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I read a post, a divorce survey, by Gwen. I commented to her that my first marriage did not end in divorce, but death. It was not a happy marriage by any means, but I either didn't have the courage to end it or didn't want to face the defeat of a failed marriage. Of course, my mom was a firm believer in making a bed and lying in it. I don't think that divorce would have been an option for her to consider, and since she was such a controlling factor in my life at that time, I probably was greatly influenced by her.
Woody and I were married right after he was drafted. He just knew that he would be sent to Viet Nam; however, he was sent to Germany instead. I became pregnant right after we were married, and while he was in Germany, I lived with my mom and dad, had the baby and got a job as a secretary-bookkeeper. Woody was no stranger to me since we had grown up together, had gone to the same school and thought that we knew each other so very well. Unfortunately, I don't think that you really know someone until you live with that individual.
When Woody came home from the service, we bought a small house, and we three began to make a home. It didn't take me long to find out that I had exchanged one controlling individual (my mom) for another. Woody was a good man in so many ways, but he was also a hard man. I always said that it had to be his German background that made him so distant and undemonstrative. Of course, I know better. Woody patterned himself after his father's example. Being German had nothing to do with the meanness, it was merely part of the inherent personality. Affection was only apparent during sex. We never communicated since I was just a woman, not a manly hunter. One time when I wanted to tell him about a bad experience at school, Woody said, "I didn't marry you to hear about all the bad things." I didn't hunt, I didn't understand sports; therefore, I was useless except to cook and to clean and to provide sex upon demand. When Woody came through the door in the evening, he wanted his hot meal on the table. We never had sandwiches; we had hot meals. Even when I came home from the hospital after a very difficult birth of my son, Woody wanted to know what I was going to cook. I could have cried and probably did.
Woody became ill with colon cancer when our son was two years old. I stayed by him the entire time and nursed him when he was bedfast for nine weeks. He wanted to die at home. I had wonderful nurses who came in and taught me to give shots, change his bed with him in it and do all of the things necessary to make him comfortable. The entire time of his illness, all of his anger and fear were directed toward me and our daughter. He was miserable and he made sure that we were too. I will not go into detail about his cruelty, just think of the most inhumane words and actions a sick man could possibly imagine to inflict upon his loved ones.
When Woody died, I cried. I cried for his short life, the pain that he had endured, and the unhappiness that he had doled out to his family. I cried for our lives interrupted. I cried.
If Woody had lived, perhaps after the children were grown with lives of their own, I would have considered divorce, or would I?
Well that's really unfortunate and I am sorry you were in that situation... 
