This Body is Bullshit

Taking care of my dad has me thinking about my mom. Not in a nostalgic way. In a guilty way. In a what-did-I-do-and-what-didn’t-I-do way.

Watching how present I am with my dad, I find myself thinking about her end of life and how different I was then. How much less present. And it sits with me in a way that’s uncomfortable. But to be honest, at the time I thought I was showing tough love. I thought I was trying not to enable her. I certainly wasn’t trying to hurt her. I justify some of it, and the justification is real: her decline was long. More than twenty years of watching her light slowly dim.

She went from this outspoken, funny, big personality, the kind of person who filled a room, to someone who was practically a recluse. Antisocial. Withdrawn. Hard to reach. And I was mad about that for a long time. I resented her for it. I didn’t understand it. As a mother myself, I still don’t understand how you don’t fight through anything to be there for your child or grandchild.

I know that mental illness was a huge part of it, and the more I understand mental illness, the more I understand that it wasn’t her choice. It wasn’t her fault. She was sick in a way nobody really named or treated properly or wanted to acknowledge, and that sickness stole her from us slowly and quietly over a very long time. By the time she was physically dying, I had already been grieving her for years. That’s a particular kind of grief and exhaustion that’s hard to explain to someone who hasn’t lived it.

I also had a different relationship with her than I have with my dad. I’ve always been a daddy’s girl. He was on a pedestal for most of my life. My mom and I were complicated. Frustrating. Sometimes hurtful on both sides. I loved her. I know she loved me. God, she loved Grace and me more than anything, probably to the point where it made her a little crazy with worry. But it was hard. And I think that complicated love made it easier to stay a little more at arm’s length when things got bad.

There’s one thing that says it all, really. When I was diagnosed with breast cancer at the end of 2020, I didn’t tell my mom until two or three days before my mastectomy in March 2021. Because I knew she couldn’t handle it. I knew the news would devastate her in a way that would make everything harder, not easier. So I protected her from it or maybe protected myself from managing her reaction on top of everything else and waited until the last minute. She couldn’t come down to be with me. She couldn’t help me afterward. And that was sad. Not angry-sad. Just genuinely sad. The kind of sad that comes from loving someone and knowing their limitations at the same time. The kind that comes from needing your mom and knowing she wasn’t able to be that for you in that moment. But that’s the illness. I don’t say that to be cruel to her memory. I say it because it’s true and because it was part of what made our relationship what it was. Love and limitation existing in the same space at the same time.

And then at the end, I was there. Visiting on the weekend for the last month or 2. Fully there her last week. Bedside. She went from conscious and saying hilarious things, because even at the end she was funny, that never fully left her, to unconscious and slipping away. I sat with her and whispered that I loved her. That I was there. That it was okay to go. I told her Grace and I were going to be okay because I knew that’s what she needed to hear. I got Grace on the phone and held it to my mom’s ear so she could say whatever last words she wanted to say to her grandmother. My mom left us later that day. I was there.

And then the messages started coming in.

People reminded me of who she was, the person I had forgotten she was, the person I had been grieving for so long that I’d lost the full picture of her. The good old days. The big laughs she brought. The sharp sense of humor. All the things that had dimmed so slowly that I hadn’t realized how much I missed them until old friends and people from her past started describing her back to me.

By the time we gathered for her celebration of life, we’d already been missing her for a long time. But it wasn’t all sadness. Because honestly, have you met us?

Here’s the part that still haunts me about that day. I didn’t prepare a eulogy. I didn’t know how to start one. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t feel ready. So I went up there and winged it. It was all over the place. I misspoke. I didn’t like how it came out. I walked away feeling like I hadn’t done her justice.

But one of my favorite pictures from that entire day is Grace taking a selfie with my mom’s urn. Grace may or may not have been stoned out of her mind. I cannot confirm or deny. There she is, smiling away, posing with Grandma. And somehow it’s one of the best pictures ever taken. Maybe we’re weird. Maybe we’re slightly deranged. Not maybe. We’re depraved. Whatever. I love it. Because grief in our family was never going to look like everyone dressed in black, sitting solemnly in a room and quietly talking about how sad we all were. We loved my mom. We missed my mom. And we were still us. Laughing at inappropriate things. Taking ridiculous pictures. Telling stories. Probably saying things we shouldn’t say. Pookie would have understood.

