Bob Greene: another victim of our resistance to moral complexity

In case you don’t know, Bob Greene, whom Time magazine had called a chronicler “for people hungry for moral clarity” was a columnist for the Chicago Tribune in the early 1980s. I had picked up the local paper and read his syndicated column while in San Diego preparing myself to give birth to the baby I was giving up for adoption.  This might be a bit heavy handed perhaps, but it does give context to understanding why my story around Bob Greene affected me so deeply.

I found I was pregnant for a third time, and didn’t know what to do considering I was already supporting two little girls whose fathers had left me stranded without financial or emotional support.  The father of this one was a married psychotherapist who sat on the board of my children’s daycare center.  I didn’t want to abort the baby but couldn’t take on another little person alone, so I decided instead for adoption.  Perhaps there was a bit of self absolution in giving away my baby as my relationship with a man married for 19 years was murky and undefined.

I had been a Latter Day Saint for 6 years and was preparing myself for ex-communication.  Through the church I found a family who had two other adopted children and would be willing to take her.  The baby’s adoptive mother and I talked on the phone for 2 hours once a week over the course of my pregnancy.  Her husband was a high school Spanish teacher and they lived in Santa Ana California.  She shared the pregnancy with me and sent me pictures of the little girl when she was 3 months and 1 year old.  They paid for the long distance calls which were expensive at that time as well as a place for me to stay in San Diego because it was too difficult adopting babies out of Illinois.  Believe it or not, giving my baby to another family is where I learned poly.

Not to get too distracted and returning to point, I was sitting on the couch reading Bob Greene in San Diego thinking about home.  This particular story was about Bob thinking ballet as an art form was stupid and boring.  I’d tossed the paper down next to me thinking the man was an absolute Philistine and wondering how such a bore could have graduated from Northwestern before deciding I’d never read him again.  I did though.  Later I read his column when he became a voice for those that can’t speak out for themselves as he began to defend abused children.  This is when Bob Greene wielded his sword and where I learned something about the power of a columnist. 

For me, it is ironic that Bob had to leave the Tribune because of a moral indiscretion.  Apparently (if I read the article right) his wife had a lingering illness at the time he succumbed to his desires for a high school coed — after her graduation.  I have a very good friend, who in fact introduced me to David, the man that eventually married me and adopted my children.  My friend is a devoted Catholic, is David’s fraternity brother and like my husband graduated from Northwestern.  He was married to a deeply disturbed woman and regrettably had to divorce her.  A few years later, he met a lovely devote Catholic whom he married, and though she had severe diabetes, bore them a child.  This man makes a good living as an executive, his wife was a nurse and they made their home on the West Coast.  The pregnancy took a toll on her and eventually she died.

I happened to be within 100 miles from his home at the 1st anniversary of her death, so he asked if I’d spend some time with him that weekend which I did.  It was then he told me that during the final year of his wife’s life, they decided he should see a prostitute.  It was hard for him to do — but he did.  It made me think of the father of the little girl I gave up for adoption. He was an East Indian.  He and his wife had 2 boys, and after 11 years, the oldest one contracted leukemia.  Their son had been in the hospital when they decided to bring him home where he could die in his own bed.  They were pioneers in the 1970s when this was illegal and before hospice, but they simply couldn’t allow their son to die alone – so they brought him home and took shifts sitting with him for his final days.  In the end, the mother broke and for the next couple of years slept in her son’s bed that he shared with his brother.  I looked much like her at the time and he succumbed to his desire for someone that could resolve his pain.

I wish instead he had seen a prostitute, and could have had the option not seemed so sleezy.

Sex is the product of an emotion — a biochemical process that defines a relationship.   It is  more often than not forged through a crisis.  Crucifying Bob Greene, or Bill Clinton, or the father of the child I had to give away is not the answer.  Yes it hurts to let go of a partner or a child with whom we’ve bonded so a healing can happen.  We really can mature as human beings and develop the generosity to allow for what may now seem closed options to extremely difficult familial problems.  To do otherwise when we have the  resources within our grasp is simply put idiocy beyond belief.