Scenes—and Names—from a Marriage

Harvey Lieberman reflects on a union of 52 years (and counting).

Carol and Harvey Lieberman in 1979, twelve years after they’d met.

It’s 1967. Boy meets girl in a suburban Long Island, New York mental institution. We are both in our early 20’s. I, Harvey, am working as a summer intern while finishing graduate school in Clinical Psychology. Carol, a newly minted nurse, is assigned to a geriatric ward.  Finding her quite attractive and that her name seemed to fit her well enough, I make the first move in my own debonair way: after introducing myself as a fellow employee, I request a favor, “Would you kindly take my blood pressure, I am monitoring it for medical reasons.” She readily agrees.  We are both shocked!  It reads 205/112, sky high for a person of any age. Later that day I seek medical advice from an experienced hospital physician with whom I am friendly. He minimizes it, attributing it all to sexual excitement.  

Although Carol has a Jewish-sounding last name, I can tell from her turned-up nose that she is formed from different clay. While rhinoplasties and ethnic hybridization are becoming increasing common, she, in fact, is a Catholic with Irish -German heritage and she is sure that I am a Jew. This is all a plus in her eyes, as she recalls a passing statement that her mother made years ago about Jewish men making good husbands. Whether that’s so, she doesn’t know, but we are both lucky in that she is open to discovering the truth for herself.

I make the first move in my own debonair way: after introducing myself as a fellow employee, I request a favor, “Would you kindly take my blood pressure, I am monitoring it for medical reasons.” She readily agrees. 

The follow-up to our hypertensive encounter is an introductory summer of dating that leads to our commitment to exploring a more a serious relationship through reciprocal visits over the next three years. Mainly, she will travel to Pennsylvania where I am completing my training and I will spend major holidays and summers in New York. Even before we are engaged, I notice that sometimes she dreamily writes her first name, Carol, on a pad, pairing it with my last name, Lieberman. Then, reviewing the jottings, a look of glowing satisfaction appears on her face. I realize our marriage is a done deal although I haven’t yet proposed.  

Seven years into our marriage, we are in our early thirties and have failed to conceive a child despite numerous attempts over many years, a child for which we have no name. With frustration mounting, rather than unproductively await good fortune, we decide that that we certainly have plenty of love available to add a dog to our lives. After careful research, we decide that an English Cocker Spaniel is the one for us and we adopt a real beauty, a blue roan puppy. This is a dog whose bloodline flows from canine royalty that elevates far her above us. 

Upon arrival home from the breeder, we convene a naming ceremony in our living room, where we are the only ones in attendance. We bless our pup with the name, Rachel, which would have been a great name of our first-born daughter. To honor the occasion, we read the beautiful, but, maybe, apocryphal, love story from the Old Testament that describes how the ancient Jewish patriarch Jacob survived years of family deception and hard work to win Rachel, his heart’s desire, who he met at what must have been the equivalent to the modern dating bar, a local water well. 

Even before we are engaged, I notice that sometimes she dreamily writes her first name, Carol, on a pad, pairing it with my last name, Lieberman. Then, reviewing the jottings, a look of glowing satisfaction appears on her face. I realize our marriage is a done deal although I haven’t yet proposed.  

Fifteen years into our marriage, after a long story of medical inspections, procedures, and hormonal supplements, our son is born. He is to be our only child.  We now feel like we have won life’s lottery and know we always will. We are about 40 and have had enough tainted experiences with persons bearing so many different names that “Jay” is one of the few names that we both feel unambivalently positive about. We select Leonard as his middle name to celebrate the memory of my deceased father, who bore the same name. 

Twenty-eight years into our marriage, our dog’s Rachel’s ashes are resting in an urn on the mantelpiece. Carol is recovering from rotator cuff surgery to repair a job-related injury to her favored right shoulder. As she is healing, it has become apparent that she will no longer be able to style her own hair to standard. She home schools me in blow dryer usage and because my hair styling performance exceeds expectations, despite my thought that it is unmanly, Carol dubs me Fabio in recognition of skilled Italian hair stylists, everywhere, and the, then, popular male model and all-around good-looking guy—Fabio Lanzoni, he with the characteristic long flowing mane.   

Harvey and Carol Lieberman recently.

