It's Me, Sara Louise

It was the first Sunday in January 2022. The gentleman I was dating and I decided to take our relationship to the next level — introducing our dogs. 

He had a six-month-old Vizla named Jackson, fresh from New Zealand. We needed to see if Fifty would tolerate the baby kiwi. I hoped the foreign passports and a love of rugby would bond them, but Fifty had grown ornery with age.

The plan was for me to drive the hour north to the gentleman’s place in Columbia County and hope for the best. I grabbed Fifty, his bed, and a Dutch oven filled with pot roast and hopped in the car.

When we arrived, the gentleman bounded out his front door, followed by a very inquisitive and energetic pup. Fifty had met the gentleman before, so that was easy; getting used to this auburn-furred menace was something else. It wasn’t long before Fifty asserted his French attitude and put the young pup in his place (oh, how the tides would change as time went on).  

We took them for a walk down the back garden, which ended with a pond. It being January in New York, it looked frozen. Surely, it was frozen. It had to be frozen. Fifty and Jackson ran onto it, playing and sliding along. 

“It’s frozen, right?” I asked.

“It is, don’t worry.” 

And that’s when we looked over just in time to see Fifty crashing through the ice. 

“Frozen?!” I exclaimed.

The gentleman stared back at me with a shocked look on his face.

“Well, go get him,” I shouted, gesturing to my flailing dog. 

Fifty had found the one spot on the pond’s edge with a warm spring running under it. Of course, he had.

The gentleman pulled Fifty out and dried him off. He was fine, not bothered by his unplanned swim at all. From then on, it was Fifty’s pond. 

As the months went on, Fifty grew happier spending weekends at the gentleman’s place. There was land to run, chickens to chase, Jackson to play with, and a pond to swim in. 

One day, the four of us were out on one of our many walks; I looked over at the pond and asked, “When Fifty goes, can he stay there?”

“What do you mean?”

“His ashes,” I said, “Can we bury his ashes there?” 

The gentleman thought for a moment, looked down at the pond, and then looked back at me. “Yes, yes, we can.”

For months after Fifty passed, his ashes were in an urn placed next to a photo of him in my living room. Sometimes, I thought I should keep him with me. I didn’t know if I was strong enough to really say goodbye. But then I thought about Fifty and how happy he was running free by the pond in Columbia County, and I knew I had to let him go. 

When winter was over and the ground softened, the gentleman sent me a photo. It was a spot by the pond’s edge facing up towards his house. “This is his spot,” he said. 

I ordered a dogwood tree and flew back to New York.

On a cold afternoon in April, the gentleman, Jackson, and I walked down to the pond. We dug a hole (let’s be honest, he dug the hole), opened a bottle of champagne, scattered Fifty’s ashes, planted the dogwood, and said goodbye. 

Cheers to you, my darling Fifty. May you be forever happy resting by your pond. 

You know, nobody gets married thinking they’ll get divorced. Even knowing it’s a possibility (I mean, let’s be honest, the odds aren’t great), you still don’t think it’ll happen to you. But then it does.

I’m divorced. Finally.

Almost three months since he signed, six months since he was served, nine months since I paid the retainer (THANK YOU, FRIENDS), and two years since I found out that he had “married” someone else while keeping that gas light lit, I am finally divorced.

And it’s so anti-climactic.

Don’t get me wrong, it feels… actually, I’m not sure how I feel — relieved, maybe? It’s all so anti-climatic. I guess that’s partly because I’m in a new city (more on that soon) without a crew to celebrate with. It feels a bit like 🎵 happy divorce day to me, happy divorce day toooooo meeeeeeee 🎵. But alas, I’m divorced, and I’m happy. Yes, let’s go with happy.

I guess the other thing is that this whole thing didn’t need to be this damn dramatic. It should have been, “Sara, the last couple of years have been difficult. The whole green card thing was hard and messed me up. And, while we were apart, I met someone else. I’m sorry, but I think it’s best to go our separate ways.“

Would I have been upset? Yes. Would I have understood? Yes.

