Ziggy

I am going to England. The trip is a gift of amazing generosity from my beloved soul-sista Gayle and her husband.

They have two amazing little boys. The firstborn, a delicious, brilliant blond moppet, is Ziggy. Officially a David in a long, long line of Davids (in proper British style), Ziggy makes me almost forget the cartoon Ziggy when I am around him—but not quite.

Because there is a quiet wisdom to this kid. I like Ziggy a whole lot. I like his younger brother Sam too, but Sam’s less likely to yell “knickers” when I ask him to, and more likely to stare at me like, “Who the devil is Aunt Jenny?”

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When my parents divorced after 26 loooong years of marriage, they made the necessary phone calls to me and my brother. I was at graduate school in Westchester County, NY—living in a crap apartment, alone. I remember getting The Call from my dad, and listening politely as he went through his version of the events.

I just listened. I may have eaten some chips.

After a while, my father noticed I was not reacting as he’d expected me to react. He said something along the lines of, “Are you okay? You don’t sound very surprised.”

This part, I really remember.

I said, “I feel like a little cartoon Ziggy. I want to run to the top of a little cartoon Ziggy mountain, throw my arms out wide, stick my Ziggy nose way up in the air, and yell, I WAS RIIIIIIIIIIGHTT!”

He was quick to get off the phone. I’d offended him. Or confused him.

I didn’t want to be right. That wasn’t it.

Later, I told my mother the same thing, as she seemed frustrated by my lack of emotion, except maybe relief that they’d finally be apart. I tried to explain I was having visions of Ziggy on a mountaintop, finally validated for what he’d witnessed all along.

She got off the phone pretty quickly, too. I am sure I was zero help, to either of my parents, that first month they split. I feel bad about that.

I’d always felt like the Cassandra of the family—guys, something is very wrong here, it doesn’t have to be this way.

They did the best they could, don’t get me wrong. We all did.

But it was crazy-making for me. It was an intolerable situation for them, as I saw it. I wanted them to be happy.

So I spent years and years of thinking, Wait, am I crazy? Is this really what marriage is supposed to look like?

So when I met D, I was stunned to find that my Ziggy self wanted to run to the top of that same cartoon mountaintop and yell, THIS IS WHAT I WANT! THIS IS RIIIIIIIIIGHT!

My gut served me well for a long time, until it didn’t. It still feels wrong, very wrong. My inner Ziggy is back on the mountaintop, yelling, NO NO NO NO! LISTEN! JUST LISTEN TO ME PLEASE.

So tomorrow I will get on a plane to London and I will ask many questions of the world at large, in a humble Ziggy way. I want to ask people how they knew they were in love, how they knew it was over, and if one’s heart ever truly heals from the biggest loss.

I fear my heart will never be the same again. That is my greatest fear, that it is broken beyond repair, that I will never use it at full capacity again. And I don’t know whom to tell, what to tell, which mountain to climb. And yet, I do move on. I go through the motions. I have moments of delight that surprise me.

But I am not the same. That open-hearted girl is out of reach. And I continue to mourn her, and wonder who will take her place.