This Body is Bullshit

It’s Monday again. I’ve been coming here and jotting things down for the past week or so, which means this will probably be another ramble. Fair warning.

Dolly Parton died and it’s just so sad. Tributes everywhere and somehow I cannot believe I don’t own a single Dolly Parton T-shirt. How has that happened? Terry and I were actually going to go see the Dolly mural on the north side of Chicago this weekend, but it was a shitty day so we went to breakfast instead. I’m not really a country music person, but I grew up listening to it because of my dad. Dolly Parton, Crystal Gayle, the Oak Ridge Boys, Willie Nelson, and of course Kenny Rogers. Kenny Rogers was my favorite growing up. Anytime I hear him I think of my dad. And Dolly dying immediately brought me back to Islands in the Stream. Such a great song. So naturally all of this has had me thinking about Dad even more than usual.

Dad is getting harder. Maybe easier but definitely sadder. There are still occasional good nights. His eyes open and bright, trying his best to have a conversation even though the words don’t cooperate anymore, making silly faces, making us laugh. The way he rolls his eyes at me when I am being an idiot. On purpose. The nights his face lights up a little when he sees me. Those are the nights I hold onto. But they’re getting fewer. He’s so skinny now. He barely eats. A few mouthfuls of yogurt or applesauce to take his medication, maybe something resembling a meal every couple of days. And now he’s having pain. Kathy and I are on the same page after a conversation with her sister Nancy, that he needs the hospice medications to keep him comfortable. It’s just a hard transition because we know those medications may also mean he sleeps more, and those little sparks of him that we still occasionally get may become even harder to find. And I’m selfish about those sparks. I miss him. He’s right there and I miss him. So when his eyes light up and he makes a face at me or tries to talk to me, I want another one. I don’t want to miss a lucid day because he’s sleeping. But he shouldn’t hurt so that I can have one. He shouldn’t have to stay awake for us. He just shouldn’t be this way!! He would fucking hate this. I know he would. Sometimes I find myself hoping he just doesn’t wake up in the morning. That is still incredibly hard to write, but it’s true. Of course I don’t want my dad to die. I want my dad back. But that isn’t one of the choices. We can help our pets along when their bodies are failing and there’s nothing left but suffering. We make that horrible decision because we love them. Why can we help our pets along, but we can’t help our humans along? I’m really struggling with that right now.

I finally asked Kathy something I’d been worrying about. Her entire life has changed. My dad used to talk constantly. Always wanted to go somewhere, walk the dog, go out, get drinks, run to Home Depot for the third time that day, talk to everyone everywhere he went. Now there’s so much silence. I had been wondering if she was lonely or bored or stir-crazy, so I finally just asked her. She insists she’s okay. She said yes, she has some of those feelings, but overall she feels like she’s adjusted pretty well. That made me happy. I hope it’s true. I still think she should sit down and relax once in a while, but that’s a completely separate issue.

And apparently while contemplating death and dying and the ethics of human existence, I am still expected to drive places. Which brings me to another pressing matter.

WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE IN THE LEFT LANE.

How do grown adults still not understand this? If you don’t know how to use the left lane or you don’t know how to merge, I don’t think you should be allowed on the highways and byways. There should be another test. I’ll administer it.

Frank was hacking and moving around the bed one night last week and barely let me sleep. I hate when Frank is sick because I immediately become hyperaware of every sound and movement he makes. Thankfully he seems to be getting better. Just another few hundred bucks later.

Naturally Fiona has now decided it’s her turn. Her allergies are coming back because she just finished her Apoquel regimen. I hate that she has to keep going back on that shit all the time, but apparently we are just rotating patients around here.

One night after my dad’s I came home and decided I wanted a bowl of ice cream at 9:30, which isn’t even usually my thing. I ate it in the chair and became so tired I literally could not make myself get up. The thought of going upstairs, taking my medicine, putting pajamas on and getting into bed was just too much effort. So I laid down in all my clothes. Slept on the couch. I could not fathom moving an inch! Fuck it.

This weekend I managed to get a lot done outside. Cleaned things up, cut stuff back for fall, everything looks so much better. But my zinnias are still going strong. I am obsessed with those zinnias. Aunt Susie planted them for me this year, and I’m really hoping this is now a tradition and she’ll be planting my zinnias every year. They’re still flourishing while everything else is starting to look like summer is packing up and leaving.

My cousin Scott texted me from Louisiana that his daughter Lola, who I have such a soft spot for, wrote her name on the whiteboard at school as Lil Pookie. I love that kid. Pookie lives on. Now in Louisiana, in miniature form. God help Scott. She is going to be a character just like my mom.

And almost at the same time, Melanie was texting me some funny things Will has been doing and said she thought both my mom and dad would think he was hilarious. Honestly, I was mostly just happy to hear he was making Mel smile.

Now can we talk about my skin? Because the crepey skin is a real problem. My neck. Under my chin. My thighs. A little under my arms. This soft, very fine, wrinkly skin that I fucking hate. I drink collagen. I take collagen pills. I moisturize with firming cream and hyaluronic acid and peptides and whatever else the internet has told middle-aged women we’re supposed to be doing. Nothing. And I’m too scared of Botox or putting any more shit into my body. Obviously I’m not having any more surgeries. So, this is my neck now? My face? My thighs? I know there are reasons. Medication. Menopause. Losing thirty pounds. Being fifty. Whatever. I don’t care. It’s ugly and I hate it. Not everything needs to turn into a lesson about loving my changing body. Sometimes I just want to complain about my neck.

