The Setting
We were in the car, driving down to a cousin’s wedding, when my husband broke the news. We had recently left the military and moved across the country. My husband had accepted his first post-Navy job offer, and I was, unhappily, newly pregnant. We were living in a crowded two-bedroom rental with our three current children, the youngest less than a year old, and another baby on the way. I had been feeling sick, stressed, miserable, and depressed, spending much of my spare time crying on the couch. After six years of military life, including long deployments and duty days (nights and weekends my husband had to stay at work all day and overnight), we had been looking forward to this period of our marriage with great joy and expectation. My husband could work a normal job, normal hours, no deployments, and we could enjoy a long-awaited regular family life. We weren’t expecting to be rich, just normal and incredibly happy. What could be happier than my beloved husband coming home every night?
But I wasn’t happy. Instead, I had been a total disaster. The new pregnancy I thought I wanted, when just weeks ago I had been glowing with hope for our future, had quickly became a heavy burden, as the reality of it, along with the symptoms of nausea and exhaustion, set in. We wouldn’t really fit into our current rental with four children, at least not comfortably, which would mean moving again. We had moved far away from family to pursue other dreams and friendships, and I was feeling stressed, guilty and confused about that decision. Really, after six years of military life, of being provided for and having the military decide where we would live and work, the reality of making a decision, any major decision, was causing me terrible stress. I was worried about making the best decision for my spouse and for our children. I was stressed about the “new responsibility” of paying the housing and utility bills, and healthcare costs. I was worried about having enough time and energy to care for a new baby and our other children. In addition to these concerns , I had been swimming in what was most-likely a hormone induced depression, leaving me feeling hopeless and barely able to function, as if a dark cloud followed me everywhere, generally pushing me to the couch for another cry and lonely stare out the window.
Thus, it was not surprising that I didn’t want to make the six or seven hour drive, with three offspring in the van, to a cousin’s wedding, where I would need to smile and act happy, and avoid the wine while also trying to hide my early pregnancy. The last thing I wanted was to be congratulated! I wasn’t in the mood to have Aunts and Uncles and Cousins discussing this pregnancy that I could barely tolerate, nor was I in the mood for celebrating anything, perhaps marriage in particular. I might have been in the mood to drink copious amounts of wine, had that been a viable option. But my husband wanted to go. And I wasn’t expecting to find myself any happier by spending the weekend on the couch, blankly staring out the window. Perhaps a change of scenery would help somehow. The little too-small house was still strewn with boxes that didn’t fit anywhere. At least I could spend a day or two without tripping over them. Without enthusiasm, I agreed to the trip. We would divide up the driving into two days, so we would spend Friday night at a hotel en-route. That was part of my reason for going. To spend a night in a clean, uncluttered, nearly-a-vacation hotel. It sounded almost refreshing. So we threw the few pieces of luggage in the van and started on our way on Friday night, the kids watching a movie, then drifting off to sleep, leaving my husband and I with some precious time to talk on the road.
I always cherish that idle time with my spouse beside me, the open road ahead of us, the slowly changing scenery around us, the hours to spend in each others’ company, talking about anything and everything. And now, despite my depression, my struggle, even my nausea, it was good to be in the van, good to be beside my still-beloved spouse, and after so much change, stress, and business, it was good to be able to talk. It was at this point, as the children drifted off to sleep, as we curved through the growing darkness, that my beloved broke the news…
The Shock
“I don’t want to add to your stress, but I have to tell you this.” My body stiffened. My husband never had ominous announcements to make. What could be worse than how I had already been feeling about everything? Or than the actual challenges of our circumstances, and this new pregnancy. What could he possibly need to add, right now?
“I got our first paycheck.” Yes, right. His new job. His first paycheck. Out of the military. That should be good. He’s working. We’re getting paid–
“It was low. $790.”
My breath caught, my body tensed. I gripped the arm rests on the car, as a sense of panic was tightening my chest, tensing my jaw, widening my eyes. I did the math in my head. It’s not too difficult… not quite $800 for one week of work, times 2 is $1600, not quite, for two weeks of work, which means less than $3, 200 of monthly take-home income. Only $3,000 a month!
Are taxes really that high? How could I be so stupid? How are we going to live? Our rent is nearly half that, not counting utilities. We normally spent around $500/week on…stuff. Life. I had been expecting around $4,000/month take-home pay, maybe $4,500. Not $3,000! By my rough calculations of our expenses, we would be around $1,000 short of funds, per month! We could make cuts, but how could we cut $1,000 in monthly expenses? And how had I been so foolish to move across the country for a new job and not realize how much our paychecks would actually be!!!
In that moment, I felt panic. I felt shock. I felt stupid. But I also felt the need to pull myself together. To muster myself to meet this challenge. To save my marriage. To keep a roof over our heads and, literally, food on the table, the heat on for the winter.
