Palm Island: Paradise Lost is a story of my personal journey trying to survive a lost love, navigating through grief, and healing.

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Here is part of chapter 1, the prolog of Palm Island: Paradise Lost

The Bomb Drops

My husband and I boarded the ferry for a five-minute ride across the channel to Palm Island, off the west coast of Florida, near Port Charlotte. I had lived in Miami for the past thirty years but never felt as at home as here, and came here every chance I could. Talcum-powdered beaches border the Gulf of Mexico while a parade of vessels scurries back and forth on the Intra-coastal Waterway. There is little commercialism, and the natural beauty seems to have tamed even developers' greed. I loved fishing off the dock and soaking up the island beauty like a sponge. I not only fell in love with the island, but I was enraptured with my imagined simple lifestyle. It was the perfect place to write, and I fantasized how I could author the book I had secretly been developing for the past two years on bereavement.

When we landed—a too-short transition from the city—my husband's friends greeted us warmly as we invaded their three-story home overlooking the waterway.

I must admit my husband was not smitten by the beauty of Palm Island, or the island culture. He seemed unimpressed and commented on how remote and isolated he felt. Apparently, he experienced the primitive haven as inconvenient for practical purposes. I was shocked when he once asked, "Do you really think you would be happy here?"

At my suggestion several years ago, he not only bought a lot, but contracted too for a dock. But my enthusiasm was dampened somewhat when he announced we could retire elsewhere and use our Palm Island place as an investment. Nevertheless, I could hardly contain myself after our purchase.

I ordered blueprints from a coastal magazine, began pouring over the plans, and immersed myself in the latest building materials. I pictured all our family and friends delighting in our new retreat. I loved my dream, but knew, also, in the rational part of my mind, that it was kind of silly. I've always lived in the here and now, and retirement was a long eight to ten years away.

On a muggy Sunday evening in August of 2000, we had just returned from Palm Island. It had been a wonderful weekend, with our simpatico friends, walking on the beach, giggling over the spitting giant pots of water cooking the fresh shell. sh, and snuggling on the sofa after a huge dinner with carafes of coffee. Once home, our bags thrown in a corner of the bedroom to be dealt with later, my husband sat down heavily on the lounge chair and mumbled in a soft depressive voice, "I have something to tell you that you are not going to want to hear."

I felt my throat tighten, and numbness spread throughout my body. The Friday before we left he had completed an executive physical, and I braced myself for what I thought would be a disastrous report. I sat down close by on the bed.

He spit it out--"You have three days to gather your clothes and move out. I have fallen in love with a former love. Take everything you own. She will eventually be moving in, and at some point, we will be married. This is not up for discussion. I want a divorce. There is nothing more to say."

No words can express my inner torment!

Every abandonment feeling or thought competed for my attention on a cellular level. I was in shock. No call to 911 could save me. Later, I would journal this favorite passage from a work entitled, "Resurrection" by L.C.M. (This is a poem put out with these initials. I don't remember where I obtained it.)

For my fingers could not grip and
I slipped in the sand, moaning, crying
in the howling wind, crawling to a
corner to await my own destruction,
caring no longer for myself, my world,
those within.

I called in a spiritual prayer circle and asked for divine intervention. Suzanne Kardatzke, a close friend, came to my aid. I accused God of wanting more of my attention than I could surrender. In my wildest most self-tormenting dreams, my husband was the last person in the world whom I would have distrusted. And, he not only betrayed me, he lied in the process: she wasn't a former love, but a current coworker.

It was my worst nightmare! But he left no choice; his ultimatum was clear.

The next day I began packing my clothes, throwing out a lot of things in a quiet rage that I could hardly identify, and moved to a temporary tiny apartment.

Two days later, he called from work and said, "Stop moving! I've changed my mind. We'll talk later."

I returned, tiptoeing around the house, terri. ed that my very breathing might send him into her arms. But lies, betrayal, and manipulation would surface over the next few months. I discovered that he had inadvertently mailed a Victoria's Secret receipt to me for her Christmas present. It was accidentally tucked into some other papers. It really hurt. My faith was severely tested. I had entered a desert with no anticipatory warning. My mind wanted to make sense of it, while my heart remained out of touch with reality, flooded with feelings that drowned all reason.

I was willing to forgive him of anything to avoid the pain. We went on a vacation to Niagara Falls, which proved a disaster. He was as cold and distant as the icy water.

On January 25, 2001, five months later, he made another announcement. It was over, he said. He had never ended the relationship with her and wanted to end our marriage.

From the time I'd moved back, I'd had an uneasy awareness that he was in a quandary, even though we resumed what appeared to be a normal life and I kept clinging to his super. cially hopeful words, "I've changed my mind", so I had not unpacked.

Physically, it was somewhat less chaotic than the first time. I was ruthless with paring down my possessions, giving to Goodwill treasures of long ago. I took only essentials and nothing of my husband's.