And while we’re on the subject of bodies, can somebody explain thongs to me? Seriously. Who wears thongs? I guess the point is no panty lines, but then people wear some crazy-colored thong you can see through their pants, so what exactly have we accomplished? Or is it supposed to be sexy? Obviously I am not the target demographic. Maybe it’s for people with those really tight asses, like Zoe on Lioness, who frankly should not be allowed to wear pants. But I cannot imagine willingly putting something in my butt crack all day. My butt hole is already frequently sore and swollen and bleeding, if you really wanted to know. Now you know. I used to love going commando. No underwear. Fantastic. Those days are apparently over because now I appreciate the extra layer of protection in case I tinkle a little. There is absolutely no shame in my game. Also, what exactly is wrong with panty lines? Oh no, somebody might look at my ass and discover that UNDER MY PANTS I AM WEARING UNDERWEAR. Scandalous.

Matt and I have actually been getting out a little more lately. I feel like he’s making an effort to take me somewhere or do something once a week and I really appreciate it. This weekend we tried a new brewery in Glen Ellyn that I found online because next month they’re having a pug fest. Obviously that got my attention and we will absolutely be going back for that. The brewery was great. Good food, beer flights, my kind of place.

Our communication remains a work in progress. We had a pretty good conversation over dinner recently and you could physically see Matt squirming in his chair when I pointed out things he doesn’t enjoy having pointed out, which makes me laugh. I’ve been trying to explain that when I say he’s being crabby or withdrawn or short with me, I’m not attacking him. Sometimes I genuinely don’t think he realizes he’s doing it, and I should be able to say so. He does not receive this information well. As part of his rebuttal he thinks I should see a therapist and deal with my trauma. Okay. The problem is I don’t know what I’m supposed to unload. I don’t feel like I’m carrying anything. And this is where I realized I completely contradict myself. In my last entry I was talking about how I feel everything. I notice everything. I worry about everybody. I read rooms before I walk into them. I’m empathetic. And now I’m sitting here saying maybe I don’t have as many feelings as everybody else. Somehow both things feel true. I have feelings. Obviously. I love people deeply. I worry. I get sad. I get pissed. I notice when somebody is off before they even tell me. But I watch other people get completely consumed by things and I just don’t. My brain usually gets to, Okay, this is happening, what are we going to do? pretty quickly. Maybe I feel everything but don’t hold onto everything. Is it resilience? Medication? Emotional intelligence? Some fucked-up trauma response I’ve mistaken for my personality? Genuinely no idea. We also talked about Matt’s stuff. His dad, things he learned growing up, why he responds to things the way he does. We’ll get there. I brought up the invisible rulebook again. He still doesn’t like it. He says the rulebook is money. Which, ok, fair. I understand we cannot just yell IRELAND, sell the house, grab Frank and Fiona and get on a plane tomorrow. But I think we have enough to sometimes say yes. Enough to not automatically assume every idea I have is impossible before we even think about it. We did not solve our childhood trauma, our marriage, our finances, or our future plans over dinner. We did have chicken and broccoli lasagna from Whole Foods and it was genuinely delicious. Highly recommend.

I also have someone I love going through something really difficult right now. It’s not my story to tell so I won’t. I’m just trying to support her quietly. Listen when she needs it, help when I can, not fix everything, not carry everything. She’s struggling but not broken. A lot of people who love her are worried. I think she’s going to be okay. I just feel sad about it and wish things were easier for her.

I also had a dream that Matt was texting all these other women and deleting the messages and hiding conversations in Facebook Messenger. None of this happened. I woke up fucking pissed at him anyway. The funniest part is I genuinely don’t think Matt would ever do something like that. The man barely maintains conversations with ME, let alone secretly cultivating relationships with a bunch of other women. I’m not saying that to be a dick, it’s just how it is. Matt likes golf, Kenny’s, and going out with Tricia and Matt, Rusty and Heather, and Ben. Good thing I love those five people. That’s pretty much his social comfort zone. The idea that this man is secretly juggling a collection of women on Facebook Messenger is hilarious. Dream Matt is apparently an asshole. Actual Matt mostly just likes telling me no. God, that man loves the word no. Want to go somewhere? No. Want to do something? No. Want to restructure our lives and move to another country? Absolutely fucking not.

Also, people need to stop asking me to ask Matt for things. Friends and family do this all the time. Can you ask Matt if he can help with this? Would Matt know how to do that? ASK MATT. Seriously. Your odds are so much better. He actually wants to help people. Most of the time. He fixes things, figures things out, shows up. But if the request comes through me it gets lumped in with all my other suggestions and the automatic response leans toward no. Go directly to the source.

Aunt Susie and Uncle Brad are in France and I saw there had been a tornado there, so of course I texted her. She didn’t reply until the next day when they were flying somewhere else and had turned on Wi-Fi. Everyone was fine, but she also informed me I need to use WhatsApp. No. I recently deleted WhatsApp and I’m not bringing it back. I love you, Aunt Susie, but I cannot have one more fucking place where people can find me. I can barely keep up with the ones I have. She can text me. Or send a carrier pigeon.

And just as I was finishing this up, I got a text from Momma Donna, Natalie’s mom. Natalie is out of surgery, doing well, and the doctor is very pleased and thinks Natalie will be too. Thank you, sweet baby Jesus. I have been worried about her because I am her person and I should be there but this is such a relief and I am so glad her mom could be there to care for her.

I also cannot wait to tell her that I’m headed to Palm Springs with Crissy and the kids in November, and we’re planning to hike Joshua Tree. She may jump on that if she can get out of school. She is the hiking queen and drives out that way when she can.

Good news to start the week while I bury the meeting with hospice on Wednesday.