Via Basel: Midlife Crises and Confessions

Good Morning America by Rosalind Al-Aswad

My early and late major life decisions were discussed in my two previous posts. Now, it is time to address my midlife decisions over two and a half decades, from the 1980s to the early 2000s—years I admit are the most difficult to write about. While these years were more stable from one perspective—settling in the Chicago environs, practicing orthopedics, and raising a family—the universe had other plans. Or, more likely, my response to those plans was unconventional and controversial by the predominant norms of the time.

I had stumbled into one of the most successful orthopedic practices in Chicagoland. My predecessors were innovative, bold, and cutting-edge in our specialty, and I continued that trend, being the first to introduce arthroscopy—a then-new, minimally invasive surgical technique—at my base hospital, Little Company of Mary, in 1982. I became a partner after buying in and was well-rewarded financially. I also enjoyed the personal relationships, business-paid trips, and luxuries from unlimited expense accounts. These were heady times in the 1980s, but fast growth has its downside, and it soon became clear that my vision of responsibility, equality, and certain business ethics was not shared by others. I had been with the group for eleven years. After years of trying to reform it from the inside and enduring constant disagreements, I made the decision to leave this dominant group and start my own practice in the same area and hospitals. Overnight, I became the outsider and competitor. My conscience was clear, but my income dropped drastically. It would take years of hard work and defying the odds to establish myself, stabilize economically, and continue to practice my beloved profession.

The next crisis was related to the global confrontation led by the US against my native country, Iraq, in the first months of 1991. My parents and most of my family were in Baghdad during the first Gulf War; for forty days, I lost all communication with them, not knowing if they were alive. It may have been “Shock and Awe” for many, but for me, it was pure anguish. It did not help that our home in Baghdad was only a block or two from the main internal security headquarters of Saddam’s regime. I was then a member of a large non-denominational Christian church in Oak Brook, and the only one who had family in Iraq. I had the support and prayers of this whole wonderful community and its pastor, and it worked. My parents were traumatized but survived, and eventually, I was successful in bringing them to the US. They lived nearby, got to know Roz and the children, and actually provided support during my next significant crisis.

In the early 1990s, my wife and I were already experiencing marital discord and had even sought counseling, just as Roz started showing symptoms of a neurological disorder. I put our marital issues on hold, hoping for a resolution to her illness, but one did not materialize. Her condition was a slow, progressive deterioration that spanned many years, taking a toll on her and the entire family. My parents, especially my mother, were always there to provide physical and emotional support. Meanwhile, our children were in their teens and dealing with their own challenges. My practice was busy and demanding, and as Roz’s condition worsened, I found myself on the verge of a mental breakdown that began to affect my work, leading me to seek professional help. Eventually, I made the most gut-wrenching decision of my life: I separated from my sick wife. I confess now that I was weak, lacking the inner strength, maturity, and wisdom to manage all these pressures simultaneously. I was burdened by guilt and shame. That was 28 years ago, and I am still processing that decision today.

A profound shift followed. I actually felt closer to her after the divorce; I visited her frequently, and when she passed away in 2003, I was there for a long night vigil with our children, Chris and Mandy. Being present as her soul left her body was a spiritual experience I will never forget. That year 2003 was not a good one for me. In addition to loosing Roz, my mom passed away, my partner in the orthopedic practice left and my second marriage fractured. 

I recovered slowly and two years later, in October/November 2005, I collaborated with Roz’s alma mater, the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, to organize a memorial exhibition of her art. The eight-day event was a major success, highlighting her lifetime accomplishments in visual art. Additionally, a memorial fund was established in her name to help needy students at SAIC. In 2010, after Chris’s passing, his name was added to create “The Rosalind and Christopher Al-Aswad Memorial Fund,” which continues today. 

Now, in my eighties, these events and the decisions of years past continue to inform, guide, and teach me as I approach the final chapters of my life.

A final insight: after the divorce, I expected to be ostracized and isolated from family and friends, especially Roz’s. They loved her and had every right to do so. Instead, as time went by, there was compassionate understanding and forgiveness. We kept in touch periodically over the years through calls, texts, emails, and even the occasional in-person visit. They even follow my EIL posts. Several have passed away, but two of her earliest friends, Diane and Merle, continue to bless me with their friendship and love. I am forever grateful for their generosity of spirit. 

Basel Al-Aswad, father of EIL founder Christopher Al-Aswad, is a yogi trapped in an Orthopedic Surgeon’s body. His loves in life include reading, writing, hiking, enjoying nature, meditation, and spending time with his large Iraqi family; now, semi-retired, he is exploring new avenues in medicine, education, public speaking, teaching, and social engagement.