Impotence Redux

At his 21-year-married mark, my brother Steven said, “Every morning, when J. and I wake up, we look at each other and say, ‘Whaddya think: Will this marriage last?’” Then he gave me his wide, Cheshire cat smile. 

At his death at age 59, my brother had been married 33 years. At his graveside, a few months later, as we blessed and buried his ashes, F. prayed for the gift of a marriage that was as resilient and full of humor and love as was my beloved brother’s.

Of course, Steven and J. had their discord and their clashes. And his 15-year illness, the last four years of which were death in slow motion, tore at their seams. Still, to my eyes, they were a model.

“We fall in and out of love all the time,” Steven had assured me during one of the many times I’d sought his marital advice.

Falling out of love? After two decades or more of marriage? Nothing seemed more improbable, or terrified me more.

And yet, here I am, nearing the 20-year married mark, frightened by the swing of my own emotional pendulum.

Besides raising children, nothing is more difficult than sustaining marital love, especially as aging, illness, and career fray its edges.

We change. Who we were at 35, when passion paved the way for generosity, is not who we are at 55, when self-doubt chips away at acceptance.

We need more, but not necessarily from each other. Our universe has shifted. We still rotate around each other but our orbits are wider. We are growing, aching, questioning in new ways. Our struggles are not about the marriage; fidelity has never been an issue. Still, we grapple with pain that the marriage cannot heal.

F. needs space. I need closeness. F. feels squeezed. I feel threatened.

This has been our dance, always. And for 20 years, we have worked it out. We are not who we were, and yet, we are.