Three Stories: John's Story

Most people have one chance at happiness.

I guess I'm luckier than most.

I met Jane and Joan at about the same time. I had just started work, and Joan was a friend of a friend. I met her at my friend's housewarming. She was sweet and funny, attentive and delicate, and always calm and poised. At the housewarming, the house was in danger of overheating when the wok caught fire while my friend was cooking. While someone was rushing about trying to get a fire extinguisher, and another was planning to dump water into the wok, Joan took the wok cover, covered the fire, turned off the heat, and turned up the smoke ventilator. I think I fell in love with her then.

At about the same time Jane was my colleague and project work threw us together. We worked late, we worked long, and we worked very closely. I got to know her like I knew few other women. I saw her fight for the project, sell the idea to the client, and work hard to make it work. And I found myself respecting her for her strengths. Respect turned to admiration. And admiration to love. And when we celebrated the end of the project, one thing led to another, and well...

Which made my decision very hard.

I loved both of them, and both of them loved me. I had to make a decision, but it was a life changing decision. What if I made the wrong decision? I would have to live with the decision.

But the truth was, I was not thinking that I would make the wrong decision. With either of them, the decision cannot but be right. The problem in my mind, was how could I hurt either of them. Whatever I decide, one would be hurt.

Yes. I was weak. It took the two of them to present me with an ultimatum before I chose.

I chose Joan.

As I told Jane my decision I knew that she would be strong enough to take it. Did this perhaps influence my decision? I don't know.

I remember that day quite well. After I told Jane, she kept quiet for a while, composing herself. Then she told me she had missed her period last month. The doctors confirmed that she was pregnant. But she had taken care of it.

For a brief moment between her telling me that she was pregnant and that she had aborted the baby, I wanted to run to Joan and tell her that I had changed my mind. I was sorry, but I had made Jane pregnant and I had to do the honourable thing. For a moment I thought I glimpsed the light at the end of the tunnel, and I had an excuse to chose Jane.

Then she said she had "taken care of it".

I wanted to say, "you should've told me. We would have worked something out. We should have made the decision together!" But it was Jane. She was a strong independent woman. She would have hated me for interfering with her decision and she was strong enough to make her own decision and to stick to it.

I did not see her after that. She gave notice at the office and left the company and the country.

Joan and I got married and it was the happiest time of our lives.

About a year into the marriage. Joan told me she was pregnant. Impending parenthood was a time of excitement and anticipation. We planned our kid's future, what to call him or her, which school to go to, whether to migrate to spare our child the rigours of the local education system, care arrangements, whether to get a maid or not.

Then we lost the baby. It hit us both hard. But for women, the loss I can imagine is worse. She took time away from work. Lost her appetite for food and for life. Didn't seem to want to climb out of the depression she had sunk into.

I tried to get her out of the house, but she wasn't interested. I cooked her meals, but she just picked at the food, then said she was tired, and went back to bed.

All the while I was also in pain, both for the lost of baby, and what this loss was doing to Joan. I remembered thinking that before the pregnancy and after the miscarriage, we were objectively the same. Then why were we so happy before and so miserable after?

Logically, we should have been able to go back to being happy. But I couldn't. Joan couldn't.

Not for a while.

It was while Joan and I were separately dealing with our loss that Jane showed up. It was a surprise to me and I remembered telling myself: don't mentioned the miscarriage. The last thing I should be doing is to turn to Jane as a confidante when Joan was depressed. I couldn't betray Joan by telling Jane about how unhappy we were.

But I needn't have worried. Jane came with her own baggage and her own loss.

She told me that she lied when she said she had had an abortion. She kept the child and went away to start anew with her daughter. Our daughter, Jessica. She told me that Jessica was a beautiful child. A sweet little girl that was the joy of her mother.

Then she died.

We sat there quietly in grief. I had lost my daughter even before I knew I had one. And Jane had tried to raise the child alone without help or support. I should've been there for her but I wasn't. But now in her moment of loss, she needed to share that burden with the father of her child.

We sat together quietly. We said nothing because there was no words to say. Just holding each other. I took her back to her hotel, but I didn't want to just leave her there like that. I went up with her to stay awhile.

Well, awhile stretched out.

Over the next few days I saw her almost everyday. Then she had to fly off again. I told to her call if she ever needed to talk again. And I lied to myself that the last few days never happened, and my wife needn't know about it. My story with Jane needed closure and the last few days was just... closure.

Jane's visit gave me strength to try again to break Joan out of her depression. Perhaps my renewed efforts worked this time. Perhaps Joan was ready to end her mourning. Whatever it was, things became normal enough in the bedroom that soon after Joan told me not to get too excited, but that the doctor had confirmed she was pregnant again.

We agreed that it was best to keep it quiet for the moment, but we did have a quiet celebration and prayed for a healthy child.

We lost the baby just over a month later.

Joan was devastated and in shock. It seemed like she couldn't stop crying. I cried with her until I had no tears. But hers would well up again.

