A 2021 PNW Writer’s Association Finalist
Unpublished Memoir

Synopsis

Lauren was a widow and a college business professor at a Christian university when she fell in love with a woman. She quit her job, became a stay-at-home mom for four kids with loss issues, and pursued an art career despite never having taken an art class in her life. Nothing in Lauren’s life had suggested this mid-life evolution, but the love of a woman became the catalyst for change.

But when her wife is unexpectedly laid off from her corporate attorney job, Lauren must say good-bye to her home filled with thirty years of memories, her muse-filled studio, and her beloved gardens of inspiration. Tangled Roots chronicles the love story of Lauren and Ed through his terminal disease, and then after years of being alone, the excitement of a new romance.

Leaving her home triggers reflections on themes of loss and love, life and death, empty nest and empty rooms, and belonging and belongings during the long summer of farewell as Lauren and Michel search for their next home and career opportunity.

Tangled Roots is one woman’s story of reinvention. Out of fear and uncertainty come new passions and a rebirth Lauren could never have imagined. And Lauren discovered that despite leaving behind the deep roots she had planted in her garden and the magic she had created in her studio, a true sense of home follows the heart.

Chapter 1 We’ll Be Ok

“Lauren, this isn’t something I can fight,” my husband Ed said calmly– too calmly, adding to the surrealism of the moment. “All I can do is try to manage my decline.” Decline? My mind locked on that word, grappling for a hold wherever I could find one. But Ed kept talking. “My decline will either go slowly, which means taking meds and having an almost normal life. Or it’ll go fast and multiple systems in my body will collapse. Any new symptoms will mean that I’m on the fast track. The fatal track.”

Ed had just returned from two weeks at Mayo Clinic in Minnesota, seeking a diagnosis for his mysterious health problems. We were driving home from the airport. It was late and falling snow made the ice-covered roads dangerous. Ed had been vague over the phone about the test results, but now the pent-up news poured out in a frightening stream.

I struggled to keep the car moving. This couldn’t be happening. My brain scrambled to make sense of his words, but shock short-circuited my ability to think. I pulled the car off the road and came to an abrupt halt, wishing that I could halt the truth so easily. But just like Ed’s words, the narrow shoulder offered no safety. Headlights from oncoming cars glinted off the blowing snow, increasing in intensity as they approached and then raced by. I’d worked so hard to create this perfect life, marriage, and family. Our story can’t end like this.

I was thirty-nine when Ed received his diagnosis. I’d left my first husband and our sheep farm after a short-lived marriage, and unbeknownst to me, my dad was on the hunt for more appropriate husband material. He met Ed, a fellow dentist, at a colleague’s retirement party, pulled out my photo, and promptly invited Ed for a double-date dinner with my stepmother Kathy and me. Ed hesitantly agreed. “Bobby,” Ed later reported to his youngest brother, “I was more grilled than the steak at dinner. Damnedest date I ever had. Even so, I like Lauren, I really like her.” And I really liked him. Ed was kind, funny, and smart, and I sensed from that first date that he could provide a haven for my bruised heart.

You can guess the rest of the story. Ed proposed one year later, and we were married on a bluff overlooking the St. Joseph River. And as I walked down that grassy aisle it felt like I was walking toward happiness. I finished my doctoral program in marketing. I found a great job teaching at a women’s college, and our life was just about as perfect as life can be when you both work full time and have two daughters under the age of six. When I think back on those days sometimes I wonder how we made it out of bed. I'd start the day making snacks and lunches (no crusts for Anna, and only peeled oranges for Elizabeth). Then coax a warm breakfast into two, slow moving girls, navigate the difficult task of clothing choices, and brush and braid long snarls of blond hair. My life was often a blur of laundry, homework (theirs and mine), and after school activities. But I' d send Ed off to work with a kiss, make it to school drop off before the doors closed, and still be cool, calm, and caffeinated in front of 30 students by 8:00 a.m. Most nights, I fell asleep the moment my head hit the pillow, except when I startled awake remembering a school bake sale or panicked because I'd forgotten to put Elizabeth's soccer shirt in the wash...again. It was a life full of chaos and love, but blissfully normal.