But for some mentally challenged reason, he decided to live a double life while absolutely screwing with mine.

Nevertheless, it’s done now, and I am free. And he is, too. For now, anyway…

** clink clink ** 

“Fifty, Fifty, you’re my very best friend. Fifty, Fifty, and you’ll be ‘til the very end. Fifty, Fifty, you’re my very best friend. Fifty, Fifty, and you’ll be ‘til the very end.”

I made up this little song about four years ago when Fifty was around ten or so. Knowing that I was on a countdown, I wanted to have something that hopefully could provide comfort and peace at the end, so every night before bed, I sang it to him in hopes that in the future, when I had to sing it to him, he would hear it and merely think it was time to go night night. 

Even though I have sung that song to him more times than I can count, and each time held my breath a bit, knowing why I was, I still wasn’t prepared. I don’t think one can ever truly be prepared. 

It was a Thursday morning. We woke up at 6:14. I took a deep breath and steadied myself for the day. My mother was en route from Spain for a visit, and we had plans to go directly from Newark Airport to spend the night with some friends in New Jersey. I would be dropping Fifty off at the kennel. As he got older, I dreaded those stays more and more. 

We got out of bed and ready for our quick morning walk. Fifty was fine. (In hindsight, I know now that he only seemed fine.)

We walked out to the apartment door, down two flights of stairs, and into the lobby. 

He was fine. 

As soon as we stepped outside the building, Fifty took off like a horse leaving the gate. It was like he had been hit with a shot of adrenaline; he tore down the sidewalk along the parking lot, pulling me along with him. This was not normal “mommy, I have to go real bad ,run.” This was something else. 

He ran straight into the road (thankfully, there were no cars coming) and paused. He threw his head back and let out a painful cry as he wet himself. 
Before I could process what had happened, he took off again with me barely hanging on to the leash, my feet clenching as I tried to keep the flip flops on my feet.

Fifty ran wildly; his ears popped up in determination. But there was no attention, no focus, just sheer, wild, full-speed panic. 

He slowed down, circled, his eyes searched for something that was not there. I grabbed my phone and called my vet. The office was closed, but the emergency service answered. 

They asked if Fifty was responsive. I shouted his name over and over, watching as he turned his head and body around and around, searching for where the sound was coming from. While there I was, standing only a couple of feet away. It was like his mind had gone someplace else, somewhere far away.

The person on the phone told me to get him in to see someone as soon as possible. I told her he was booked into a kennel for the night that was part of an animal hospital. She said to get him there as soon as they opened. 

As I got off the phone, Fifty had calmed enough for me to steer him home. We took the elevator up, and I watched him as he slowly seemed to calm down. We entered the apartment, and he paced a bit like he was unsure of where he was or what to do. After a few minutes, he went to his bed, collapsed, and let out a big sigh. I did too. It seemed like he had tired himself out and would sleep for a bit. I kept my fingers crossed and went to take a shower. 

When I stepped out, Fifty was in his usual spot when I get ready in the morning – lying smack down in the middle of the bathroom floor.
Surely that was a good sign, I thought. I got myself ready, grabbed my overnight bag, and Fifty’s stuffed sloth Saoirse. 

He seemed like himself again. We took the elevator down and walked out into the parking lot. When I opened the car door, he hopped up into the back seat without needing any help.

He was fine. 

When we got to the kennel, I checked him in for his stay. I told them what had happened and asked if he could be examined while he was there. I handed Saoirse the sloth to the receptionist, told Fifty I’d see him the following day, gave him a cuddle, and watched as he was walked through the doors towards the kennel. 

He was fine.

But he wasn’t. 

Fifteen minutes later, I had a call from the vet. “I don’t know what’s wrong with Fifty, but he’s freaking out.”

“What do you mean he’s freaking out? I don’t understand. He was fine a few minutes ago. He was fine.” I desperately tried to stay calm as I drove down the Taconic.

“He’s panting excessively and is having a very difficult time walking and controlling himself.”

