DIDN’T MOM TELL YOU NOT TO PICK AT SORES

'Til levels of unsuitable dysfunction do us part (Robert Fulford, National Post, August 29th, 2006)

The word (dysfunction–ed) first appeared in 1916 as a way to describe medical failure. An article in the British Medical Journal said: "endocrine dysfunction incriminates variously the thyroid, parathyroid, ovarian and pituitary glands." Today we apply the word to any cluster of humans who have trouble getting through life. It sounds as if it means a lot but it explains nothing.

This kind of language oversimplifies a complex reality. It packs human experience into categories that exist only as terminology. It also implies a smug belief that there are appropriate and inappropriate ways for human beings to align themselves. But in truth, every family is unique. Each intimate liaison is different.

How different? Consider John Bayley's book, Elegy for Iris, about his marriage to a difficult, probably unknowable woman, Iris Murdoch. For 40 years Bayley cherished their "apartness" and "the joys of solitude." He loved to be cherished "yet to be alone." Compare that with Robertson Davies: "Marriage is a framework to preserve friendship."

High divorce rates have transformed the meaning of marriage. It has lost its status as a more or less automatic passage in life and become something to brood about. Once we discovered it could be abandoned, more or less at will, we began to look at it critically. All this has failed to catch the attention of those who hate gay marriage because it undermines "real" marriage. "Real" marriage, in truth, has changed so much as to be barely recognizable.

We have fallen into the habit of treating marriage as an object, as if it exists on its own, independent of the people involved. In Deja Vu, a 1997 movie by Henry Jaglom, a man asks his wife, "What do you think of our marriage?" He then says that, from his standpoint, "the marriage is fine." It's just that he's in love with someone else and wants to leave.

A favourite niece was married a few weeks ago. It was joyful and lovely, but I was somewhat thrown to see a “service” held in a gorgeous little chapel with a minister in full Anglican robes from which all prayers and religious references were completely excluded, apparently by design. I mentioned to my wife that it felt a bit like attending a lecture by Dawkins in the Sistine Chapel, which earned me one of those terrifying “Don’t you dare start!” looks. They didn’t make any vows about fidelity or sickness or whatever, but they did promise to be each other’s best friends, to talk about everything and to support each other’s life goals. They were obviously blissful and I fervently wish them a long, happy life filled with endless hours spent talking about everything under the sun. Except, perhaps, the state of their marriage.