This Body is Bullshit

I Just Wanted to Call My Mom

Last week I really just wanted to call my mom.

We had a complicated relationship, but she loved me — I know that. And I’ve been realizing lately how much I used her as a sounding board. I could call her and bitch and complain and vent about everything making me crazy, and she’d try to make it better. Sometimes she actually did. With everything so overwhelming and out of control right now, I keep reaching for that and coming up empty. It’s a specific kind of grief, missing someone not just for who they were but for the function they served in your life. The place they held. I miss her.

Saturday Matt went golfing with Ken about an hour away, and I had the whole house to myself. Just me and the dogs. I did some chores, laid in the hammock, got some sun, fully fudged out. I cannot tell you the last time I had a quiet day completely alone like that. No agenda. No one needing anything. Just me eating a snack and petting my dogs and watching TV and existing. It was genuinely restorative in a way I didn’t realize I needed until I was in the middle of it.

Ken came back and spent the night. We went out for a drink, picked up food, had a good time. I love having him around. But he’s so stubborn about moving down here from Wisconsin, and it drives me crazy — especially when he hints at health concerns and then refuses to see a doctor. I gave him my thoughts, unsolicited as always. Between my own medical journey, Drew’s, my mom’s, Kirby’s, my mother-in-law’s — I have accumulated enough medical knowledge to genuinely terrify an actual doctor. I’m not a doctor. But I’m also not usually wrong. Ken and my dad both have this infuriating habit of brushing me off like I don’t know what I’m talking about. It’s maddening.

Sunday brunch with two old work friends was exactly what I needed. We walked around the city, caught up, laughed. They always hear me. They get it without me having to explain everything from scratch. We see each other maybe three times a year and 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 brief.

I didn’t see my dad this weekend but checked in with Kathy a couple times. I called him and could tell immediately he wasn’t in the mood to talk — you learn to read that fast. When Kathy’s around he usually isn’t looking for conversation anyway. He’s obsessed with her. It’s sweet and exhausting in equal measure, but she needs every break she can get.

And then Drew.

He went out, had a good time, came home drunk — par for the course, nobody’s judging. But when he got in the elevator to go up to bed, the door wouldn’t open. The overnight caretaker — whose literal job is to check on Drew every hour — never noticed. Never called. Never thought to go look for him. Drew got home at 12:07 in the morning. He woke up still in the elevator at 6:47 a.m.

Nearly seven hours. Stuck in an elevator. Because the person being paid to keep him safe was asleep.

Jan fired him immediately. Good. But I want to throat-punch this guy. Drew has the absolute worst luck with caregivers and it’s not funny anymore — it’s scary. Finding good ones is already nearly impossible, and Drew keeps getting stuck with people who treat it like a job they can sleep through. He texted me that he was feeling depressed and down. Of course he was. Who wouldn’t be?

On a warmer note — my childhood best friend Amanda reached out when she heard about my dad. We grew up calling each other cousins, basically family. She has real experience with memory issues because of her own dad Fred, who was actually one of my dad’s closest friends. Even as Fred’s memory faded, he always remembered my dad. My dad would bring his dog when visiting, telling all their stories, lighting up the room. Fred had a wonderful caregiver named James, and I’ve filed that name away in the back of my brain for whenever we get to the point of needing someone. Amanda sent me a long email of resources and ideas. We’ll talk properly when life slows down. Next time I’m out in California with Natalie I’ll see if I can get to her too.

And since October is basically here — breast cancer awareness month — I texted some of my fellow warriors and we’re planning a warrior dinner. Not to relive it all. Just to be together. That sisterhood is real, even when nobody wants the membership. Last time there were four of us. Now we’re six.

Sunday night Matt asked me what was wrong. I said besides the usual Monday dread — I’m just sad. Carrying that weight of no answers and no clear path forward with my dad and not knowing what’s coming. That quiet grief of missing my mom and not being able to call her.

But this week will be good. Work will keep me busy. Pilates will keep me sane.

And Austin is almost here. Natalie’s 50th. I cannot wait.