I explained what had happened and asked if I should come back. I never would have left if he had been like that when I dropped him off. He said not to worry; they would give him a sedative to help him relax and then take a better look at him. He’d call me later.

A few hours later, I was having a late lunch catching up with my mother and godmother when my phone rang. 

The sedative had done the trick, Fifty was calm and resting, but he had a fever of 104 (normal is 100-102). They said they would keep him under observation for the night and not to worry. 

By 8:00 the following day, we were headed back to New York. I called the kennel as soon as they opened to check on him. Fifty had had a restful night and was calm, but his fever had spiked to 107 at one point.

“That seems very high,” I said.

“It is, but he’s doing much better now.” I tried to feel reassured, but I wasn’t. Fifty wasn’t fine. I could feel it. I knew it. 

When I arrived, I asked if I could speak to a vet. My mother and I were brought into an examination room and waited. The vet came in, and we talked; she said she hadn’t been there the day before but had been filled in on Fifty’s case. 

I explained my fears… asked what could have happened the day before when I had walked him… could it happen again… what should I do… 

She was so kind. So patient. So understanding. She said that while they couldn’t be sure, it seemed like he had a neurological attack, most likely a stroke. I braced myself because I knew what all this meant. It was time to say goodbye. She asked if I wanted to take him home for a few days. No. I wouldn’t have the strength to bring him back. 

Fifty was brought into the room. I swear he was smiling, but it was like he had aged overnight. He looked so old; his fur even seemed paler. And my poor boy could barely walk; his back legs weren’t working properly.

A vet tech brought blankets in and laid them on the scale. She told me to take all the time I needed and left. 

I got on the floor to be closer to him. I cuddled him as he gave me kisses wiping up my tears, and I told him all the things that needed to be said. 

About twenty-five minutes later, Fifty walked over to the scale, put one paw on it, and looked to me for help. He wanted to get up on the scale, on the blankets. Fifty was ready to go. 

Then the vet came back in.

I held Fifty and sang his song, singing the words over and over until my good boy went to sleep for the very last time. 

I don’t even know if I’m going to hit publish on this or not, but I’m feeling my feels, and I need to let them out, and this space is my therapy, my meditation, my moment of zen.

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Today, I went to my storage unit and pulled out two large suitcases of G’s clothes. I don’t want his bad juju around my things anymore.

Sorting through them to see what could be donated, I thought, “OMFG, this mofo left an entire wardrobe here.”

(My inner thoughts swear a lot.)

He left a whole a** wardrobe!

(Apparently, my outer thoughts do as well.)

Like, who the f**k does that? I mean, I guess it’s part of his double-life agenda because all the gaslighting probably wouldn’t work as well if his side of the closet had been empty, but WTF?

There is some good stuff in those suitcases too. Imagine being so committed to your fraudulent lifestyle that you leave a whole other wardrobe of Zara Men and Ralph Lauren on the other side of the world.

(Btw, That’s how you know I’d never lead a double life, I could never leave my Zara behind.)

If I were less environmentally friendly, I’d invite all of you over for a bonfire, but alas, Mother Nature doesn’t deserve to get effed over by G either (we girls have to stick together).

Turning lemons into lemonade… I popped into my neighborhood thrift store and asked if they took donated men’s clothes. The lovely owner said they did and then asked why I had my ex’s clothes. I gave her a quick recap as I watched her eyes grow bigger.

“Oh, I can’t wait to hear more.” She replied. “It sounds like an episode of Dateline.”

(Oh, girl, you have no idea.)

“Well, I have a blog,” I said, smiling as I watched her scrambling to grab a pen.

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P.S. If you’re in the Hudson Valley area and see a bunch of men dressed in French rugby merch, you know why.

P.P.S. Big shoutout to my newest reader, Tina!

Here’s a fun fact about Sweden, everyone’s personal information is available online. Like you want to get someone’s address or phone number, find out their birthday, or even whether they own or rent, Google their name, and BAM.

