This Body is Bullshit

Four Years and a Full Day

Today is four years since I lost my mom.

The death anniversary thing doesn’t usually hit me hard. I’m not really a mark-the-date kind of griever. But I woke up this morning crabby and mad and apparently emotional, which I didn’t fully understand until I was already in it. I’d gone to bed annoyed last night — work has been relentless lately, and I was irritated with Matt in that low-grade way where nothing specific is wrong but everything feels like a lot. He’s been laid off and is managing the household, which genuinely helps, but he can be so negative sometimes. I roll with his moods. He does not always roll with mine. He loves saying no to things. It’s getting old.

Anyway.

Our neighbor Teri got caught in the middle of a dog fight this week — she was fostering two Weimaraners while still having her own shepherd mix, and things went sideways. She went in with a broom (do not go in with a broom) and one of them turned on her. She needed hand surgery. Her dog Sadie is still at the hospital. Matt and I have been managing the Weimaraners in her absence, which is a lot, but she’s the best neighbor and we feel terrible about what happened.

So this morning I went over to let them out and clean up from their overnight quarantine. By the time I got home, I just lost it. Full ugly cry. Crying isn’t really my thing, but I had a good solid sob on the kitchen floor and honestly it needed to happen.

Right in the middle of that, Ken texted both Grace and me: Have a happy day. I love you. Sweet timing, Ken. Maybe it triggered something, maybe it just landed at the exact right wrong moment — but for the first time I wrote back honestly. I’m struggling today. That’s growth for me. Authenticity sounds great until you actually have to do it in real time.

On the way to work I blasted music, sang at full volume, and air-drummed like I was headlining something. I genuinely wish I could play an instrument or carry a tune outside the privacy of my car. But that’s between me and my steering wheel. Apologies to anyone who pulled up next to me at a red light.

Once I got to Melrose Park, things evened out the way they always do with my MP crew. Coffee, cookies, chatting before mandatory training — glamorous. And we’re still riding the high of an incredible email we received recently with VPs copied, praising the MP team. We’re kind of the island — often forgotten, never fully seen — so that acknowledgment meant everything. It felt so good to be seen.

Then I ran my own training at Hillside before Kathy was supposed to meet me to head to Northwestern for the social worker appointment. Except before she could get there, my dad disappeared. Told her he was running to Home Depot. Got lost. Didn’t make it back. She spent who knows how long managing his meltdown and talking him home before she could even get to her car. By the time she reached my office she was already wrung out.

The meeting with the social worker was productive and emotional in equal measure. We both cried — not like my ugly cry from this morning, but definitely tears. Hearing it laid out again — that Dad’s FTD, specifically the behavioral variant, means he literally cannot be reasoned with, cannot comprehend what we’re telling him, cannot retain it — is a specific kind of soul-twisting. You can’t wrap your head around the fact that he can’t wrap his head around it. It’s a horrific loop. The social worker is helping us understand that we are the ones who have to change, because he can’t. That’s a lot to absorb. And it’s going to get harder. It’s hard for the average family, and my dad has never been average.

After the appointment, Kathy and I sat in traffic for over an hour trying to get from Northwestern back to my Hillside office. An hour. That is absolutely insane and I want those sixty minutes back.

Kathy leaves Saturday for Mexico with the Mulroys — she deserves this trip more than anyone on earth. It means I’m on Dad Duty, and yes, I know I turn into a hall monitor on steroids when I’m responsible for him. We’re hiding the car while she’s gone. Tomorrow night Kathy and I have an ornament walk in Lemont before she leaves early Saturday. Megan and Mike are hosting Friendsgiving this weekend. We’ve asked Patrick to keep an eye on Dad on Saturday, and I’ll probably stay at his house Sunday and maybe Monday so I’m not losing my mind tracking him from across town.

Last night leaving Melrose Park, I was sitting at the light on Lake Street and noticed some police lights and commotion. Then I heard it — pop pop pop pop pop pop — at least six shots, maybe eight. I said some words. My heart went straight to my feet. Got home, checked the Melrose Park Police Department Facebook page — they were filming an episode of Chicago PD or Fire. Thank you, Melrose Park PD, for posting that immediately and saving my blood pressure.

On a much sweeter note — my little Frank, my shadow, my portly pug, turned 11 on the 18th. I am completely unhinged in my love for that dog and I refuse to apologize for it.

I also have a headache brewing and I’m pretty sure I’m heading into a sinus infection, so I made a doctor’s appointment for tomorrow. Great way to kick off the weekend.

Oh — and one more thing worth celebrating: Cathy in New Jersey and I started a Wednesday Waffle. I sent her a reel about these guys who could never coordinate calls so they started sending each other a two-minute weekly video instead, and she immediately launched it for the three of us — her, me, and Donna. Donna named our group the Twat Waffles. We’re on week two and I’m already thinking we need a spin-off. Tuesday Waffles. Thursday Waffles. Twaffles. I’m going to unleash this on them very soon.

So. Four years without my mom. And grief is strange — it doesn’t follow dates or anniversaries. It sneaks in while you’re cleaning up after someone else’s dogs. It hides in a text from your stepdad that says I love you. It shows up in a traffic jam on the way home from an appointment about your dad’s declining brain. It doesn’t ask permission and it doesn’t announce itself.

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

And for today — that’s enough.