Expectations

The common phrase “Time and again, it comes down to the expectations we have” comes to mind. I have no idea what “Time and again” really means, or how the expression came about.  But someone wise once defined for me that “Expectations are premeditated disappointments.”

I had visions of my siblings and I reaching out in caring formation, lining up to connect, tell Dad stories, hug each other a lot, be soft with each other, and show compassion when he was ill.  But I actually got the polar opposite from my older brother.  I do mean POLAR, as in ice caps; glaciers that barely move; and cold, rigidly sharp and icy hurtful behaviors. These were not only present when Dad was sick, and I was treated as if I was in the way of my brother’s medical expertise. But in the couple of days after Dad passed as well. He was the piercing Ice Man on the day of Dad’s passing, coldly picking a fight with me and absolutely forgetting or ignoring me later in the day when they gathered for lunch at the house. 

I was the third child of four raised in a highly functioning yet dysfunctional alcoholic home.  My feelings and emotions were not important enough to register on anyone’s register.  I took to not talking, wore whatever clothes my Mom picked out for me through grade school, sat in the “way back” of the family station wagon, did my homework, didn’t spill milk at the table, and kept to myself.  I didn’t know how to shower myself until 6th grade when my sister threw me in the shower to learn to wash my hair and take a shower rather than a bath. My neighbor taught me to ride a 2-wheeled bike in third grade because no one noticed I had no idea how to ride a bike. No wonder I moved and stayed 1,000 miles away from all of my siblings and parents so that I can live my life. I have carefully worked through two divorces after marrying the first guy who came along and wanted my attention. Twice I married the first man to show up. 

After living away for 40 years and finding friends, therapists, a 12-step program, and writing a lot of journals, I have grown up to expect to be treated humanely.  The thing is, the family system is still there, treating children as if they don’t matter and don’t have feelings or emotions that matter.  I forgot that dynamic when Dad was sick, and when he passed. I thought we would treat each other with compassion. 

So when I was scolded a couple of hours after Dad died for being upset at being forgotten. I didn’t blow up. I did not explain that I felt hurt at being forgotten. I folded into a ball and stayed away. I took care of me and my grief alone. The next day, I did put my foot down when Mom tried not to have a memorial service for him. I sat with the minister, designed the service, chose the songs, bought the lemonade, the cups, the programs; I made the phone calls to Dad’s friends to let them know he passed.

Shame on me for expecting a Norman Rockwell family reaction like my neighbors had when their Dad passed. I can forgive my family. I will. But I won’t forget. I won’t put myself in that place of vulnerability again. That is the key for me: Let it go, forgive brother (even though he never admitted or asked for it), but don’t ever forget that he isn’t going to be soft. He won’t ever be anything I need and crave from Family.  He won’t ever be like Dad.

My sister gets upset that her 91-year old Mom wants to give her advice.  Financial advice from a 91-year old Mom needs a double take. Warren Buffet knows what he is talking about. But I have a hunch his wisdom and aptitude is an anomaly at his age. I listen to Mom’s advice about making gravy, leather shoe care, and furniture placement for optimal guest seating. Mom has never had a mortgage, bought home insurance, selected health insurance, or had a car payment. She hasn’t had a boss since 1957. We go to the gas station to buy gas.  We buy coffee at the coffee shop. Coffee at gas stations is not their forte.

Even though I still pre-meditate my disappointments with unrealistic expectations, I am growing. I don’t go to my brothers for heartfelt connections; I go to girlfriends who love me, see me, don’t try to dress me, and certainly don’t make me sit in “the way back” of the wagon.