Swept Away

Patty Swyden Sullivan
De Capo Lifelong Books, February 2007
Edited by Pam Brodowsky & Evelyn Fazio

Staying Sane
When You're Planning Your Wedding
by Evelyn Fazio, Pam Brodowsky
Feb 12, 2007, De Capo Lifelong Books

How did I, a mature divorced woman plan my wedding to the man of my dreams? I did it with all the confidence of a two-ton hippo tip-toeing on the eggshells of diplomacy. I planned this middle-aged, second-time-around wedding under my self-imposed limitations that people of our age should quietly go away, do the deed, and return with as little disruption to life as possible—the descretation factor falling somewhere between an American Indian woman leaving the tribe to give birth in the wilderness and a Viking funeral sans death and fire.

Also weighing on my self-conscience approach to our nuptials was the feelings of our adult children. Three of them struggled with the loss of their mother. The other two battled disappointment of their parents' "perfect" marriage derailed by divorce. All had a reasonable right to be wary of this union regardless of the guarded but encouraging smiles they put forth.

Then, too, I took into consider the reaction of family and friends who received the news of our engagement with an almost embarrassing degree of exuberance. They pumped my fiancé hand up and down, slapped him on the back, and grinned at him like mad hatters. The words, "Halleluiah, we are off the hook", resonated on their beaming faces.

If their relief had been any greater, the wind from their collective sigh would have leveled nearby trailer parks.

In defense of their enthusiasm, my dear friends and family had nurtured me after my unexpected divorce left me disillusioned and emotionally catatonic. They tended my wounds and helped me heal. Now the miracle of a new love, unbridled happiness, and my very own prince charming were at hand. My friends wanted to celebrate!! They started planning an event befitting a coronation. I reproached them saying the upcoming nuptials required a bit more decorum. After all, any blushing on my part was not due to bridal demure, but the rising heat from my hot flashes.

I tried to explain that I did not want to appear greedy for life's rewards. It was nothing short of miraculous that I had found my other half, the part of me I did not even realize I had been missing, but who now was integrated into my soul. Dare I continue the clichés? Yes. This man completed me. Eager to start our lives together I did not need all the frills: I only needed Bob.

Torn between my awkwardness at displaying too much attention on the nuptials out of respect for our children, our age, and second marriages, and not wanting to offend those who wanted to be a part of this occasion, I became a two headed-master attempting to meet the concerns of everyone, thus risking satisfying no one. Bob and I would not elope to take our vows in secret, but we neither would we fall prey to an overblown party.

As the weeks drew nearer to our selected date, enthusiastic supporters applied more pressure. Where will the reception be? Have you picked out your dress? You need to book a photographer and florist early. Hop, hop. Even I realized that certain tasks must
be accomplished. But I was determined to fulfill only necessary needs and keep this wedding simple, routine, and underwhelming.

We reserved the church stressing to the church wedding coordinator (when did they create that job?) the small size of the guest list. I feared the enormous number of pews would devour them. Jokingly, the coordinator pointed out that the number of choir seats exactly matched the number of our guests. Her smile faded when I told her to ask the priest for his permission to use them.

Next, I flipped through my closet to see if I had something appropriate to wear. Not finding a dress that conveyed I-may-be-the-bride-but-I-don't-want-to-look-like-the-bride, I headed for the mall. I pulled a chocolate brown dress off the rack. Its color combined with an elongated bodice and flowing skirt were the perfect camouflage not only for the occasion, but also for my hips.

Rapidly crossing off must-do items, I visited the owner of a neighborhood floral shop. She proudly displayed elaborate arrangements for the church. I pooh-poohed her enthusiasm with a dismissal wave of my hand. Not one to be poohed lightly, she steered me to non-flowering plants that could be donated to the church after the ceremony. Then with the ease of a skilled therapist she interspersed questions about my engagement with the gathering of billing information. By the time I left, she knew more about my intimate relationships than my hairdresser.

Another quick stop and I hired a photographer to snap a few family photos before the ceremony. After all, we needed something for the mantle. Finally, I arranged for a light dinner to follow the service. Our party would not quite fill a small private dining room at
a nearby country club. We would dine on glazed chicken, rice and grilled vegetables. One could not protest too much festivity over being fed.

The proverbial big day arrived. I was prepared for a straightforward run through of the events as I had planned them. No fuss, no muss. We say the vows, we eat some chicken, everyone goes home, and Bob and I are off to the Caribbean for ten days of enchantment.
When Bob and I arrived at the church we found our family gathered in the social room. The photographer had set up her equipment for the posed photographs. Systematically, she took group shots of our children, parents, and siblings. She concluded with formal poses of the bride and groom.

Just as we finished, the chatty florist bubbled through the church door. She had placed potted palms at the altar earlier in the day. Now she came running in carrying a white florist box.

"I know you nixed a bridal bouquet. Think of this as a fashion statement."
She gently placed in my hands seven individual tulips bound together by one delicate satin ribbon. "There is a flower for each member of your new family". I marveled at how their simplistic beauty enhanced my gown. Suddenly I saw how this marriage would adorn all our lives—Bob and I would see to that—just as these flowers graced my gown. I looked up to Bob to see if he noticed; his smile told me he did.

Bob took my arm and we strolled up to the candle-lit altar. Our loved ones encircled us in their choir seats. Nestled in their warmth, serenity settled over us. As the priest began the service, he started to tell our stories. Of course, everyone present knew the intimate details of our histories. But listening to the priest describe the loss of a life partner, crises of faith, faith renewed, and the miracle of second chances; all the pretense that our age
and circumstances put us beyond ritual fell away. How could it have remained? The abundance of joy in my heart left no room for doubts about celebrating this marriage.

Recognizing joy, even in times that evolved from sorrow, is glorious. Trying to deny it is not only dishonest, but prevents planting the seed for the future. Bob and I wanted our life with our children to bloom to its full potential. At that moment, we let go of restraints and let loose the power of love for all to see.

The priest pronounced us married. Jubilantly, we strode down the aisle where the persistent photographer waited. Taking her cue from the florist, she had ignored my wishes for no candid photographs. Bob, seeing her there, gave her a conspiratorial wink. The next thing I knew my feet were flying off the ground. My husband had lifted me up and swung me across his body, cradling me in his arms. The photographer clicked the shutter as Bob carried me across the threshold of our marriage, life, and family with the boldness of a man shouting to the world, "This is my wife!!"