After three days, I told her I had to go back to work. She roused herself just enough to tell me not to worry about her. She just needed time to grief.

As I left that morning I thought about how this strong, assured woman had become so crippled by grief and tears again welled up in my eyes.

I was glad to be back in the office and buried myself in work. But at the end of the day, I once again faced the prospect of going back home and being unable to do anything for Joan.

I felt so helpless.

I don't know why, but I called Jane then.

She was happy to hear from me, but became silent when I told her my news.

I knew I shouldn't share my burden with her. It was not just mine to share.. And letting someone else know about our problems, our pain was a betrayal of Joan. But being strong for Joan all the time was taking a toll on me and I needed to unburden my pain as well. I tried to be there for her, but I seem to be having no effect. In the meantime, she had shut me out.

I guess I just needed someone to talk to. And Jane had shared her pain with me. We had shared a loss too. So I told her. And she listened.

It felt good telling someone. We talked for hours. Well, mostly I talked. I hung up feeling better, and if not stronger, at least re-energised to face and help Joan face our pain.

Over the next few weeks I was tempted to call Jane again whenever things were rough. But I knew if I went that way, it would lead to other things. As it was, I wasn't sure that I should have called her at all. But I felt like I was suffocating, claustrophobic, dealing with the pain of the loss and Joan's loss. Perhaps I was selfish but I couldn't spend day after day, hour after hour dwelling on the loss. Life goes on.

But it should go on with Joan. So whenever I felt like calling Jane, I made it a point to call Joan instead. It could just be to see how she was, or to make plans for the evening if she felt like going out. Slowly, we managed to pull through our grief. But now sex was coupled with anxiety. So we took it slow. She needed time, and frankly, I needed to... I don't know what I needed.

Things got better. She started to eat more, smile more, laugh more. Then one evening she dressed up and we went dancing.

I hadn't danced since we were dating, but I could sense she wanted to return to those happy times when we had not lost anything, and the future was full of promise. So we danced like we were younger and more innocent, and she became again the woman I married, strong, assured, and positive about the future.

But when she told me she was pregnant yet again, I found I had to fake a little of the excitement. A cold hard lump sat at the bottom of my heart. Logically, the doctors had said that miscarriage for the first pregnancy is not uncommon. 2 miscarriages in a row is less common but it happens. Still to re-assure us, the doctors had run tests and found that there was nothing wrong with Joan.

We were hopeful and fearful, but we didn't dare talk about our fears, as if talking about them would give them life. So we kept them locked inside, and put on brave fronts for each other.

Whatever it was, whatever was going on between us, in spite of it, regardless of it, or because of it, we lost the third pregnancy too.

I called Jane when the silence in the home became unbearable. When I had no more to give. When I did not know what else to say. When I had said everything previously, and repeating them just sounded so hollow.

I needed someone to share the pain, and Joan had more than enough pain and didn't seem to see me as a fellow sufferer.

So I called Jane.

I just told her that Joan had a third miscarriage. And that I was tired of being brave, of being strong, and I wished that Joan would let me in, let us cry together, and tell each other that we don't have to pretend to be brave for each other. That we could grieve together.

And Jane just listened. She knew exactly what she didn't have to say. I only remembered that she said that I could call again if I needed to talk.

I needed to talk about a month later when Joan had a particularly bad day. Then a week later. Then more often.

My need to talk became my want. I started to look forward to our talks and messages and emails. I was aware that after a time, I felt like I was burdening her, so I started to ask her how she was. And then we shared mundane things, then funny stories, then more personal stuff.

But I could feel that she was still guarded, not completely letting me in. There were times she started saying something, only to catch herself and then change the subject.

Then there was a conference I had to attend. It was where Jane had settled. I was anxious and excited when I emailed Jane the details of my visit. We arranged to meet at my hotel. I brought her a present.

She brought Josh and introduced me to our son.

As I held him, I found myself letting go of all the frustrations and denied hopes and just wondering what this boy would grow up to be, how I could teach him, guide him, be a father to him... and then I realised I had a problem.

I could not leave Joan. We had been through too much. But how do I be a father to my son?

I left my heart there with Jane and our son. I left without a plan or a purpose. I left hopeful and yet, hopeless.

Perhaps it was good that it was "conference" season. I had to go for another one a week later, so I didn't have to face Joan.

When I got back however, Joan was ready to face me.

Apparently Jane had been by to see Joan and told her about Josh. A part of me was furious with Jane for forcing the issue, but the issue at hand, the woman at present was Joan. Whatever had been said between the two had been settled. Now it was between Joan and me.

She had been betrayed and she was both furious and hurt. She called me quite a few things. I probably deserved most of it. I was sorry things turned out this way. I guess like every other man in a similar situation, I didn't intend to hurt her... but I did.

"So where do we go from here?"

She gave me the documents to sign.

"Is this what you want?"

Her silence spoke eloquently.