This Body is Bullshit

Today marks four years since I lost my mom. I don’t usually get hung up on death anniversaries, but I definitely woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. Crabby, mad, emotional — the whole cocktail. To be fair, I went to bed annoyed last night. Work has been relentless, like I can’t seem to catch up. And then there’s home life, which should feel easier now that Matt’s laid off and doing most of the house management — more than he normally does, and he does truly makes everything easier. But still… I was irritated with him. He gets so negative sometimes. I roll with his moods; he does not roll with mine. And he loves saying no. To everything. It’s getting old. He’s not great at finding the joy and sometimes he actually sucks it out. Then, at the same time, he is the best guy around.

Anyway.

We’re helping our neighbor Teri, who got caught in the middle of a dog fight between her two foster Wisenheimers and her own shepherd mix. She went in with a broom (mistake), and one of them turned on her. She ended up needing stitches in her leg and hand surgery. Her dog is still in the hospital(Sadie needed stitches, ok now but just keeping the dogs separated at this point), and the rescue will be retrieving the fosters soon. In the meantime, Matt and I have been managing the Wisenheimers — which is… a lot. But she’s the best neighbor, and we feel awful about what she went through.

So when I went over this morning to take them out and clean up from their overnight quarantine, by the time I got back home, I just lost it. Full-on tears. Crying isn’t usually my thing, but I had a solid little sob.

Somewhere in the chaos, Ken texted both Grace and me: “Have a happy day. I love you.” It was sweet. Maybe it triggered me, maybe it just hit at the wrong (right?) moment, but for the first time I replied honestly: “I’m struggling today.” Growth, I guess. Authenticity sounds great until you actually have to do it.

On the way to work, I blasted music, sang like I belonged on stage, and air-drummed like a lunatic. Honestly, it helped. I wish I could actually play an instrument or sing outside the confines of my car, but that’s between me and the steering wheel. And apologies to anyone who witnessed it.

Once I got to Melrose Park, things evened out. The emotions settled. Being with my MP crew always does that. Coffee, cookies, and chatting before mandatory sexual harassment training — the glamorous life. Our training and development manager does a great job. And the night before, we got the most incredible email (with some VPs copied) praising the MP team — a rare acknowledgment for our little “island.” Felt so good to be seen.

Then I zipped to Hillside to run my own training before meeting Kathy to head to Northwestern and meet with the neurologist’s social worker. But before she could meet me, Dad went missing for a bit — said he was just running to Home Depot. He got lost, didn’t make it back, and Kathy was dealing with his meltdown while trying to talk him home. By the time she finally reached my office, she was already emotionally wrung out.

And then the meeting… Jesus. Productive but heavy. We both cried — not like my ugly cry from this morning, but definitely tears. Hearing again that Dad’s FTD, especially the behavioral variant, means he literally cannot reason or be reasoned with — it’s soul-twisting. You truly cannot comprehend the fact that he cannot comprehend. It’s a horrific Twilight Zone. The social worker helped us understand how we have to change in order to survive living alongside it. It’s a lot to absorb. And it’s going to get harder. It’s hard for the “average” person, and my dad isn’t exactly average to begin with.

Kathy leaves Saturday for Mexico with the Mulroys — a trip she deserves more than anyone. But it means I’m on Dad Duty again. We’ll be hiding the car while she’s gone, which takes a huge burden off me.

Tomorrow night we have an ornament walk in Lemont. Then she leaves early Saturday. Megan and Mike are hosting Friendsgiving this weekend, and we’ve asked Patrick to keep an eye on Dad Saturday. I’ll probably stay at Dad’s Sunday and/or Monday so he’s not alone and I don’t lose my mind trying to track him from afar.

My friend Cathy in New Jersey and I started something new. I sent her a reel of a group of guys who couldn’t coordinate phone calls, so they started sending each other a two-minute weekly video called the “Wednesday Waffle.” She immediately started it with us — now it’s me, her, and Donna sending our own Wednesday Waffle videos. Donna affectionately titled us the Twat Waffles. Week two and I’m already thinking we need a Tuesday Waffle or Thursday Waffle spin-off — Twaffles. I might unleash that soon.

Last night leaving Melrose Park, I heard what sounded like gunshots — six? Eight? My heart dropped into my stomach. Turns out it was filming for Chicago PD or Fire. Thank you to the Melrose Park Police Department Facebook page for saving my blood pressure.

And speaking of my heart — my sweet Frankie turned 11 on the 18th. My tiny old-man shadow. I’m obsessed with him beyond reason and refuse to apologize.

By the time I get home tonight, I’ll still have to take care of the Wisenheimers, and I’ve got a headache brewing. The earache from earlier thankfully disappeared, but I’m pretty sure I’m walking straight into a sinus infection. I made a doctor appointment for tomorrow — an excellent way to kick off a weekend.

So yeah… four years without my mom. And today reminded me that grief is strange. It doesn’t follow anniversaries or dates. It sneaks in during dog-walking mornings, on the drive to work, in doctor’s offices, in text messages, in the middle of traffic jams — which, by the way, it took Kathy and me over an hour just to get from Northwestern to Hillside today. Absolutely insane.

It’s been a day. A week. A month. A season.

And for today — that’s enough.