When my mom died, I posted a line from Elton John’s “Candle in the Wind”. The part about someone’s candle burning out while their legend lived on. Nothing captured her better. Because her light really did dim long before her life ended. That’s the part I understand differently now. For years I thought about how much she’d changed. How small her world had become. How far away she seemed from the Pookie everyone remembered. But her legend didn’t disappear with that light.

It was sitting right there in that room that day. In Aunt Jean and the Mennas, and all those memories of growing up in Indian Head Park and Acacia. In the Joneses and generations of friendship that basically made us family. In Karin and the Hinsdale Dental years. In the stories about the parties at Mort’s house that, I’m probably better off not knowing all the details about. It was in every person who walked into that luncheon carrying a different version of my mother with them. It was in Grace taking a possibly chemically enhanced selfie with her grandmother’s urn. And it was in me. I wish I’d been able to stand up that day and articulate all of this. Because sometimes you have to lose someone, miss them, be angry with them, forgive them, become a caregiver yourself, get older yourself, and live a little more life before you can really see them. I was seeing her differently and wish I had done a better job. But maybe this is what this is. This is her eulogy. And now I forgive more. I appreciate more. I remember more.

And when I picture her now, I don’t want to picture the woman whose world became so small. I picture Pookie. Young. Beautiful. Funny. Caring. Generous. Probably with a glass of wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other, surrounded by people and making somebody laugh.

Her candle may have gone out, but her legend never will.

Long live Pookie. Long live my mom. Love you. Miss you.

It’s been a while. I’ve made attempts to get back here. I have these profound, important thoughts on the drive to work or on the way to my dad’s, things I wish I wrote down, and then the second I actually sit down, they’re completely gone. Every single one. Vanished. Just me staring at a blank screen wondering what I was so sure I needed to say.

I know and you know it was brilliant, of course. So here’s what I’ve got instead.

I’ve been burning the candle at both ends and then some. Not just work, work and then my dad’s most nights, which means I’ve also been quietly neglecting my friends. And I feel guilty about that because this has been a hard year for a lot of people I love. Physically, emotionally, marriages, health, money, just life. Everyone seems to be carrying something heavy right now. They need me and I’m stretched so thin I don’t always know how to show up the way they want me to.

For a while I was going to my dad’s in the mornings too, getting there before work to help Kathy with his first change of the day. That worked for a little bit. And then gradually, honestly, I faded on that one. Getting up and out the door has never been my strong suit and I’m not going to pretend otherwise.

Sorry, Kathy.

I do try to get there most evenings though. Which is its own thing, because I’m showing up at night right around the time I used to be getting into bed. Remember when I went to bed ridiculously early Those were good times. My whole sleep schedule is a disaster now. I am tired in a way that goes bone deep.

I’ve also been trying to lift weights regularly, which I actually like. I like feeling strong. I just don’t give it enough time or consistency to do much good yet. And my joint pain is not impressed with my effort level.

My dad is different every single day. Some days he’s alert and we have something that almost resembles a conversation. He can’t really finish thoughts or sentences anymore, words disappear somewhere between his brain and his mouth but he’s present. He’s trying. Sometimes he even makes a joke. He always makes faces. Other days he’s angry and defiant. Other days he’s so far away that I look at him and think, oh gosh, and then just brace myself because this could be the end. And then I go back the next day and he lights up when he sees me and wants a hug and tells me he loves me and I think, okay. We’re okay. Today we’re okay.

It’s a mindfuck. I don’t know how else to describe it. I am constantly trying to prepare myself for something I have absolutely no way to prepare for.

The other night he was pretty out of it. Not really talking, not really tracking. Kept trying to take my glasses off my face. Then he started trying to remove my nose. Like, actually remove it. Just casually attempting to unscrew my nose from my face. He was completely serious about it too. He wasn’t hurting me. I thought it was one of the funniest things that has happened and also one of the saddest, and I sat there while he worked very diligently on my nose situation. Apparently the nose had to go.

