This Body is Bullshit

There’s this thing hikers talk about called trail magic. It’s when a good Samaritan leaves snacks or cold drinks along the path—something a weary traveler might stumble upon when they need it most. It’s not about the snacks, really. It’s about the reminder that someone out there cares. That someone believes in what you’re doing, even if they don’t know you.

I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. I want to be real trail magic for someone—not with Gatorade and granola bars, but with care, belief, presence. Because I do believe in the people I surround myself with. And sometimes, just knowing someone believes in you is enough to keep going. I think I do a good job of making my people know I’m proud of them and love them. At least I hope I do.

Then there’s this other thing I’ve been thinking about—something not nearly as warm and fuzzy: ambiguous loss. It’s the kind of grief that doesn’t have an ending, the kind that leaves you stuck between hope and heartbreak. It’s what happens when someone you love is physically here but psychologically gone. Or when they were gone long before they actually left.

I realize now I coped with ambiguous loss for years with my mom. I grieved her before she died, because she was slipping away from me even while she was still right there. And now… it’s starting again with my dad. Maybe ambiguous grief is the better term. Because it’s both. It’s loss and longing and confusion and love, tangled up together. It’s knowing you can’t fix it—and still trying anyway.

I’ve been trying to read anything I can get my hands on about FTD. The neurologist recommended The 36-Hour Day and The Unexpected Journey by Emma Willis. The first one was brutal—dense, clinical, depressing. The second was sweeter, but neither had much to say about FTD. They were mostly about caregiving. There are still no answers. Just a long list of questions—things I don’t know to look for, how to handle, or what’s next.

And while I’m trying to hold all this emotional stuff together, my body’s staging a full-scale revolt. Every joint, every muscle—my neck, my shoulders, my back, my hips, my knees, my hands, my feet. They all ache. They all hurt. It’s so fucking stupid.

Meanwhile, my obsession with animals is out of control. My empathy and compassion for furry things are off the charts. I want all of them—dogs, cats, goats, bunnies, tigers, manatees, bears, jaguars, foxes. I scroll through rescue pages like it’s religion. Maybe it’s because animals don’t need you to fix them. They just need you to be kind. This is how I’ll die, I hope—hugging or petting a wild animal.

Kathy went to New Jersey last week to celebrate Mae’s birthday, which meant I was on Dad Duty. I managed to keep him from going to any restaurants in the evenings. We went to his house one night, and he came to ours twice. I met him out in the woods with the dog.

The whole time, I watched his location like a maniac on my phone—calling and texting him nonstop. Thursday night at his house, he didn’t have a drink. Friday and Sunday, he wanted one. So I gave him one—minus the alcohol. He didn’t know the difference.

It was exhausting. I know I was overdoing it—hovering, watching, managing—but I can’t help it. If it were up to me, I’d keep him home all the time. But that would kill him.

Somewhere in between all this, I’m trying to figure out what I actually want. How to be intentional about it. I want positivity, joy, simplicity. I don’t need grand gestures—I just want things that feel good and real.

Cancer didn’t make me sick. I had cancer—they took it out. Radiation was hard, surgeries were harder, the scars are tight, healing was slow, and the infections were hell. But the only time I was actually sick was when I had sepsis.

The rest of it? It was just living. It was surviving.

And maybe that’s what I’m still doing now—trying to survive this strange mix of grief, pain, and gratitude. Trying to make my own trail magic.