Our Origin Story: Part 1

It was November 2004. I pulled into our driveway and walked inside after a long day at the practice where I had started working right after residency. The day had not just been long... it had been bad. Very bad.

I had spent the entire drive home rehearsing the speech I would recite calmly and coherently to Chris. I envisioned him smiling his kind smile, walking over to me, wrapping me in his arms, and whispering, “It is okay, honey. Don’t worry. Everything will work out.”

But at that moment, when I opened the door, our home was a figurative blood bath.

Maisy was screaming that she wanted to have a lemonade stand. It was November, 48 degrees, and raining.

Sam was toddling around naked, having taken his diaper off for the 9th time that day.

They were both covered in some sort of dust – was that baby powder? Whatever.

Chris was staring stone-faced at a pile of papers on the kitchen counter.

Chris had been out of work for months, having been fired by a megalomaniac running a toxic pediatric practice (I know, can you imagine such a thing?).

The timing of his joblessness could not have been worse. We had just settled on and moved into our dream home – barely able to afford it despite two physician incomes (yes, we were young, hopeful, and financially naïve).

Chris did not look up from the papers as I walked in. That also seemed bad. Those papers he was staring at were floor plans. Those days, he was always staring at floor plans.

The island was covered in crumbs from the “freshly” baked chocolate chip cookies cooling on a rack (they were made three days before). There were breakfast dishes piled in the sink and a pot with the remnants of a can of Spaghettios on the stove. The floor was… crunchy.

After a quick forensic scan of the kitchen, I surmised that our four-year-old terror of a first child had climbed on a chair and tipped an entire five-pound can of Country Time Lemonade onto the floor, herself, and her brother. (I don’t know why we had a five-pound can of Country Time Lemonade – oh wait, probably because our four-year-old terror of a first child was obsessed with lemonade stands.)

The floor plan Chris was mulling over was of the nearly completed office space he had leased for his new pediatric practice, set to open in just a few weeks. The budget for the 2,500-square-foot space was very, very small, which meant we were doing much of the work ourselves: painting, assembling furniture, hanging what few pictures we could scrounge up (there was no money for decor). When he had decided to go out on his own with two partners, Chris and I sat down and looked at our finances carefully.

If I increased my hours, bought health insurance from my employer, and stopped putting money into savings, college funds, or retirement, we would MAYBE make ends meet. It would be at least six months to a year before the practice would be profitable.

Needless to say, our stress levels had never been higher.

As I ingested all the things: the chaos, mess, screaming kids, Chris’s uncharacteristically furrowed brow, my mind went blank. All of my rehearsing, wordsmithing, and planning were erased as I blurted three words.

I. Quit. Today.

At first, I didn’t think he heard me. But he had, because while his head did not move, his entire body went rigid.

Suddenly, I was regurgitating pieces of my defense in nonsensical order and at increasing decibels.

“They wanted to give me a pay cut.”

“They wouldn’t cover health insurance.”

“They told me that a young woman who would likely become pregnant again was a liability.”

“I stormed out.”

“I wasn’t thinking.”

“I am sorry.”

“I will go back and apologize.”

When Chris looked up, his eyes were not kind, and he was not smiling. Relief washed over me as he took a few steps toward me, but without meeting my eye, reaching for me, or uttering a single word, he just kept walking… straight out the front door.

For the first time in our 11 years together, he walked out on me.

To be continued.

Read Part 2 >