Regrets, I’ve Had a Few…Or Have I?
At 67, Ann Hood takes stock of the "regrettable" choices that have led her to the life she's currently living.
On the hottest day of the summer of 2015, I was packing my hundreds of books into empty wine cartons, wrapping photographs and souvenirs from years of family trips in bubble wrap, dismantling my life. The Gentle Giants were about to show up and haul over two decades worth of a marriage across town.
I was leaving a brick red 1792 Colonial with a bright red door and a backyard garden wilting in the heat for a sprawling loft in an old factory in a down on its heels part of the city. The enormous windows and silver industrial pipes in the loft were a sharp contrast to the rabbit’s warren of rooms with five hearths and worn, centuries old wide plank floors I was leaving. I had moved to this house when my son Sam was six and my daughter Grace was three. This was the house that I returned to on the terrible April night almost three years later when Grace died suddenly of a virulent form of strep; the house I brought my daughter Annabelle home to from Hunan, China three years later.
All of these thoughts crashed over me in the relentless August heat, and I dropped onto the Persian rug that I was leaving behind and cried, filled with regrets. Regrets for a failed marriage, for breaking up my kids’ home, for marrying this guy in the first place…
All of these thoughts crashed over me in the relentless August heat, and I dropped onto the Persian rug that I was leaving behind and cried, filled with regrets. Regrets for a failed marriage, for breaking up my kids’ home, for marrying this guy in the first place. All those years ago we’d broken up for almost two years and I’d started to make a new life without him. Then he returned, asking for forgiveness and a new start. I tortured myself with what to do. Take him back or keep moving forward? Why had I said yes?
I am the age my father was when he died—67. A lifetime smoker, lung cancer took him in just five months. I’ve never smoked a cigarette, I walk miles a day, take my vitamins and the occasional Pilates class. In other words, unlike him, I’m pretty healthy. Still, I can’t help thinking about how this was all he got: sixty-seven years. And that leads me to look back at my life, stretching backwards like a map unfolding, rivers of blue lines branching off in different directions. Why had I said yes? Why did I choose that? Why did I stay home? Why did I go there?
I am the age my father was when he died—67…And that leads me to look back at my life, stretching backwards like a map unfolding, rivers of blue lines branching off in different directions. Why had I said yes? Why did I choose that? Why did I stay home? Why did I go there?
When I was 21 years old and on the doorstep to the rest of my life, I wanted to be a flight attendant so I could see the world and have adventures. I had two job offers, one from United and the other from TWA. United did not fly international in 1978; TWA flew to Cairo, Athens, Rome, and beyond. United was going to base me in Cleveland; TWA in Boston. “United is financially solvent,” my business major roommate told me. “TWA is on the brink of bankruptcy.” She was right. Eight years later, TWA fell apart and I lost my job. If I had chosen United, I would be retiring just about now, a career flight attendant. Would I have exchanged a stable life for the unpredictable life of a writer?
In 1988, when I was on the faculty of the Bread Loaf Writers Conference in Vermont, a student writer called out to me. I spoke to him briefly, then walked away. Three decades later, I married him. Why did I walk away that afternoon? What if I had lingered, as he wanted? What if the love we found later in life had blossomed then?
I follow all the branches of those rivers, this life of mine. The small ones, like the one-bedroom apartment on Bleecker Street I sold for $125,000 that’s on Zillow for $1.2 million. The big ones, like what if I had let Grace skip ballet that dreadful day as she wanted.
“Keep the apartment!” I tell the 30-year-old torn between staying in NYC and moving away with the man she thinks he loves. “He’s not the right one! The apartment is a goldmine!”
I imagine setting sail on a boat, 67-year-old me, and traveling those paths again. “Talk to this man,” I shout to the young woman with her long blonde hair and bright green dress about to turn around and walk away from him at the Bread Loaf Inn.
“Keep the apartment!” I tell the 30-year-old torn between staying in NYC and moving away with the man she thinks he loves. “He’s not the right one! The apartment is a goldmine!”
I follow all the branches of those rivers, this life of mine. The small ones, like the one-bedroom apartment on Bleecker Street I sold for $125,000 that’s on Zillow for $1.2 million. The big ones, like what if I had let Grace skip ballet that dreadful day as she wanted.
“Don’t let him woo you back,” I tell the confused single mother. “You can do this on your own.”
“Hold Grace tight,” I whisper to the woman who believes foolishly her daughter is safe, with a bright future.
But if there were such a boat, I wonder if I would go on board, untangle all the regrets, set things straight. If that younger me took those other tributaries, I wouldn’t have my children, my true love, my writing life, this beautiful life. That younger me needed to make all those wrong turns and bad decisions and second guesses to become this 67-year-old woman. A 67-year-old woman who has, I realize now, no regrets after all. Somehow, despite the rough waters and the emotional capsizing, I’ve landed exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Ann Hood also has an essay in Sari Botton’s first NYC anthology, Goodbye to All That: Writers on Loving & Leaving NY.
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Stories like this always remind me of Marilyn Whirlwind's story in Northern Exposure --
"My uncle once told me about a warrior who had a fine stallion. Everybody said how lucky he was to have such a horse. “Maybe,” he said. One day the stallion ran off. The people said the warrior was unlucky. “Maybe,” he said. Next day, the stallion returned, leading a string of fine ponies. The people said it was very lucky. “Maybe,” the warrior said. Later, the warrior’s son was thrown from one of the ponies and broke his leg. The people said it was unlucky. “Maybe,” the warrior said. The next week, the chief led a war party against another tribe. Many young men were killed. But, because of his broken leg, the warrior’s son was left behind, and so was spared."
Which is why "maybe" is always my answer to whether things would have been better on the road not taken.
It’s a fall-ish morning, I’m 74 and have recently upended my life for the better, so much better, and yet I’m sitting in this butt-ugly robe with a cold cup of coffee at the kitchen table, crying for no reason! And then I see Ann Hood’s name, think of a funny Ann Hood story, read her piece, think of all the streams in my own life (why didn’t I buy waterfront property when it was affordable, etc) but mostly switched over to grateful, (thank god I didn’t marry that person, etc). Etc. Got the energy back to get out of this awful robe and get going. Thanks!