My therapist went on vacation right before what would’ve been my twentieth wedding anniversary. In the preceding weeks I’d been focusing on other things, so I hadn’t asked for his assistance in preparing for this upcoming event. But as June 28th drew closer, my plans for acknowledgement of the “would be” anniversary started taking shape and I began to consider various options for the “celebration.”

Since I’d been separated from my husband for several months, I couldn’t write a gushy love letter professing my ongoing admiration for the man, who, after 19 years, 4 months, and 26 days, left me for the 25-year old. And, I wasn’t planning to send any “horrible, acerbic, guilt-inducing bullshit”—my husband’s characterization of the email I’d sent him after learning of his affair. Instead, I mailed him two cartoons I’d saved from the San Francisco Chronicle newspaper.

The “That’s Life” cartoon depicted a middle-aged couple sitting on their couch in the living room; on the coffee table is an open bottle of champagne. The gentleman’s arm is around the lady and they are toasting each other, glasses in hand. The caption reads: “You don’t get a marriage like ours more than two or three times a life.” My additional caption, penned on to a hot pink sticker, said “Let’s hope!”

The second cartoon, “Bizarro,” pictured a neurotic-looking man sitting on his doctor’s examination table. Gesticulating, and with a forlorn expression on his face, he comments, “When I touch my tongue to aluminum foil wrapped around a walnut while holding a toaster oven, I feel a peculiar tingling in my toes. What’s wrong with me, doctor?” Doctor replies: “You have too much spare time.”

I felt good the day I sent these off. Included in the mailing was an 8 x 11 inch sheet of white paper with my typed message: “Keep smiling. Thinking of you today. The Ex.”

The anniversary—a Wednesday—came and went unceremoniously. Most of my co-workers avoided the subject but a few friends were unable to contain their sorrow and shed a few tears for me. But no matter, I did fine. The next day, however, it hit me hard. What was I thinking? How could I have sent that stuff to him? What was the point? What was his reaction going to be? On and on, with all this guilt and insecurity about my behavior. I cried for three nights, beating myself up for being such an idiot.

Come Sunday I was desperate for consolation and my dear friend, Jean, set me straight—she’s always good in tricky emotional situations.

“You did what you wanted to do,” she said. “Who cares how he felt. You give him too much power!” Not such a big revelation, actually. I felt better. Temporarily.

The next week came and went and I’d still not heard a word from the ex. He surely must have received that cartoon package. I wanted a reply. Since a would-be twentieth anniversary was nothing to be taken lightly, I deserved some kind of response! But no acknowledgement came. What would have been one of the most significant events of our lifetime was simply ignored by the ex.

I was damn close to going crazy over all this. And this “going crazy thing” scared me. I thought, at the very least, I should have a hospital admission just to cope with the fear of going crazy, but none of the physicians I knew would agree to admit me. So, at the suggestion of another good friend, Samantha, who wanted to convince herself that she, too, was not crazy from her recent separation, we decided to explore the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. Into the early morning hours, we read from this monstrous book, questioning: Are we obsessive-compulsive, dependent, narcissistic, histrionic, or what? It was reassuring to discern that we just had some “traits,” not the full-blown disorders, so I could now let go of the worry about having some sort of certifiable mental condition. What a relief!

As time elapsed, this “celebrating the anniversary” idea settled down. Periodic reading from the big psych manual brought further insight into harmless neurotic behavior. I pinned copies of the cartoons up on my office bulletin board and snickered when I glanced over at them, now just mildly embarrassed that I’d sent them.

When my therapist returned from his month’s vacation I reviewed with him the events of the past weeks—assuring him that during his absence I had no big revelations, no hospitalizations, but just a small fall from grace.