Piece of Work, a Memoir: We are all a Piece of Work, a Work in Progress, and a Work of Art.
Danielle Tantone is a nurse, writer and coach. She lives in Mesa, AZ, with her family. You can follow her journey at DanielleTantone.com. Her book is called Piece of Work, a Memoir: We are all a Piece of Work, a Work in Progress, and a Work of Art. It is available on Amazon.
Piece of Work is the story of a spicy Jewish girl who tried to become a sweet Christian wife — and failed miserably. Caught between expectations from two opposing worldviews, Danielle sought love like an addict chasing a drug. After years of tumbling through life searching for that missing piece, she finally found true love, forgiveness, and empathy within herself. With renewed faith, she faced breast cancer and became a nurse in the middle of a pandemic. She came to understand that her tumultuous life and complicated identity had left her with invaluable gifts: the ability to see both sides, the understanding of what it feels like to be broken, and the compassion to build up others. She discovered that we are all a piece of work, a work in progress, and a work of art, all at the same time. Here is an excerpt from her book:
— March 15, 2019 —
It’s my first night working at the Las Sendas Patio restaurant at the top of the hill in our gorgeous desert foothills neighborhood. I’ve recently started nursing school and realized there’s a reason that actors and students work as servers. It’s flexible, and the tips really add up.
I peer out over the deck toward the green grass of the golf course against the rich browns of the desert. Gorgeous mountains, setting sun and city lights starting to twinkle in the distance. It’s strange to be working here, in the same restaurant where my ex-husband James and I once enjoyed sunsets, then sat and worked out the details of our divorce. Later, I’d come with my new husband Mike to listen to live music, sip pear martinis and gaze at the view I never get tired of. We held our rehearsal dinner here, the night before our beautiful wedding at the Las Sendas Vistas Pavilion just across the parking lot. Now I’m here serving food to my neighbors, friends and real estate clients — 44 years old and working as a waitress. I chuckle.
Tonight I’m shadowing Marta, a no-nonsense career server who doesn’t want to hear about my sentimental memories, appreciation of the view or connections to the restaurant’s owners. She only wants to teach me how things should run and how to be an efficient and successful server. I’m following her as deftly as my short legs will carry me, feeling not so different from a 16-year-old working her very first job when I look out over the tables and lock eyes with Amanda, sitting at a two-top with Luke. His back is to me, but I feel my heart race as I point them out to Marta incredulously.
“That’s my ex-brother-in-law and sister-in-law.”
“Cool,” she says, continuing on with her work. I follow her, nonplussed, serving martinis and margaritas with my heart pounding inside. A heat rash spreads out over my chest. I feel a complicated combination of emotions: fear, excitement, and, dare I say, love. I haven’t even seen Luke in six years, but he was once my brother. It may have been a love-hate relationship. He may have driven me crazy a lot of the time. To say I was grateful to be married to James instead of him would be an understatement. But I truly considered him family. That day that he looked right through me at Starbucks was so shockingly unexpected, like a slap in the face when I was going in for a hug. And now he’s here, on my first day of work as a server at 44 years old.
I pause to catch my breath, and then Marta is on the go again. I peek at them out of the corner of my eye as I work, stealing glances in their direction, wondering if they’ll acknowledge me or just ignore me. I really did love them, despite everything. I fight back tears the whole evening, reliving memories of my time in their family — birthdays and pool parties, movie nights, and so many family dinners. A film reel of family life plays through my head as I shadow Marta like a puppy dog.
Even when people forgive, reconciliation — the process of regaining trust and restoring a relationship — doesn’t always happen right away, or ever. In 12-step recovery programs, steps eight and nine have to do with making amends with the people you’ve hurt. It’s more than just saying, “I’m sorry.” It involves the effort of returning something that was stolen or repairing something that was broken.
I couldn’t fix my broken marriage or even return James unscathed to his family. I had forever changed him. He was no longer that innocent boy I had met in a sunburned grass yard of a high school in Gila Bend.
James and I have closure. We have a nice, easy relationship that’s more amicable than that of any other divorced couple raising kids that I’ve ever seen.
I wanted to make amends with James' family, and I tried in all sorts of ways. The rupture from Amanda and Luke, Hannah and William has eaten at me for years. I adored my niece and nephew, and it breaks my heart that I missed seeing them grow up.
I’d love to hear the words “I forgive you,” but what I’d love even more is to build a new relationship with each of them. I’ve never been good at letting people go, especially the ones who have made footprints on my heart.
Amanda taps me on the shoulder while I’m filling water glasses at the server’s station set up near the restrooms. I whirl around and see her sparkling blue eyes and wide smile, and gather her into an embrace. I tell her how wonderful it is to see her, and Luke, too, but that I didn’t know if I should come to say hi. She looks into my eyes knowingly.