That’s caregiving. It’s sad and exhausting and scary and sometimes so fucking ridiculous that all you can do is laugh.

The Florida trip fell through. Donna, Terry, and I are not going. Which is a huge bummer.

So I immediately texted Natalie to channel all that disappointment into Mexico excitement because right now that’s the only real getaway I have on the horizon. One hundred and ninety-two days. There’s something strange about counting down to something I desperately want while simultaneously wishing I could slow time down.

I want February. I want Mexico and Natalie and sunshine and the ocean and cocktails and to feel like myself for a little while.

But I also want tomorrow with my dad. Even if he doesn’t know what day it is. Even if we can’t have a real conversation. Even if he’s angry or asleep or spends twenty minutes trying to remove a facial feature.

So that’s where I am right now.

Trying to be a good daughter, wife, friend, employee, dog mom, and somewhere in there, myself.

Tired as hell. A little behind on everything. Probably forgetting something important.

And maybe that’s why all those profound thoughts I have in the car disappear by the time I sit down to write them.

My brain is full. My life is full. There isn’t a lot of room left up there.

But my life is full in other ways too.

There are people I love who need me. People I need. There are friends I want to make more time for. Trips to plan. Weights I’m going to keep lifting. Dogs who need something every five minutes. A husband I should probably spend some time with.

And there are evenings with my dad that break my heart and evenings where he makes me laugh. Sometimes those are the same evening. I don’t know how much time I have left with this version of my dad. I don’t know who he’ll be tomorrow.

I do know I can’t be everywhere. I can’t take care of everyone. I can’t fix many of the things that are hurting the people I love. And I definitely can’t slow any of this down. But I can keep showing up where I can. I can keep laughing at completely inappropriate times. And I can keep having something to look forward to.

One hundred and ninety-two days until Mexico. But tomorrow first.

When Kathy left for Paris to meet up with Crissy and fam, I packed a bag and moved in with my dad for six days.

A year ago I probably would have gone into that week bracing for disaster. Instead I got something more complicated than that.

I got time with my dad.

Right before Kathy left, he’d been officially approved for hospice. While she was away we spent a lot of time getting everything set up so things would be ready when she got home. Thankfully it all came together. Hospice has been in place for a few weeks now.

I already knew hospice wasn’t giving up — I learned that years ago with my mom. But this still feels different to say out loud. This isn’t about saying goodbye today. It’s about keeping him comfortable and giving Kathy the support she desperately needs and honestly deserves. They manage his medications now. There is more, and there is morphine. There’s a hospital bed in the house, he is just about no longer mobile. An aide comes twice a week to help bathe him. Michael is there three days a week.

The disease is progressing. There’s no pretending otherwise.

But life keeps happening anyway.

Most evenings that week were filled with confusion — repetitive questions, conversations that started somewhere and ended nowhere, stories that looped back on themselves. I stopped trying to make sense of it. I just went along with wherever he was.

And then every once in a while he’d become completely present. Clear. Sweet. Almost childlike. I’d catch myself thinking he’d become my little boy, which I know is completely backwards. But that’s what it feels like sometimes.

Most of the week was actually good though. We watched TV. Ate meals together. Sat outside. Just existed together. I’ll take every one of those ordinary moments for as long as I can have them.

Then there were the nights.

One night he fell in the bathroom and I couldn’t get him up. He was angry and combative and wanted nothing to do with my help. I eventually called Matt. By the time Matt got there I was basically wrestling my eighty four year old father trying to convince him to go upstairs to bed.

My dad wanted to fight me.

At one point he kept trying to bite me.

And I thought it was hilarious. I could not stop laughing. My tiny dad was absolutely convinced he was going to win this thing.

Matt did not find it funny. For him it brought up painful memories of watching his own father decline and I could see it all over his face. Two completely different experiences happening in the same stairwell at the same time.

Sometimes caregiving is heartbreaking. Sometimes it’s absurd. Sometimes it’s both simultaneously and you just have to pick a lane.

The other memorable night involved what can only be described as a complete and total shit storm. Literally. I’ll spare you the details. Just know there was poop everywhere — and at that exact same moment I was pretty sure I’d caught whatever stomach bug has been going around.

