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July 15, 2007 It happened during the summer of 2002, when I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. Something inside me just said, “Clear the clutter, baby,” and that’s exactly what I did.
Fast Forward to Present Day: (This is also how it was for us in 2002)
My husband, Dave, and I, are two happily married people, leading productive, fulfilling lives: he, as a delivery person for UPS, and me, as the owner and sole employee of my own website design company. We are also devoted artists and often have exhibitions in both galleries and public institutions. Most importantly to us, we volunteer at an animal sanctuary for felines in our spare time. We help feed them, (donating two cases of cat food per week) give them their exercise, clean the litter boxes, assist with potential adoptions, and just cuddle and play with them. The sanctuary even has a store that sells second-hand items where I additionally volunteer as a cashier. Often times, we rummage through our own things to find items to donate to the store with the hope of boosting sales. We feel like we are “Guardian Angels for Cats” and this gives us a sense of peace, purpose, and pleasure.
We love our house cats: Tux, Lola Tubs, and Magic, and the strays, that often grace our property. They are ALWAYS well fed and warmly welcome.
Rewind to Summer 2002:
The only pervading problem in our enjoyable lives, besides my cancer diagnosis, was our pesky breeder so-called “friends”. Dave and I were continuously being hounded with questions and statements that we found to be invasive and well, RUDE. At first, we ignored their words; then, we attempted to delicately explain to our friends that these statements and questions made us very uncomfortable and asked them to kindly refrain from asking us about our absence of children. Not one of them respected our wishes or seemed to care. Some even said that we were “too sensitive about it” and needed “to adapt to change by taking the next step” in our marriage.
They continued to pepper us with their questions and statements; and, Dave and I were reaching the realization that the only way to stop the peppering, was to somehow cut them out of our lives.
Here’s a list of the most popular questions and statements that we have repeatedly heard, in no particular order:
“When are you going to have children?”
“You better hurry up; you’re getting old!”
“Why don’t you have children?”
“Don’t you want someone to take care of you when you’re old?”
“Why don’t you adopt?”
“If you do, it won’t be your own blood; but, at least you’ll have someone to love you.”
“You and Dave need to adapt to change and take the next step in your marriage, Sandy.”
“You must feel incomplete with out a child, Sandy, does it hurt?”
“You’ll never know what unconditional love is until you have a child.”
“Don’t you two have sex?”
“Is it some kind of performance problem?”
“Are you infertile?”
“Is Dave’s sperm-count low?”
“Would you like the name of a good fertility doctor?”
“What a sin it is, not to give birth!”
“People who don’t have children are terribly selfish.”
“Being pregnant is so much fun, Sandy, you should go for it!”
“People who don’t have kids have developmental problems.”
“Is it the pain you’re fearing? Don’t worry, it’s not that bad.”
In addition, any time one of them would comment about something that their children had done, the comment would almost always be followed by “Oh, what would you know about that sort of thing, right?” or some similar variation of it.
Dave and I would be invited to every major event in their children’s lives and we were glad to participate. We loved their children and enjoyed spending time with them. Our choice not to have children was a private matter between the two of us; it had nothing to do with not liking children. We loved kids. We just chose not to have them.
Well in advance of any event for our friends’ children, Dave and I would receive a gift list of “appropriate choices” emailed/snail mailed to us from these friends, telling us what to purchase for their kids. We quietly obliged.
Whenever any of them held pool parties, it was as if each family brought the entire contents of their home with them. We are not talking about the basics, like towels, sunscreen, shades, hats, chairs, diapers for the babies, a camera--no, no, no…we are talking about three bagfuls each of toys, tubes, coolers with bottled water, snacks, and juice packs, (the hostess has this already, for Christ’s sake!) mini tents to shield themselves from the sun, (yes, that’s right: MINI TENTS, that take up obscene amounts of backyard space, leaving little for the rest of us to actually partake in a party) umbrellas, multiple shoes, (they arrive in sandals, then put on aqua socks, and leave in sneakers!) three changes of clothing a piece, (even when I only really see them in two changes; don’t know what the third one’s about— an extra in case of a diarrhea episode, perhaps?) camcorders, iPods, mini DVD players, tiny televisions, radios, lap-tops, cell phones, Game Boys, and on and on and on….
One day, at a pool party that my friend, Annette, had hosted for her son, Ron, a comment was made about how small our home was, and how we should get a pool to keep up with the rest of them: “You should move up in the world, Sandy; you live in a hamster cage! Don’t you want kids, and a big backyard, with a pool-- like us?” Annette asked.
I didn’t…and neither did Dave. We had our backyard set up to promote wildlife in the area. We followed the guidelines outlined by the National Wildlife Federation, and even received certification for doing so. We felt a pool would ruin all the hard work that we had performed so diligently to enhance the environment. It was small, yes. It was, however, not the size, but what one did with it, that mattered to us. We weren’t mass consumers and our friends seemed like gluttonous strangers to us.
