Death Is Better Than Divorce

Fantasizing about my husband's demise
I've wished him dead - in

earnest - only twice. Not

bad for 23 years.

Just weeks before leaving on his second combat deploy- ment, my ex-husband told me he wanted a divorce. I was unprepared, but not sur- prised. Seven years in, our marriage had collected so much emotional crap it felt like an episode of Hoarders.

His approach was of the exasperated family member who wanted to quickly empty the mess by shoveling everything into
the industrial sized garbage container.

I wanted to use the profes- sional organizer method - look at each item and analyze whether we kept it or trashed it.

His way was more efficient.

Until his divorce proclam- ation, I had been looking at this deployment as a husband-free, mini vacation.

A summer with the kids that included popsicles, frog-catching, playdates with mommy friends, and a laid
back schedule - enjoying time as a threesome without the tension that existed when he was added to our family mix.

I'm not sure if he was the toxic ingredient, or if our combination created an eruptive chemical reaction.

I just knew his absence brought peace.

I had two small children, no family to help, no money, and zero confidence. This situation was miserable, one which I helped create, but it hadn't been uncomfort-
able enough for me to do anything to dig myself out.

I needed to get my shit

together.

First step, medication. I had no idea how calming the combination of a serotonin-flooded brain plus a husband-free home would be. So, I skipped over the planning portion and de- cided to live in denial and a dopamine-induced euphoria.

Daydreaming was extremely helpful in avoiding thoughts about the future. My fa- vorite, go-to daydream was
imagining the heroic death

of my husband.

I savored all the details.

The knock at the door. Uni- formed Officers with somber faces. Sobbing phone calls to family and friends. A flag draped coffin. Stifling my sobs in the front pew with one arm around our daugh- ter and the other holding our son in my lap. Twenty one gun shots graveside.

And the crowning image, a kneeling Marine presenting the flag...."On behalf of the President of the United
States, the United States Marine Corps, and a grateful nation..."

Maybe a photo of this would even make it into the local paper. There would be Gold star privileges a-plenty, like spa days, mountain-side family retreats, and lifetime commissary benefits!

But the ultimate death-prize would be a big check from the government - sorry your husband's dead, hope this money better. makes you feel

The dead husband combined
with a check would most certainly have made me feel better.

It was the perfect solution to every single problem I had.

It wouldn't have been without a few downers. Mainly my kids would've had a dead father. A father who, at the time, they admired.

They were too young to know any differently. At ages 6 and two, they'd been shown by me, the person they trusted the most, that this man was worthy of respect and love.
Had we had the good fortune for him to have died in war, who knows how amazing life would be right now for them.

They'd have a lifetime of perks afforded to war- orphaned kids: College scholarships, connections with highly influential people, gobs of job offers.

The well of pity would be endless and the comfortable bank account would be a real nice extra.

But the best part would be that they had a hero for a
dad.

That would've been the true gift his demise would've given them to be able to 1 the father of their make up dreams. Someone with integrity and courage.

They deserved a father like

that.

Unfortunately, he did not die in a war zone. He returned, more damaged than he left. Our family was different. His anger was always present and he received great satisfaction in relentlessly tormenting me.
My most recent dead- husband fantasy was when I learned he was in thge hospital with COVID. Not surprising since he thought masks were stupid and his new girlfriend worked in a daycare center.

I found amusement and comfort in imagining the scene. Him lying in a sterile hospital bed, alone. Wal- lowing in pity knowing his children knew he was in the hospital but did not reach out to him.

Giddiness filled me when I imagined getting the phone
call from the nurse a soft, gentle voice telling me my husband had passed and she was so sorry for my loss.

I'd respond with surprise and then devastation. I'd cry, but remain dignified. I'd say things like "I loved him. I wish he would've let me be there for him. I can't believe he's gone."

The real joy came with images of the post-death details.

I was the wife. I had all the power. Who would I tell? I didn't have to tell anyone. I
didn't have to honor him in any way.

I could forgo the funeral all together. I could just turn him into ashes. He was only an incinerator ride away from being a bag of dust.

Then there were the women.

Gina. Did I share this good news with her? Or let her wonder why he never reached out anymore.

And the new, secret girl- friend who had become accustomed to his expensive gifts and financial support. Would I text her? No, email
- it's more formal. Or,

maybe an actual phone call.

The surprise in her voice would be a fun bonus.

But the true satisfaction would come from both of us knowing I was the real winner.

He would be gone and I would have everything.
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