Because of this, a handful of friends and family have kept me abreast of G’s life and whereabouts (sometimes whether I want to know or not). 

Sidebar: I never ever Google him or her; I don’t need the internet to traumatize me any more than it already has, thank you very much. 

As you can imagine, not everyone living in Sweden is in love with their information being so public, so there are ways that you can go about hiding it online. And surprise, surprise, ever since the detective made the first contact, a certain someone has been trying to do just that.

I wish I could say that finding out he’s trying to hide didn’t bother me, but I can’t. It’s a reminder that this whole thing still isn’t over and that it never had to be this complicated.

All he had to do was come clean and tell me where he lived so I could file for divorce, but whatever insane mental illness he has wouldn’t let him. (I mean, I’m no doctor, but if I had to guess, I’d say narcissistic sociopath.) As recently as August, he told me that he lived in California, had no contact with her or the baby, and couldn’t give me an address because he was staying in an Airbnb. Meanwhile, my mother was able to find out that both he and his “wife” had moved into a new house in Sweden. His name was on the lease FFS.

So yeah, still lying, still hiding, when this could have been the most straightforward and inexpensive divorce ever. (If I was texting this to you, this is where I would insert the eye roll emoji, followed by all the frustrated ones, and then the red sweary face one.) Instead, I had to go to the police because sometimes, when you eff around, you find out.  

The thing is though, just because you can make yourself private online, it doesn’t mean you can make yourself private from the law. 

You can run, but you can’t hide. 

You know the thing is, like 90% of the time, I’m fine, good even, but when I have to deal with anything that puts me back in Gregory world, where I have to think about him or the ordeal he’s left me in, it messes with my mojo big time. And these past two weeks, through a combination of good and bad news, my mojo has been rocked.

First, the bad news. It’s tax season! Another yearly reminder of how still being married is destroying me financially.

Accountant: Sorry Sara, you owe $XXXX.

Me: Seriously? Even taking X, Y, and Z into account?

Accountant: Unfortunately yes, you’re Married Filing Separately, you have to get a divorce.

Me: I’M TRYING.

On the bright side, this shouldn’t still be a problem next year (fingers mother effing crossed).

Now for some good news. You may have seen my post a couple of weeks back where I was toasting to the papers finally being served. WHEW. I mean that’s a load off. But of course that didn’t come without a special side of drama.

Having U.S. divorce papers served in Sweden costs $1910. Can you believe it? For that price, I should have just flown over there and served him myself but I digress. Anyhoo, I paid the money and waited for the magic to happen.

Three weeks went by without any update. Not wanting to eat into my retainer, I contacted the process serving company directly for news. Emails went unreplied to and calls unreturned.

After reading some not great reviews of the company, I was getting nervous and thought maybe I should cancel the charge on my credit card and go with someone else. So I did what I was trying to avoid, I emailed the law office. (You know what happens when they open an email, don’t you? They bill you.)

I explained my worries and was told to hold tight, they’d reach out and get back to me. Within an hour I had an email from the paralegal.

“He was served Saturday. I’ll forward more details when I have them.”

Sheeeeeeeeeesh! Why did it have to be so dramatic?! But my lord, what a relief.

And then I got the details.

He was served on a Saturday at 8:47 a.m. This news was accompanied by two photos, one of the paper he had to sign acknowledging acceptance which showed one shaky, shaky signature, and a photo of their house. Their sweet, cheery, yellow house with a sporty green fiat in the driveway and a stroller parked outside the front door. Oopsies, it sure looks like the whole family was home.

(I’d be lying if I said I didn’t take some perverse pleasure in this. No ill wishes to her at all, I strongly believe that she is a victim too. But knowing that I was able to reach into his personal space with the beginnings of retribution feels damn good. I finally understand the meaning of “revenge is a dish best served cold.”)

And then four days later, more good news arrived via a phone call from the detective in Dublin. I don’t know how much I can say about an ongoing investigation so I’ll just say this, I’m not the only one whose mojo has been rocked.

This is a story about a girl named, Lucky.

