Terms Of My Surrender
“I am sorry this world
could not keep you safe.
May your journey home be a soft
And peaceful one.”
- Rupi Kaur
The last five years have been the worst, and best, of my life. The achievements, victories, or luck, whatever you want to call it, were met with existential battles. Some won, one lost, with most ending in a draw.
Anything resembling a normal life ended in a massive bank fraud. My ex-wife, brother, and several friends were victims. To the tune of several million dollars. Instead of accepting an offer far less than our losses, we went to battle against a 3 billion dollar bank. That meant full time focus along with lawyers and a public relations firm. We fought in the courts and in the court of public opinion which found us on NBC News, The Today Show, Bloomberg, and other media outlets. The violation of trust by a banker in whom I had not only a professional, but a personal, relationship, left me wondering if there was anyone left I could trust. As with most litigation, both sides, eventually tired of fighting, negotiated a settlement, less substantial attorney’s fees, of course.
I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that was the worst I had ever faced and would ever have to face.
Then came divorce. My wife decided, coincidentally, within a few months of the bank fraud resolution and my decision to retire, that she wanted to end our marriage after 25 years. It was the financial high water mark of our time together. Back to the battlefield we went, this time on opposite sides. And again, as with almost all litigation (unless you are Johnny Depp and Amber Heard), both sides, tired of the fight, settled on terms both found acceptable, albeit less than ideal.
I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that was the worst I had ever faced and would ever have to face again.
Soon thereafter, I met a wonderful woman, a kind and gentle person, someone who had had a tough life in many ways but who was not bitter, but instead thankful for all that she did have. I have written about her here and here.
That is when I knew my luck had finally changed. She was new and I was new. Again. We had a chance and we took it.
After being together two magical years, we began looking at places we might live together and I bought a home in the countryside of San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. As soon as we closed, we moved in. I finally knew what it was to be in love, to understand what “soulmate” really meant. We spent countless hours making plans to live the rest of years together, all the things we would do, places we would see, and the time we would spend just being together. It was as close to Camelot as I had ever been or ever expected to be.
Then, a month later, out of nowhere, she was diagnosed with leukemia, something I have also written about, here, here, here and with her obituary, here. She went into the hospital with the expectation she would stay for 21 days of chemotherapy, return home for a week, and go back to the hospital for another round of chemo and that would be that. Or, at least the treatment would give her another five or ten years, time for us to get as much of our lives lived together as possible.
Instead, she died in that hospital a week after being admitted. She fought valiantly, as did her family and I to insure she was receiving the best medical care available. As always, even with this dreaded disease, she had a positive attitude until the end.
There was not, and will never be, a sigh of relief, not from me, and I, again, cannot imagine in my darkest moments anything more devastating. Indeed, the day she died was far and away the worst day of my life.
There is a place in my heart that will never be filled.
Friends have urged me to “try again.” But there is something I can’t overcome, or perhaps I could but don’t want to.
Reflecting now on the last five years, battles won and battles lost, I know that defeat can strengthen just as a victory can weaken. And I have decided that I don’t care. I no longer wish to fight. There is nothing left I want enough to struggle for. The last battle, the one that mattered, forbids me any real chance of happiness.
And so I am ready to negotiate the terms of my surrender. I don’t know what that looks like, but I know I don’t want to care anymore about things that matter, and about things that don’t.
I simply want solace and peace, to take the cards as life deals them, without struggle or objection, until it is my turn to leave this rock.
There is nothing left to win. Or to lose.
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