None of them ever asked either of us about what we were up to, how we were doing, how our jobs were going, or how our cats were, nor did they ever attend one single art show of ours, even when they were invited, and numerous shows were held right in the same area in which they lived. Conversations with them were strictly one sided: the dialogue consisted of what they were up to, how they were doing, how their jobs were going, how their kids were, what they recently purchased, and what they intended to purchase. I never even divulged to any of them that I had cancer. (I did not want their pity, nor did I want them to say that I had this type of cancer because I did not give birth—which is just the kind of warped statement they would likely make.) Dave and I reluctantly realized that these people we called friends, were just vampires, sucking the energy out of us. We grew tired of their company and tried to dodge their invitations one by one.
Our attempts were futile, though, as they would keep hounding us with constant phone calls and messages, emails, unexpected drop-ins, even plopping their kids on us without even the courtesy of a simple advanced notice, while they went to the movies and/or out to dinner. We had just had enough.
“What are you making, baby? Dave inquired. He stood over my shoulder at my art table, watching me glue a handmade pool (I made from markers and two shades of blue construction paper) to a white invitation.
“Making pool party invitations, love,” I said with a smile.
“OOOOOHHHHH, that’s BRILLIANT! Go for it!” Dave responded with devilish glee in his deep blue eyes.
I did. I mailed our friends—ten couples, with at least two kids a piece, invitations to swim in our new backyard pool.
The calls soon came swarming in. Most of them sounded the same:
“Is there anything we can bring?”
“No, just yourselves.” I answered. Knowing full well what they would bring.
“Wow! Finally getting with the program, people!” If you only knew.
“Yes, it took a while but…we also have a special announcement to make.” I deliberately proclaimed to one friend, Trina, with the biggest mouth of all.
“Oh my God! I knew it! How wonderful! Oh, I will keep this private.” Trina assured me. No, you won’t.
The day finally arrived. We had completed all the preparations, taking the necessary steps to properly set up the chairs and to make sure that our new pool was up to par. I had snacks ready and a tub of cold drinks, (both alcoholic and non-alcoholic) though I doubted any of them would be staying very long.
They began to arrive in their high tech luxury vans. Dave and I met them in the front of our house, hoping to keep them all in one place until the formal unveiling. They first brought the children to us by the wildflower butterfly garden, near the side of the house, so we could keep them safe, while they diligently unloaded their vehicles. Each couple came with bags of toys, umbrellas, coolers, towels, sunscreen, sunglasses, all those different shoes, multiple clothing changes, animal-shaped tubes, rafts, Water Wings, life jackets for the tots, iPods, portable DVD players, tiny TVs, radios, mini tents, snorkel sets, volley ball gear, beach balls, lap-tops, cell phones, cameras, camcorders, and on and on and on….
“Are you gonna’ let us see it?” Annette anxiously asked. She was holding the brunt of her family’s gear, while her husband conversed, hands free, with Todd, Kailie’s second and current husband.
“Let’s see, is anyone missing?” I asked. “Oops! Here comes Wayne and Claire pulling up with the kids. Let’s wait to do this right, okay? After all, this has been a MAJOR STEP for Dave and me.” I giggled. Dave seemed a little nervous, though he did throw me an “it’s okay” glance.
****
“What’s your announcement? Give us the word, girl?” Claire said, running up to the group, her tot, Tommie, in hand, while her husband, Wayne, and their daughter, Ariel, followed suit.
“Well…” I joined hands with Dave, “we’ve been thinking about it for a long, long, time—” I was cut off by Ralph.
“Oh, yea! Get it on, my boy!” Ralph yelled to Dave.
“Shut it! Let her talk!” Ralph’s wife, Marie, scolded.
“Dave and I…are…adopting…another cat!” Dave and I hugged each other and kissed.
The crowd went cold! Except for a few of the kids whining about wanting to swim, our friends were painfully silent. Some shook their heads in what appeared to be disgust.
“Now, let’s start that pool party!” Dave declared. He enthusiastically opened the six-foot wooden gates. As our guests quickly filed into our backyard, with their multitude of possessions, all eyes immediately focused on the pool.
“Isn’t it AWESOME?!” I asked. “It’s not too vulgar, is it? After all, Dave and I are artists. We don’t want to be too conventional now, right?” I winked, to no one in particular.
“Who’s game for a swim?” Dave asked. He stepped into the three-foot wide blow-up kiddy pool.
****
They soon left after that. Most of them were thoroughly agitated and highly offended that Dave and I had planned this joke at their expense.
“How selfish can you be?” and “This wasn’t cool, people…not cool at all,” were two of the G rated comments du jour. (I’ll spare you the rest, especially the R and X rated ones.)
Mission accomplished.
****
“Here’s to us, baby. You’re all I need,” Dave toasted with a big, tender smile. We clicked our margarita glasses in unison. We had our feet in the kiddy pool as we sat on white wicker cushioned chairs.
“I love you, sweetheart—I love our life together.” I said softly.
I splashed Dave with my feet, “Now this, is what I call a pool party!” |