But emotionally, I was devastated. My heart was empty, out of hope, for a future resolution, rather than dissolution. He'd never, I realized, really wanted to talk about anything, but had used that "extension," in which I dared to believe we would reconcile, as a testing ground. And it worked for him, confirming his first chilling pronouncement.

I tried reasoning with him through a cascade of tears. How could this be happening to a thirty-year friendship, the last twelve of which were a coupleship? I thought I was losing my mind! I knew he had lost his! I had begged, pleaded, and cried while he maintained his newly manifested indifference. I thought I was negotiating with an alien.

He said he wanted to be with someone he loved as much as I loved him. Could it really be that simple?

Reluctantly, I moved out. Legally, I knew I could have dragged my feet, but, against all rational signals, I was still too hopeful not to obey, and I was being forced into a move I didn't want. I couldn't allow myself to think it was over, because I still loved my husband. But this is like thinking you have money in a barren bank account because you have checks.

He had changed his mind once, and I figured I would wait it out. But it didn't take long for him to serve me with divorce papers. So much for my ability to second- guess anything.

All I believed in and had lived was being questioned. How could I have missed this? We'd always seemed close. How could our relationship be so wonderful for me and so terrible for him? I knew I would probably never have the answers. Sex had never been important to him . . . not even in the most passionate of times. I was more emotional, sensual, and sexual. He was considerate, loving, and giving in a different way. I curbed myself from calling him often at work, although I always wanted to, just to hear his voice, just to have reassurance. And, he often called me.

He'd always set the tone of the relationship, and we had a nice routine. I cooked five nights a week and he picked up takeout twice a week. On Saturday mornings, after breakfast out, we shopped together. We had friends we both enjoyed, watched many sports events on TV together (with him in charge of the remote), and observed all holidays with my four grown children, with a banquet I always prepared enthusiastically and creatively. My husband was the beloved, overidealized, and the author of the past twelve years of Camelot. I felt the "penance" I'd undergone from three bad marriages had finally paid off.

But I would never really understand, because now I saw there had been no real communication. I had been totally happy, and he was plodding through, suffering in silence. The "Why"? question rarely gets satisfaction. I was microscopically over-analyzing, and trying to blame myself, when he was clearly stating he was leaving me for someone else. I'm sure he refused to say more because I was in rigor mortis.

I had kept my home prior to my marriage. Unfortunately, it was only ten minutes away. It was unnerving to think of seeing him driving his car nearby. I avoided all accidental encounters. My first concern was for my mental health—how best could I take care of myself? It takes two to make a relationship, but only one to break it. I knew I needed to construct an emergency plan . . . simple, . exible, and the least stressful possible.

My second concern was for my practice. After all, I was a psychologist and had an active bereavement practice. Clients, who were hurting mightily, were counting on me, and I needed to set a framework to protect them. And, I was a busy workshop leader, with many dates I had to ful. ll. It was essential I maintain my equilibrium.

There were more unanswered questions than answers. I felt the pain and sorrow were engul. ng, but I refused to do anything I would later regret with previous losses, and as I advised my clients with serious professionalism, I had learned my best ploy was to focus first on healing myself before blowing away a signi. cant relationship. I needed all of myself to survive "The Hit".

My husband attempted to obtain my signature to sell the Palm Island property, which he had placed in both our names. First, he said he would never want to live there. I offered to sign it over if he would put this in writing. He then said he might build a home there—for her. Lied again. Just when I thought it couldn't get worse, the elevator fell another fifty feet with no ground in sight. Despite my terrible emotional turmoil, I refused to sign away my already shattered dream.

Initially, I felt like someone had died . . . ME! I was traumatized and in total disbelief, refusing to accept my reality. It was much like I had felt when family or friends had died.

His indifference to my suffering was unbelievable! I obviously was not getting it, in part because he pretended to offer a relationship of hope. He had inferred he was undecided, inviting me back, to lower my hurt and manipulate my love for the impending divorce for which he longed. Just as he always controlled the TV remote, he was trying to control our divorce. He pleaded with me to use a friend of his as my attorney. I was at least able to see through this—a friend of his! So my husband would have a direct pipeline to my legal dealings? No, thank you. I refused to engage in anything legal until I had consulted someone—certainly not a friend of his—whom I knew was going to represent my best interests.

It was all I could do to find a safe emotional and mental place to deal with my helplessness, hopelessness, and haplessness. I was so ashamed this was happening to me. I felt my personal life was over!

I lost my husband in the most humiliating way of all—to another woman.

I lost my friends.

I lost Palm Island and my dream.

I felt like I had lost myself!

I practiced my art as a psychologist and seminar leader, compartmentalizing and shielding my professional life from my personal one. Against all evidence, I was still ridiculously hopeful the relationship would magically return to what I thought I'd had. My heart was unwilling to surrender to the truth. Secretly and privately, even with the accelerating march of the divorce, I waited for word that he had again changed his mind. That word never came.

To continue reading, please download the full Palm Island -- Paradise Lost book, compliments of Dr. Teddy Tarr.