This Body is Bullshit

This morning I dropped Frank off at the vet for his dental procedure and I just wanted to cry.

They’re cleaning his teeth, but while he’s under anesthesia they’re also biopsying a lump in his gum that doesn’t seem dental-related. On top of that they’re scoping his esophagus and looking into his sinus cavity to check for blockages. He’ll probably lose some teeth. Best case scenario there’s a pea or a toy wedged in his nose, which would be very on-brand for Frank.

Poor little guy weighed in at 23.4 pounds. They want him closer to 20. He’s a pug, yes, but he’s my portly pug — the silly, stubborn, loud little jerk who somehow filled the gaping hole Gus left behind. God forbid anything happens to him today. I can’t even think about it.

Yesterday I was already in a tailspin. One of those days where I sat at the bottom of the shower until the water ran cold, not wanting to move, just completely overwhelmed. I ended up going to the doctor and they upped my antidepressant. I’ve been on the lowest dose for almost four years. It feels overdue and also exactly on schedule.

And then life kept piling on, because that’s what it does.

We got some tough news about Heather — Kevin’s sister, my stepsister Crissy’s sister-in-law. When I reached out to tell them I loved them, Crissy said it perfectly: a real kick in the dick. Yes. Exactly that. My friend Megan always called it a shit sandwich. Both are accurate. Both linger.

What breaks my heart is how much Crissy and Kevin already carry. The grief of losing Wes is still stitched into everything they do, every day, and it never fully lifts. And now this — Heather, who is quite possibly both of their favorite person in the world, going through something awful. It feels cruel in the specific way that life sometimes is, piling more pain onto people who have already had more than their share. I don’t have words for it. I just keep thinking about them.

The doctor finally responded to my MyChart messages about my dad. I wasn’t impressed. Half of it isn’t really his fault — it’s just the limits of what medicine can tell us right now — but half of it felt like not enough. I think most of the real answers are going to come from the social worker when we finally get in. Until then we’re just floating. And I hate floating.

I reached out to Michelle from The Sister Project — she and Crissy went to school together, and her family went through FTD with their mom. She affirmed how brutal it is and sent some research resources. It helped a little to feel less alone in it. But there’s no roadmap. That’s the thing. There’s just no roadmap.

In a couple weeks I’m heading to Austin for Natalie’s birthday. She’s basically treating me to the trip, which feels terrible because it’s her birthday — but she just went through a breakup and honestly the timing is right for both of us. She swears I’ll love Austin because it’s super liberal, which is hilarious given that she’s on the other end of the political spectrum from me. Not a Trumper, thank God. I’m excited. I need to laugh and reset and have some heart-to-hearts and just breathe for a minute.

Right now though I’m racing to work, already late, possibly going to have to log on from the car because I’m twenty minutes out and in ten minutes I’m supposed to be running an ICE-prep Q&A for some of my team. Let that sink in. Getting my employees ready in case of an immigration raid. That’s the world right now.

Once I get to work I usually leave everything at the door, which is both a blessing and part of why I’m burning out. My whole job is other people’s feelings and behaviors and drama. Some days I’m an HR generalist. Some days I’m a kindergarten teacher. The line between the two is thinner than it should be. At least today I’ll be at Hillside, which is fine, just not the same as Melrose Park. MP is family. Here it’s just work.

Anyway. That’s where I am this morning. Anxious, exhausted, hopeful, nervous — all of it at once.

Please send good vibes for Frank today. He’s my chubby stubborn little guy and I need him to be okay.

I can’t believe this is entry twenty-six. Twenty-six times I’ve come here and put the chaos into words. It doesn’t fix anything. But it makes me feel lighter.

One messy, fucked-up, trying-to-be-honest entry at a time.