“He wants to say hi,” she says. “He feels bad about how he treated you.”
“Ok, I’ll come to the table when I can.”
But I get busy with serving, so instead, they come up to me, on the way out after they’ve finished their meal. Luke looks down at me with a warm smile, and I can see the love in his eyes. I reach up and wrap my arms tightly around him.
“It’s OK. You’re still my brother. I never stopped loving you,” I say.
“I don’t know what to say,” he says, choked up.
“You don’t have to say a word. This is enough.” And it is. Restoration. Reconciliation. Healing. Closure. Love.
I peer out over the deck toward the green grass of the golf course against the rich browns of the desert. Gorgeous mountains, setting sun and city lights starting to twinkle in the distance. It’s strange to be working here, in the same restaurant where my ex-husband James and I once enjoyed sunsets, then sat and worked out the details of our divorce. Later, I’d come with my new husband Mike to listen to live music, sip pear martinis and gaze at the view I never get tired of. We held our rehearsal dinner here, the night before our beautiful wedding at the Las Sendas Vistas Pavilion just across the parking lot. Now I’m here serving food to my neighbors, friends and real estate clients — 44 years old and working as a waitress. I chuckle.
Tonight I’m shadowing Marta, a no-nonsense career server who doesn’t want to hear about my sentimental memories, appreciation of the view or connections to the restaurant’s owners. She only wants to teach me how things should run and how to be an efficient and successful server. I’m following her as deftly as my short legs will carry me, feeling not so different from a 16-year-old working her very first job when I look out over the tables and lock eyes with Amanda, sitting at a two-top with Luke. His back is to me, but I feel my heart race as I point them out to Marta incredulously.
“That’s my ex-brother-in-law and sister-in-law.”
“Cool,” she says, continuing on with her work. I follow her, nonplussed, serving martinis and margaritas with my heart pounding inside. A heat rash spreads out over my chest. I feel a complicated combination of emotions: fear, excitement, and, dare I say, love. I haven’t even seen Luke in six years, but he was once my brother. It may have been a love-hate relationship. He may have driven me crazy a lot of the time. To say I was grateful to be married to James instead of him would be an understatement. But I truly considered him family. That day that he looked right through me at Starbucks was so shockingly unexpected, like a slap in the face when I was going in for a hug. And now he’s here, on my first day of work as a server at 44 years old.
I pause to catch my breath, and then Marta is on the go again. I peek at them out of the corner of my eye as I work, stealing glances in their direction, wondering if they’ll acknowledge me or just ignore me. I really did love them, despite everything. I fight back tears the whole evening, reliving memories of my time in their family — birthdays and pool parties, movie nights, and so many family dinners. A film reel of family life plays through my head as I shadow Marta like a puppy dog.
Even when people forgive, reconciliation — the process of regaining trust and restoring a relationship — doesn’t always happen right away, or ever. In 12-step recovery programs, steps eight and nine have to do with making amends with the people you’ve hurt. It’s more than just saying, “I’m sorry.” It involves the effort of returning something that was stolen or repairing something that was broken.
I couldn’t fix my broken marriage or even return James unscathed to his family. I had forever changed him. He was no longer that innocent boy I had met in a sunburned grass yard of a high school in Gila Bend.
James and I have closure. We have a nice, easy relationship that’s more amicable than that of any other divorced couple raising kids that I’ve ever seen.
I wanted to make amends with James' family, and I tried in all sorts of ways. The rupture from Amanda and Luke, Hannah and William has eaten at me for years. I adored my niece and nephew, and it breaks my heart that I missed seeing them grow up.
I’d love to hear the words “I forgive you,” but what I’d love even more is to build a new relationship with each of them. I’ve never been good at letting people go, especially the ones who have made footprints on my heart.
Amanda taps me on the shoulder while I’m filling water glasses at the server’s station set up near the restrooms. I whirl around and see her sparkling blue eyes and wide smile, and gather her into an embrace. I tell her how wonderful it is to see her, and Luke, too, but that I didn’t know if I should come to say hi. She looks into my eyes knowingly.
“He wants to say hi,” she says. “He feels bad about how he treated you.”
“Ok, I’ll come to the table when I can.”
But I get busy with serving, so instead, they come up to me, on the way out after they’ve finished their meal. Luke looks down at me with a warm smile, and I can see the love in his eyes. I reach up and wrap my arms tightly around him.
“It’s OK. You’re still my brother. I never stopped loving you,” I say.
“I don’t know what to say,” he says, choked up.
“You don’t have to say a word. This is enough.” And it is. Restoration. Reconciliation. Healing. Closure. Love.