Timing really is everything.

Now that Kathy is home we’ve settled into a routine. I go over Tuesday through Friday evenings to help her get my dad ready for bed.

Last week he hurt his wrist and we were convinced it was broken because he was in so much pain. Seeing him hurt absolutely broke me. He has morphine now so they were able to keep him comfortable and it seems to have improved. But that’s the thing I’ve figured out about myself through all of this — I can handle the exhaustion. I can handle the confusion. I can handle the middle of the night chaos. Apparently I can even handle being bitten.

What I cannot handle is seeing him in pain. That gets me every single time.

In the middle of all of this I got my MRI results.

The MRI itself looked good but the original concern wasn’t actually my breast — it was something in the chest wall. My oncologist took my images to their breast conference so everyone could weigh in together. The consensus was that what they were seeing is most likely a surgical suture.

I don’t entirely know what that means.

I don’t really care.

It’s not cancer. We move on.

My carotid ultrasound also came back completely normal. One more thing off the list.

Matt and I worked through our disagreement. We’re okay.

Frank is doing well and back to being fully and completely Frank, which is all I ever ask of him.

Natalie came to visit and I already miss her. I’d been hoping to fly out to Hermosa Beach to help take care of her after her surgery but her mom is going to be there instead. I’m disappointed — I don’t know when I’ll see her next. Hopefully before February. I cannot wait to get back to Puerto Vallarta and Sayulita together.

Last weekend Matt and I had dinner with his Aunt Jean, Aunt Cory, his mom, and his sister. Good food, easy conversation, people you’ve known long enough that you don’t have to perform anything. Karla and Cory came back to our house after and spent the night. We stayed up talking and laughed a lot and had coffee together in the morning.

I’ve been spending a lot of time talking with Megan lately too. Real conversations. The kind that matter.

And I think about Donna a lot. Because she’s carrying so much and most days it feels like she’s down more than she’s up and I wish I knew how to help her find her way back to herself. How to help her find joy. I just want to see her happy.

At least we have something to look forward to. Donna, Terry, and I are headed to Florida at the end of August — I kind of jumped onto a trip they were already planning and thankfully they didn’t mind. And then February, Puerto Vallarta and Sayulita. I am counting the days.

Matt and I have also been decluttering the house. Mostly the garage. It’s astonishing how much stuff accumulates. It’s equally astonishing how sore you can get just trying to get rid of it.

Life still feels heavy most days. My dad has hospice. My body still hurts. There are always appointments and medications and worries waiting around the next corner.

But I’ve stopped believing joy comes after the hard part is over. I don’t think that’s how it works. Not for me anyway.

Joy shows up beside the hard things now.

It shows up in my dad’s face when I walk through the door. In laughing while he tries to bite me. In long conversations with Megan. In missing Natalie because she matters that much. In an ordinary dinner that turned into a sleepover. In Florida at the end of August. In Mexico in February.

The hard things haven’t gone away. They probably won’t.

But we’re still making plans.

We’re still showing up.

And we’re still laughing.

I received this little graphic about the evolution of the blog:

2021–2023 Molly: “How do I survive this?”
2024 Molly: “Why is this happening?”
2025 Molly: “How much more can one person carry?”
2026 Molly: “How do I build a life inside all of this?”

Yeah. That’s it. I didn’t plan any of that — I just kept showing up and that counts as evolving.

Natalie came to town. Her mom Donna took us to a drag brunch. Donna got brought up on stage and danced around the room collecting tips for charity. We laughed and cheered and were completely ridiculous and I enjoyed every single second of it. Happy Pride!

I also did a nursing home tour last week.

I know. The whiplash is very my life.

The tour was depressing. I cannot imagine putting my dad in one. I also don’t have to worry about it because they are so unaffordable it’s almost funny.

Sunday we hosted Father’s Day and Grace’s birthday together. Family from four different branches of the family tree, plus Drew — who IS immediate family — and Michael, the caregiver who helps both Drew and my dad. It was really nice to have Matt, my dad, and Ken all in the same space. Three men who have shown up for Grace and me in completely different ways. All of them matter.

And Grace… She turned 27.