Up until this moment, I had been wallowing in depression over an unwanted pregnancy, laid low by exhaustion, stress, anxiety. But this was a new level of challenge, and I would need to pull myself together. Because this is real life. This is confronting a real hardship. This is being an adult. A parent. A wife.
For the first time in my life, I wonder if we will be able to pay our bills. I never imagined I would be in a situation where that would be a question. Having grown up wealthy, privileged, and with the unconscious expectation of being wealthy myself (without even thinking about what is required to be wealthy), it is a scenario with which I have no familiarity. I feel fear, even terror, and certainly shame at this possibility, but most strikingly, I feel the biting pangs of pride. My parents are still wealthy, but I desperately don’t want to have to crawl home to my parents to ask for money or help. But how will we make it?
I turn to look at my husband. He is burdened, disappointed. He feels responsible, as if guilty of this. He knows I have been depressed and struggling, and now it appears we won’t be making enough money to cover our needs, much less our wants. “If only I had stayed in the military, we’d have more than enough….”
No. I stop him. No. He was miserable in the military. He was deeply depressed. I was losing him. He was losing his soul. Nothing is worth that. Nothing. No amount of money or financial security. I need him to be okay. And I know he needs me to be okay too. We are in this together.
We’ll figure it out, I tell him. I take his hand and squeeze. He squeezes back. And we begin. We begin talking, strategizing. What can we cut? Where can we save? How can we add additional income?
As our car weaves through the hills, my emotions are a tangled jumble: panic, fear, guilt, embarrassment, frustration, shock…but also a bit of courage, gratitude, and real love. I can turn and look back at my three children sleeping peacefully in their car seats, healthy, content, beautiful. I can hold my husband’s hand and be assured of his unwavering love and commitment to our marriage, our children. Putting my depression to the side, we are all healthy and well. We are not facing death, disability, divorce, or some sort of irreparable crisis. There is much to be grateful for. Most of all, we love each other. My husband is still my best friend. He loves me. And even though I don’t feel very loveable or very lovely, I love him.
Quite late we arrive at the hotel, and carry sleeping children into bed. I try not to think about how much the hotel costs, because I now know we can’t afford it, whatever it is. In the morning, I try to enjoy the sweetness of being a family sharing a hotel room, my children’s delight at waking up in a new place, the sense of adventure in just walking down to breakfast. This is exciting. I remember going on trips as a kid, and marvel at the fact that I am the parent now, in the role of the grown up, with grown up concerns. But even with the weight of them, I can still enjoy these moments, the enthusiasm of my children, their many joys, the joy of being together.
Still, I am looking at the world differently. I will be poor now. I have been voluntarily poor before. But I always had a generous bank account waiting for me. And I wasn’t paying rent then, or caring for a family. When I volunteered to be poor, for a time, a time that was clearly chosen and temporary, I had made sacrifices. I had not eaten at restaurants. I had not bought items. I lived with extreme simplicity. But now I feel the very real difference of having that imposed upon me. I wonder about things that I know are trivial, and yet I feel the burden of the enforced sacrifices that I see before me. Will I be able to afford my fancy face wash? My body wash? My preferred brand of deodorant? What about the coffee I like? The fancy dark chocolate? I recognize that, facing our current situation, every luxury should be cut. I had always assumed myself virtuous enough to cut these little luxuries “if necessary,” and I know that I can, but I feel the very real difference between the hypothetical and the actual.
And those are just the little things. But there will be big things too. We won’t be able to afford vacations. Activities for the children. Groceries? I really don’t know if we’ll be able to afford groceries! And, of course, the biggest one: A house! We had hoped to buy a house. Now, my hope shall be, oh this hurts, to not be evicted!
Suddenly I understand the fear, the stress, the pain of poor families. The sacrifices they must make. The things they can’t have or can’t do. The things they cannot buy for their children. It’s one thing to not be able to afford something for myself. It’s quite another to not be able to afford something I want to give to my children, or worse, something that they actually need. It’s scary. It’s heavy. And it hurts.
Quietly, I carefully collect every consumable item I can take with us from the hotel….the soaps, the half-used mini shampoos. I slip some oranges and raisins from the breakfast bar into my purse to serve as a snack on the road. I have never done that before. Not like this. Now, we can’t afford a snack from the gas station, and I don’t know if we’ll be able to afford shampoo. If we’re going to cut $1,000/month from our expenses, even drops of shampoo will need to be measured and counted.
I am scared, but I also feel resolved. I have been self-absorbed in my depression. Now I have a concrete challenge to face, one that is outside myself, one that requires my attention, energy, and sacrifice. My husband needs me. My children need me. And I need to face this challenge for them.