me to my grandparents’ house, my dad took me to the hospital to see my grandfather, lying there in a sterile metal bed, tubes coming out of everywhere, looking frail and helpless, like he had aged a million years since I’d seen him last.

I have no idea what we talked about. All I remember was the last thing I said to him, after everyone assured each other that he’d be up and healthy in no time:

“I’ll see you soon. We’ll go dancing.”

It’s a line I’d heard Margaret Houlihan say to a patient with a leg injury on an episode of M*A*S*H. I have no idea why I said it. It was just all I could get to come out of my mouth after staring at this shriveled up ghost of the man who had been my grandfather. And it made absolutely no sense. What does colon cancer have to do with dancing? Why would I even promise to go dancing with my 80-year-old grandfather? He probably thought my brain had turned to mush the second I gave up on going to medical school.

The day before class started my sophomore year, I got a call at 7:00 in the morning. It was my dad. Grandpa was gone.

A month later, my sister gave birth to her only, and amazing, son, Emerson. He was what everyone needed. Flash forward 6 years, and my brother and sister-in-law have just welcomed home two beautiful babies. They’re just what everyone wanted.

Oh, I’ve got one other memory of my grandfather. A few years before his death, I remember sitting in the TV room of his and Grandma’s house, watching golf. (If you wanted to watch TV there, there were two options—golf on NBC or golf on ABC. Anything else was unimportant.) There was something wrong with the sliding glass door, so my grandfather, whose alter ego was Mr. Fix-It, pulled out a screwdriver and had it sliding away again in 3.4 seconds flat. Then he turned to my grandmother and said, “Geez, you’ve got a great husband.” She smiled, nodded, and kissed him quickly on the lips. That was the first time it occurred to me that they were married. And they loved each other for 50-some-odd years. The day he died, my grandmother lost her best friend and the literal love of her life.

Somewhere between my grandparents and my siblings, marriage as a concept went horribly awry. This November will mark the 15-year anniversary of my parents’ divorce. Before that, they’d each had a spouse. After that, they each had one more. At some point in our childhood, I think my brother, sister, and I all must have figured that this was just what happened to grown-ups. Marriages just kind of suck, and then they end, and another one begins. Kind of like prime-time television. When your spouse jumps the shark, you hang on for another season or two, but eventually, you have to refuse to pick it up for next fall. It’s just good business sense, right?

But then, my siblings both went on to prove everyone wrong.

Two out of three children have successful, happy marriages and beautiful children to show for it. My brother got married at 23. My sister-in-law is basically a robot she’s so cool, and he unabashedly calls her “Best Wife Ever.” My sister got married at 27, and my brother-in-law is hands down the best nerd husband anyone could ask for. Even worse, my brother and sister are actually awesome people themselves. Seriously, you could frost beer mugs with their coolness.

I’m 25, and the odds are against me that I’ll ever get past my “This-is-the-last-thing-you’ll-ever-say-to-the-person-who’s-meant-so-much-to-you-so-be-sure-to-stick-your-foot-in-your-mouth" phase long enough to be in a stable relationship. Sure, in the actual world, I’ve got a good 15 years left before I hit official spinster-dom. And even in the Faber-kids world, if I became an amazingly cool person right now, I could just make it to happily ever after in time to avoid the “When I was your age, I gave our parents great-grand-children” speech from my siblings. But really, it’s astronomical! Two children of a series of failed marriages finding someone who looks at them after 3 months of dating like they’d just seen their first Trans Am—-and then continues to look at them the same way after years of marriage? Two of three, okay, maybe. But three for three? Impossible. The universe has to mail out that short stick with “Things You’ll See But Never Have” printed neatly on the side, and it’s looking like I’m the only one home to receive it. Some assembly required. Requited love, emotional stability for longer than a year, and title of “Best Anything Ever” not included.

And it’s arrived C.O.D.

But before you burst into tears or roll your eyes or potentially throw up at my list of things I haven’t got now and am likely to never have, here’s what I know I’ve got:

1) Fred Faber, my grandfather, was proud of me. Even if my last words to him were the dumbest things ever uttered in the history of ever, and even if I’m not becoming the right kind of doctor now, he was proud of me. In our family, that’s more than anyone has even thought to ask for.

2) I’ve got Erma, whose books make me laugh, then immediately make me dissolve into tears, and whose oldest son got married in his 30s. In response to his wedding, she wrote, “Maybe if I hadn’t panicked at twenty-two, I would have met someone with the sentiment of my son, who proposed to his bride on Valentine’s Day on a moonlit beach in Hawaii and was taking her to Venice for their honeymoon.”

3) And maybe, if I don’t panic at twenty-five, 10 years from now might just mark the day I beat the Faber-kids-finding-relationship-happiness odds.

I’ll see you then. We’ll go dancing.