This is a story about me. 

I know, I know, it’s hard to believe, right? It’s hard to imagine that through all of the drama, and the gaslighting of the last few years, I would consider myself lucky, but I do. 

The past few weeks, months, hell, even years have tested me. But, lately, I’ve had to drudge up feelings that to protect myself and my daily life, I had buried deep, far back into the recesses of my mind. Confronting them has been challenging; I hadn’t been prepared for the mental anguish of it all. I honestly thought I was over it because I’ve been living a relatively happy life. But going through everything and acknowledging and accepting what happened is rough, and it’s been taking its toll. 

When I returned from Dublin last month, I felt an emptiness I wasn’t prepared for. Even though the trip was for a disturbing purpose, I had been “home” surrounded by my family and old friends. I was back in the city that made me, and it had felt wonderful. Stepping back into reality in my sad studio in New York, not so much.

After chatting it over with my family and work, we all agreed that I needed a couple of weeks back there again because processing what I had been through should not be tackled alone. So thanks to my lucky life, off I went.

I dropped Fifty off in the Berkshires for two weeks at my sister’s, where he would be lovingly looked after. (Let it be said that free room and board for your pet in a loving home should never be taken for granted. Never ever.) Then I headed to Newark.

My retired flight attendant Godmother had listed me on a flight to Dublin, and once again, my free-flying self was upgraded. I binged 1883, took all the champagne on offer, and giddily constructed my ice cream sundae when the cart rolled by. (Say it with me… LUCKY.)

A short taxi ride after landing, and only a couple of weeks after leaving, I was back in front of the fire at my Auntie’s, cup of Barry’s tea in hand while breakfast was set out on the table. A full belly later and I was tucked up under the heated blanket in a bed I have slept in since I was a wee one. I sunk into the sheets with sighs of contentment; it was good to be home.

After a few days of family and friend catch-ups, and I was on a plane headed towards Spain to stay at my mother’s in Malaga. My Scottish cousin Dee lives there as well, and the two of them were waiting at the airport ready to greet me and stuff me full of Iberian ham and wine.

A week of walks along the Mediterranean, strolling the streets of old town Malaga, and after many episodes of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire en español, I felt refreshed, recharged, and ready to return to dealing with the demons and damage left behind by my husband. 

(What does one say about Malaga? I know what I’ll say; I’d like to live there… Watch this space.)

So with two weeks of a much needed working R&R behind me, I can tell you I’m very lucky indeed. I have a boss who lets me work from anywhere, a sister willing to take care of Fifty, a godmother that gives me non-rev flying privileges, an aunt and uncle who make their home mine, a cousin in Spain that is always game for taxi duty, and a very supportive mother that happens to live on the Med. 

So yeah, I’ve got stuff — A LOT. But damn, I’ve got a whole other lot, you know? But that’s the thing. That’s the trick. You look for the light. You look for the bright. And as Mr. Rogers said, you look for the helpers. 

Thank you, helpers. (I’m looking at you too.)

You know, nothing really prepares you for seeing a blown-up photocopy of one of your wedding photos in a police file. But there it was, sitting on the table in front of a detective at a Garda station in Dublin.

Back in November, I decided that enough was enough. My husband has gotten away with his cruelty and deceit for far too long. He was living his life with his “wife” and child and was quite content to pretend like our previous life together simply didn’t exist. (For the record, I’d love to do that too, but continuing to be married to the bigamist is having quite a negative impact on various aspects of my life and wallet.)

You see, whenever I would contact him about divorce, he’d lie about his whereabouts and generally be evasive and uncooperative. And I couldn’t understand why until I finally realized he didn’t want to get divorced because doing that would blow up his happy little life because she would find out about me.

Well, EFF THAT. Enough is enough. I needed to get serious about taking back my life. He has stolen enough of it.

So, I contacted a detective friend of mine in Ireland, the country where the crime of the bigamy occurred, and he gave me some advice, and I took it. And that’s how I ended up sitting in a police station in Dublin for more than three hours giving a statement.