Light-headedness, elevated pulse, bladder and bowel issues were the first signs of Ed's illness. His baffling symptoms got worse as months went by. Ed was in his early forties, a successful dentist, and former athlete who exercised regularly. We’d been married for eight years. “I’ve exhausted everything I can do,” his cardiologist said. He referred Ed to the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota, hoping their diagnostic skills would provide some insight.

One week of extensive tests later and still no answers. Ed remained for a second week as the diagnosticians dug more deeply into the mystery of his failing health. I’d stayed home with the girls, Elizabeth, five, and Anna, three years old. But I questioned that decision daily. With each call I heard the fear growing in his monotone voice which triggered my own alarm.

“It’s an autoimmune disease of some kind. My body’s attacking the healthy cells,” Ed reported as he neared the end of his second week at Mayo. 

I listened to his far-away voice from the warmth of the kitchen, but with each word a chill rose through my body. Snow clouds blotted out the moonlight in the night sky, the garden was black reflecting the mood. At least, there was a diagnosis of some kind, perhaps we’d get some answers. I should have known better. Nothing good ever comes when you start with “at least”.

That night, as a sense of dread kept me awake, I wandered through the house. My mind raced through worst-case scenarios as my hands straightened couch pillows with a practiced rhythm. My heart fought back as I tossed toys into baskets. This has got to be some sort of fluke. He’s only 42. He’s been an athlete his entire life. He’ll be okay. We’ll be ok. I clung to this mantra as my thoughts veered uncontrollably towards dark conclusions. Why can’t they fix him?

Three days later, I picked up Ed from the airport. We walked down the concourse, arms wrapped around each other. We’d always been about the same height; but it seemed like he was shrinking.

Ed reached for his suitcase. He needed two hands to lift it off the conveyor. I pulled on winter gloves and handed him the pair I’d intuitively stuck in my bag prior to leaving the house as we got to the door.

“How’d you know?”

“Just a guess.” Cold was brutal on his fingers. Another unexplained symptom along with the sudden lack of coordination. He took the gloves and shot me a look of gratitude.

“I’ll drive,” I said quickly to mask my surprise at how drained he looked.

Ed climbed into the passenger side, leaned back, and closed his eyes. “It’s bad, Lauren. I didn’t want to get into it over the phone, but it’s bad.” 

I glanced at his pale face, illuminated by the dashboard light. My grip tightened on the steering wheel. “How bad?”

His lips were stiff as if to trap the words that were about to change our life. “The doctors say my autonomic nervous system is shutting down.”

“What does that mean?”

“The autonomic nervous system controls the internal organs,” Ed said, defaulting to the clinical doctor voice he used with patients. “It tells the heart to beat, the lungs to breathe, and the gastrointestinal tract to digest.”

“I don’t understand” I scrambled to grasp what he was saying, fearing the implications of what wasn’t being said.

“It isn’t a single system. It’s everything, that’s why it’s been so difficult to diagnose.” Ed had gone from cardiologists to urologists, from internists to gastroenterologists. Each specialist listened to his symptoms, traced the medical history that Ed was carrying in an expanding three-ring binder, and prescribed medications that reflected their expertise. But nothing had helped.

“That explains it.” I struggled to match Ed’s rational tone. My heart grappled between anguish at the sudden threat of losing Ed and empathy for his desire to keep things as normal as possible. He was the one facing the collapse of his body. How could I rob him of doing it his way? I wanted to scream, to acknowledge in some way the horror of the news, but I choked back the impulse. I didn't want to make it worse for him.

“That’s all they can tell me for now. It’s some type of neurological atrophy, a degenerative disease, rare, usually found in older men. I’m so sorry,” Ed said, looking at me with an unfamiliar sadness.

“It’s not your fault.” I reached to touch his arm, trying to comfort him even as I recoiled from his words. “You don’t deserve this.”

“Neither do you.”

“We play the hand we’re dealt,” I said, looking at Ed with a crooked smile. I pulled the car back on the road. I wanted to get home as quickly as possible. It felt instinctual to race to the house and our girls. As if the safety of its walls could somehow protect us from the inevitable.