Fours Long for a Rescuer

Fours long for a rescuer, and I was no exception.  My college boyfriend seemed to meet my specifications. His family consisted of a mother and a sister who were far away, so I could fold him into my own family with little fear of having to share him. He had a trust fund, which would protect me financially in the future. He was tall and handsome, funny, sophisticated in my eyes, a terrific dancer, and he had a great car. Frat man. Gentleman’s C’s, but I knew he was smarter than that. He was very cool, and never lost his temper.

He would take care of me and I in exchange would make our life together perfect, so I proposed and he accepted. We were married for 35 years before he came out of the closet. It turns out he had needed a rescuer, too, from his true self – that is, until times had changed, until the internet, until he had found his tribe and no longer had to pretend. A beard, I believe it’s called.

What does a Four do when her rescuer deserts her? 1. Collapses in shock and disbelief. 2. Collapses again in shame and humiliation. 3. Takes up smoking again.  4. Summons her Four creativity and composes a song to the tune of Jerome Kern’s “A Fine Romance”, which she sings to her rescuer in their couples’ therapy session:

Our fine romance is now fading,

A new romance is what you’re craving.

I thought old age was causing your poor erection,

But now I know you’d gone in a new direction.

A straight romance today chills you,

A gay romance is what thrills you.

Your next true love will surely be wearing pants,

You’ve got a second chance

To find a fine romance.

(Rescuer and therapist loved it, but today I think it’s kind of sad that it expressed a new love for him but not for me.)

To bring us up to the present day, my rescuer and I divorced and he found a new person to rescue (40 years his junior).  A life coach said to me in the interim, “Judy, no one is coming.” I didn’t, couldn’t, believe it. When no one came to save me, I finally rescued myself from myself with the help of a compassionate psychiatrist, the Enneagram, and massive amounts of antidepressants.

When my older granddaughter was four, she loved to play Sleeping Beauty; I was the prince who slashed my way through the thorny vines surrounding the castle and awakened her with a tender kiss. Rescued! We played it over and over again to her delight, changing costumes, props, staging. Baby brother was too young to play. I hope the attraction of the game had more to do with having her grandmother all to herself for a while, and not the story itself. It’s a fairy tale, after all.