This Body is Bullshit

Last week I kept feeling like I just wanted to call my mom. We had an interesting relationship, but I never doubted she loved me. And one of the things I miss most is having her as my sounding board. I could bitch, complain, rage, and she’d let me. Sometimes she even tried to fix it—and sometimes she actually did. Lately though, life has been overwhelming and out of control. The exhaustion is bone-deep. I feel like I’m all over the place. The fatigue and joint pain have been more pronounced lately too—hopefully that’ll fade back into the background soon.

Saturday, Matt went golfing with my stepdad about an hour away, and I had Pilates in the morning. Then—miracle of miracles—the house to myself. Quiet. Just me and the dogs. I cleaned, did some chores, then collapsed in the hammock to soak up the sun. It was glorious. I can’t remember the last time I was alone like that, able to move at my own pace—flop on the couch, pet the dogs, watch TV, eat snacks, just be. My aunt and uncle even stopped by with their dog, which was a nice surprise.

Later, Ken came down and spent the night. We grabbed a drink when we picked up our carryout, and honestly, it was nice. I know he’s lonely in Wisconsin, but he’s so damn stubborn about moving here. It’s frustrating—especially when he talks about health concerns but refuses to see a doctor. I gave him my unsolicited advice. Between my own shit, Drew’s, my mom’s, Kirby’s, my MIL’s—I’ve collected enough medical knowledge to terrify an actual doctor. No, I’m not a doctor. But I’m also not usually wrong. Still, Ken and my dad both have this annoying habit of brushing me off, like I don’t know what I’m talking about. It drives me crazy.

Sunday brunch with two old friends I used to work with was perfect. We walked the city, caught up, and it was just easy. They always hear me, always get it. We only see each other about three times a year, but every time feels solid. When I got home, Matt and Ken were watching the Bears game, and my cousin Heather stopped by with her husband for a quick visit. Nice to catch up, even if short.

I didn’t see my dad this weekend but checked in with Kathy. They went out Saturday night. I called him, but it was one of those calls where you can tell immediately whether he’s in the mood to talk or not. He wasn’t. And when Kathy’s around, he usually isn’t—which is fine. He’s obsessed with her. It’s cute. But she needs the break.

And then there’s Drew. Jesus. He went out, had a good time, came home drunk (par for the course). But when he got in the elevator to go to bed, the door wouldn’t open. The caretaker—whose literal job is to check on him every hour overnight—never noticed. Never called. Never went downstairs to check. Drew got home at 12:07 a.m. He woke up still in the elevator at 6:47 a.m. Can you imagine? This guy had one job: keep Drew safe. Instead, Drew spent the night stuck in the elevator like some sick punchline. Jan fired the guy immediately, thank God. But I swear, I want to throat-punch people like this. Caregivers are already impossible to find, and Drew—who has the worst luck—keeps getting stuck with these clowns. And before anyone asks why Drew didn’t use his phone or why whoever dropped him off didn’t walk him in—first, he’s an adult. Second, the caretaker was being paid to be awake and to give a damn. That’s the whole point. I texted Drew when I went to bed last night. He said he was depressed and down, which of course he is. Who wouldn’t be after that?

Amidst all this, my childhood best friend Amanda reached out when she heard about my dad. We always called each other cousins growing up—basically family. She’s wonderful, caring, and has real experience with memory issues because of her dad, Fred. My dad and Fred were close, and even with his struggles, Fred always remembered my dad. My dad has a million stories about their adventures, and he’d bring the dog to lighten the mood when Fred was in assisted living. Fred had an amazing caregiver, James, and in the back of my mind, I wish we had someone like that for Dad when it’s needed. Resources are different for us, but maybe someday. Amanda even sent me a long email of care ideas and info. We’ll talk more when life slows down. Next time I’m in California with Natalie, I’ll see if I can visit her too.

And because October is right around the corner—aka breast cancer awareness month—I texted a few of my fellow warriors. We’re planning a “warrior dinner.” Not because we want to relive it all, but because there’s this unspoken bond. A sisterhood. Last time, it was four of us—now it’s six. Luckily, everyone’s doing well (as well as you can in this club no one actually signed up for). It’ll be good to laugh, maybe cry, but mostly just be.

Last night, the Sunday Scaries came for me hard. Matt asked me what was wrong, and besides the dread of Monday, I realized I was just carrying this sadness I can’t shake. The weight of no answers, no path forward, no clue what to do with my dad. But I keep telling myself this week will be good. Work will be busy. Pilates will keep me grounded. Meanwhile, Austin is creeping closer—Natalie’s 50th birthday trip—and I cannot wait. Soon, I’ll be in Austin celebrating her—recharging, laughing, living.