Forty-nine years into our marriage, our son Jay marries Lydia, a smart and attractive engineer, who I hope will work well with him to make a relationship with many names worth remembering. To my wife’s and my delight, they plan on having children. We look forward to a grandchild and the smile that the child’s name will bring to our faces. I tell Jay and Lydia that I believe that my name, Harvey, a sleeping giant of a name, whose usage has been shamefully dormant for almost two generations, would be a perfect middle name for a child, regardless of gender. Lydia responds, “Children should be named after deceased relatives.”  What fun is that! Four months ago, our granddaughter Scarlett Ann was born, looking a lot like my son. I believe I have an inborn empathetic link with Scarlett, for since has started to smile and laugh with great frequency, I find myself awakening from the night’s dreams with laughter and happiness.

Fifty-years into our marriage we consider that among our golden anniversary gifts is the realization that over the years we have gained the names of many dear relatives and friends, who are too numerous to list here and who each deserve their own story.  We also recall the numerous successes, accomplishments, and victories whose names we still savor, as well as the illnesses, surgeries, arguments, disappointments, and deeply personal losses whose names we remember but prefer not to linger on right now.

Seven years into our marriage, we are in our early thirties and have failed to conceive a child despite numerous attempts over many years, a child for which we have no name. With frustration mounting, rather than unproductively await good fortune, we decide that that we certainly have plenty of love available to add a dog to our lives.

Fifty-one years into our marriage, Carol is 76 and has not yet retired from a very long career as a nurse practitioner. She firmly adheres to the belief that nursing is a sanctified profession. When her cousin, Mary Ellen, is hospitalized after a puzzling bout of acute illness, Carol spends a substantial amount of time with her to protect her from errors in the ministrations of the medical establishment. Mary Ellen’s encounter with illness, fortunately, takes a benign course. She attributes a substantial portion of her recovery to Carol’s active support. 

Ready to return home following institutional care, Mary Ellen expresses her gratitude to Carol by calling her a saint. I tell Carol that while being designated a saint is worthy acknowledgement of her good deeds, this time, she has, finally, earned praise indicative of the higher tier of accomplishment that she has long sought, but only voiced to me—being told “she walks on water.” After all, it cannot be sacrilegious to claim a feat that while mainly known as Jesus’ tour de force, was, also, supposedly accomplished by Saints Peter, Hyacinth, and Francis of Paola, who unlike Jesus were not first-generation children of God.  

Since Carol is reluctant to ask on her own behalf and knowing that in life, sometimes, you must ask for what you want to avoid disappointment or embitterment over a reward that will never be spontaneously forthcoming, I, without prompting, assume the role of an intermediary on Carol’s behalf. I query Mary Ellen, “Is it true that you called Carol a saint?” After she immediately acknowledged the comment, I add, “Carol appreciates that compliment very much, but what I believe she really wants to hear you say is that she walks on water. Would you be comfortable in telling her that?” Without pause, an appreciative Mary Ellen turns to Carol and declares, “You walk on water.”

Fifteen years into our marriage, after a long story of medical inspections, procedures, and hormonal supplements, our son is born. He is to be our only child.  We now feel like we have won life’s lottery and know we always will.

Since Carol now has received the ultimate accolade she has always craved, inspired by Native American naming conventions, I dub her with another name for home use only: “She-Who-Walks-on-Water.” While I have had no yearning for a new name to supplant or add to Fabio, and have always looked more to the sky than the sea in my aspirations, out of respect for her new name and to promote symmetry, I have assumed an additional nickname: “Husband-of-She-Who-Walks-on-Water,” and just as Carol did before our marriage, I write it down on paper to see how it looks as a personal signature.

Whether any of these names are our “true name” in the magical sense of reflecting the essence of our identities and spiritual connection to the universe, I do not know. America is a place where we all can be born again and assume new names, stage names, pen names, and identities with remarkable ease. Some names work and run deep, many don’t. Maybe it’s luck, or maybe it’s introspection, or, even, persistence in relabeling and good marketing. Recently, after blow drying Carol’s hair following her bedtime shower, I ask her, whether there is some additional alternative name that she wants as a mate to my name of Fabio.   She says without pause, “Call me Celeste!” A moment later, she declares, “I wonder where that came from?” 

After such deep conversations, we celebrate our long tradition of my fixing the broken in her and her fixing the broken in me by engaging in our regular conjugal ritual. We are now both at the age where we really must be concerned with hypertension. She takes my blood pressure and, then, I take hers.