PERSPECTIVE

Healing the Wounded Nest

by Wendy Pellinore

Scenarios
There once was a lady with an interest in publishing whose kids grew up and left the nest. So she quit her job, converted her vacant real estate into offices, started her own business, and became a successful children’s book publisher.

That dream is partly mine, but that’s not quite my story.

There was another lady who dreaded the thought of her children growing up and leaving home, so she started her own business to keep herself occupied. But I’m not quite that lady either.

I am, instead, the lady who was paralyzed with fear because one son went off to college and the other one to prison. Our empty nest was a wounded nest. The emptiness was unnatural. So, I did something about it.

Dream Job
Life’s downward spirals don’t happen overnight. While the boys were growing up, I had a dream job with a lot of responsibility. I traveled all over the world and spent millions of other people’s dollars. It was exciting. I knew it wouldn’t last forever, so I took advantage of every opportunity. My husband was a prince, albeit a miserable prince, who stayed home and did the nitty-gritty while I stayed in four-star hotels and ordered room service. During this era, our bizarre role reversal didn’t sit well with our sons’ school. I still recall one teacher saying, “Mrs. Pellinore, can you please warn us before you leave so we know we have to ‘handle’ Sam?” Sam earned A’s on his spelling tests when I was home and F’s when I wasn’t. It went downhill from there.

Was I a bad mother? That was the convenient theory, but I never accepted it. I did everything I could, even a year of home schooling. These were the days before ADHD (attention deficit hyperactivity disorder) became common parlance. No one, including our pediatrician and the various psychologists we employed, suggested medication. Eventually, Sam found his own medication.

I had a wonderful career for more than 8 years as the production director for an international science and arts publisher. It was long enough to notice that one by one, the executives who basked in the warmth of the favor of the company’s eccentric owner eventually became corporate scapegoats. And one by one, they were asked to leave after one scandal or another. I had no illusions that it would not happen to me. However, even though the writing is on the wall, when one’s turn does come, it still hurts. Who can cope with the sudden loss of one’s identity? In this way, I do relate to that lady whose identity is immersed in home and children and who wakes up one morning to find that she has only home, and no children.

Rock Bottom
By the time I lost my job, my marriage was in trouble, and we were going through one crisis after another with Sam. I was worn out from the years of travel and the hour-plus commute to the local office. I decided to start my own business from home instead of commuting to another job. I had unique skills and contacts, but I was a fish out of water. I knew how to work hard, but I didn’t know how to make work. My income plummeted. At the lowest point, I was making $50 a week teaching English to the guys at the local gas station. I was miserable.

My husband was happier. I was finally around, part of the day-to-day routine.

Meanwhile, our elder son Warren exemplified normality, but Sam continued to spin out of control. Warren went off to college. Then the worst happened: Sam was set up in a police drug sting, convicted, and sent to prison. For the first time, I realized how much I needed my husband. We were in a very dark place.

Amazingly, these things don’t kill you. I made myself move forward. I went through what most entrepreneurs probably go through. I forced myself to make phone calls to get clients. I invented publications just so I had something to work on. To endure the personal misery, I kept a diary. I taught myself how to read tarot cards. (Born with a caul, I was confident that the answers to my problems could be uncovered in my own subconscious, and that the cards would open up the door.). I loved the hours when I was alone in the house, because I needed peace. But the emptiness was a wound. Depression and paranoia followed. Eventually, I would rarely leave the house. I found myself peeking out from behind the curtains. Every movement became an effort. There was only one cure, and that was for the sentence to be over. We all served the time, measured in days, months, and years.

The Happiness
Meanwhile, something unexpected happened. One day my father told me I should get in touch with my Great Uncle Joe, who was a children’s book author. “Who the heck is Uncle Joe?” was my first response. I was 50 years old, and I had never heard of this relative. It turned out that there had been “'bad blood” in the family and now all was forgiven. Suddenly, I had this delightful, creative man in my life who had written more than two dozen children’s books. Although he lived in FL and I live in PA, we instantly bonded. I learned that a number of his titles were out of print. He gave me permission to republish them. I finally had a mission, and a project I could throw myself into.

Between working for clients and working on my uncle’s books, I finally became busy enough to get through days and eventually through Sam’s sentence. I should add here that we don’t believe in tough love. At no moment of any day did we give up on our kid. He called us every day from prison, usually at dinner time, charges reversed. I don’t know what was more debilitating: the phone calls and strained visits, or his absence. I only know that he was restored to us several years ago. I have come to believe that prison saved his life. And he is the old Sam. He didn’t return to the nest for long—just long enough to readjust. He found a job and an apartment within a year. Once again, our nest was empty, but the wound had healed.

It’s hard for me to believe that I’ve had my own business for more than 12 years now. Every year was a struggle, having either not enough work or too much of it. I am not a financial risk taker, and I have a hard time planning for the future. I was afraid to get a business loan. I paid to produce my uncle’s books, bit by bit, from my income. It took years to produce the first title. Once I was ready to publish, I realized I should change my business entity from a sole proprietorship to an LLC. I needed to take my business to the next level. It involved lawyers and bankers, but I took the plunge. I’m still learning, but my story has a happy ending.

My husband, the childcare expert, is retired and babysits our grandchild every day while I toil away in the upstairs office. I make guest appearances now and then; it adds to the mystery. There is nothing quite like the office door being flung open, and a joyful 2-year-old saying, “Dere you are!” Our sons live nearby, and we see them almost every day. The first of my uncle’s books just published, and several more are in the works. Sam is an artist and helps me out with assignments. Warren has a new house and another child on the way. I am amazed at how time does make bad things fade away and good things come. Our nest is healed and never empty. We call it “The Happiness.” I still have a hard time planning ahead, but if you want your future told, I can read your cards.


Wendy Pellinore is a pseudonym the author uses to protect the identity of her son (Sam is not his real name), who is still on parole. You can read Pellinore’s essay, “Thousand Pound Visits” in Judith Trustone’s book Celling America’s Soul: Torture and Transformation in Our Prisons and Why We Should Care. This is Wendy’s first contribution to Empty Nest.


home :: about :: features :: departments :: submissions :: archives :: subscribe :: contact

Empty Nest: A Magazine for Mature Families

© 2011 Spring Mount Communications

Green Web Hosting! This site hosted by DreamHost.