And it was weird. And distressing. And sad. But it was needed.

Because the thing is, I don’t want revenge. I want justice.

P.S. Thank you to everyone who helped me get the ball rolling so I can take my life back. It’s going to be a long and slow road, but as long as you guys have my back, I’m good.

P.P.S. I’d like to share more but it’s probably best for the investigation if I hold off on that for awhile. And, I’m pretty sure he still lurks in my social media spaces… hiiiiiiiiii 👋🏽

Since we’re approaching Christmas, I’m going to tell you about the horrific emotional journey my husband took me on in December 2018.

As always, take a deep breath, light a relaxing candle, pour yourself a drink, or do whatever you need to do to center yourself. Prepare to be flummoxed and possibly infuriated.

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In September 2018, we hit another impasse. It had been fifteen months since the Green Card had been approved, and yet, my husband was still not living with me in Texas. There had been one excuse after another…

1. He was waiting for a job transfer to Chicago.
2. He was waiting for a bonus.
3. He got a new job and was sent to Brittany for training for three months.
4. His grandmother had a heart attack and was in a coma, and he couldn’t possibly leave her.

I had had enough.

I told him I was moving on with my life and wouldn’t wait for him to come and be with me anymore. I found an apartment downtown and moved out of my mother’s house.

And then, lo and behold, he showed up.

But, of course, he only showed up for a few days. Off he went again with promises to be back in a couple of weeks for good.

A couple of weeks turned into more than a month. Again. So, I told him not to bother coming back. And I meant it. I was moving on with my life.

I planned a trip to London to go to my friend John’s fabulous Peaky Blinders-themed work Christmas party as his plus one, and off I went. (Trust me, he’s just a friend. More like an annoying little brother, actually.)

Then the messages began – Please, I’m coming back, I promise. I bought a plane ticket. I’m coming. Please…

Fine.

Stupidly, I cut my trip to London short, so I could be back in Texas on the same day that he would be arriving. When he walked into the house, he rolled in one small carry-on bag. That was it.

“Where’s the rest of your stuff?!”  

The answer was an excuse about having to return for some important things or something or other at his mother’s house. (I honestly cannot remember what it was – too many excuses to keep track of) but he promised he would be back on Christmas Eve.

And then, we relaxed into each other again. We spent a really lovely week together, and I was happy. Things felt normal, and I felt hopeful. And off he went back to France, with a kiss goodbye and a promise to be back the following week.

On the night before Christmas Eve, my intuition kicked on. Something wasn’t right. I could feel it.

I messaged my friend John frantically, saying that I didn’t think that my husband was coming back. He wasn’t going to be on the plane. I knew it.

John assured me I was being crazy; of course, he would be on the plane!

I went to bed and, in the morning, woke up to an email from my husband saying he was all checked in for his flight from Paris to London. He even included a photo of a suitcase on a check-in scale. (How weird is that?)

I breathed a sigh of relief. But I could feel the doubt creep back in.

More messages back and forth to John when a Facetime came in. It was from my husband.

How could he be Facetiming me if he was on the plane?!

“What’s going on? Where are you?“

I was greeted with sobs (he deserves an Oscar, really) followed by some BS story about how when he went to board his flight to Austin from London, he discovered that he didn’t have his passport with him; someone must have stolen it, or he had put it down somewhere and lost it. They wouldn’t let him get on the plane.

And that’s when he did what he always did. He made it about him. Poor him couldn’t get on the plane. Poor him was alone sobbing in an airport. Poor him wouldn’t be able to come to the U.S. for Christmas. Poor him.

Lies. All lies.

I spent Christmas in Texas with my mother. And I’m assuming since this was three years after he had met his girlfriend and eighteen months before he “got married,” my husband spent the holiday somewhere with her.

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P.S. An important note for my American friends. My husband has a passport card as well as a passport. An EU passport card lets you travel within the EU. Hence that’s why I found it plausible that he was able to fly to London from Paris without an actual passport.