I don’t know why 27 has wrecked me the way it has. I used to laugh at Donna. She cried at every single milestone her kids hit. Birthdays. First day of school. Last day of school. All of it. I thought she was so extra about it. And now here I am completely undone by a birthday, and maybe this is exactly what she felt every time. Maybe it just took me 27 years to get there. Boy, does she have a long way to go!

I don’t know if it’s the weight of looking back at 27 years or the fear of not knowing what’s coming or this quiet terrifying thought of — is this it? Am I done being her mom? I know I’ll always be her mom. But it’s different now. She doesn’t need me the same way. She has built this whole life. Remarkable, independent, kind, out there every day trying to make the world better — and I am so proud I could burst.

And I miss her being small.

Both those things. My baby is 27. I don’t know where the time went.

I called hospice today and scheduled an evaluation for my dad.

I want to say this clearly because I know what that word sounds like: he is not dying. Not soon anyway. I think. But hospice is so much more than end of life now — it’s support, it’s resources, it’s help navigating something that has no manual. We need help. A lot of it.

It was still a hard call to make.

And then there’s Matt. I know, he’s pretty perfect. BUT

I’m disappointed in him right now in a way that feels big. I feel betrayed. I don’t fully know how to process it yet because right now I am so mad and hurt that I feel vengeful and I know myself well enough to know that vengeful Molly making decisions is not going to end well for either of us.

So I’m putting it here. Sitting with it. Trying to get to the other side of the feeling before I do anything with it.

That’s growth I think. Angry, hurt, not-at-all-okay growth. But growth.

2026 Molly: “How do I build a life inside all of this?”

One day at a time. One hard phone call at a time. One birthday, one drag brunch, one nursing home tour, one moment of heartbreak at a time.

Natalie is sleeping over tomorrow and maybe for a few days and we’re doing happy hour on Friday. Then my MRI. Then Kathy leaves for Paris and it’s my dad and me for six days.

Boy. I really rambled on yesterday. I am keeping this short. It’s Friday and I am so ready for the weekend.

Another crazy storm came through last night. Tornado sirens going off at 8:30pm. I had to wake Matt up out of a dead sleep and drag Fiona out from under the bed so we could all get downstairs together. She was pissed. Shaking and clawing the entire way down. We made it unscathed.

Today they were doing new headshots at work and I skipped. It was Western Day anyway, I had my cowgirl hat on, and I had planned to stop for a bang trim and eyebrow threading on the way home from my oncologist but that didn’t work out.

Saw Dr. Undevia yesterday. He is a riot. Great sense of humor, laughs really loud, no bullshit. I really appreciate him. Donna sees him too, which is one of those things in life that really shouldn’t be, your best friend should not also have the same oncologist. Well, I love him. Donna may have a slightly different take. She did tell me to watch for his earlobes shaking when he laughs. I still haven’t noticed.

I like that he’s honest and straightforward and tells me how it is. Yesterday, half joking, he said he really needs to figure out what to do with me once he retires. He’s somewhere around my age. He chuckled while acknowledging there are a number of complicated things about my case. I take that as a compliment somehow. But it left me wondering just how long will I be doing all of this.

I’m down to seeing him every six months officially, but I still go every three no matter what because I need a quarterly injection, really an implant, since I still have one ovary. He’d like me to have surgery to remove it. I’ve considered it, even with my firm stance of never having another surgery ever. But when I had a scan with the surgeon who would supposedly do it, he couldn’t locate the ovary. So no. I am not having exploratory surgery on a maybe. I continue with the implant quarterly at nearly $6,000 a pop. Dr. Undevia says the hospital must love me for that. I also take a daily pill that he expects I’ll be on for at least another five years before we reevaluate, though there are some new options coming out that he’s considering for me.

He gets the fatigue. He gets the joint pain. He gets the brain fog in a way that nobody else really does. I told him that with my dad’s recent FTD diagnosis I’m terrified I have dementia too. He told me to give him examples. He listened. Then he told me no, it’s the drugs and the surgeries and what both do to my body. And while it’s not dementia, it’s also not going to go away.

So that’s awesome.

Then the exam. When he asked about any changes I casually mentioned this bump, I hate calling it that but bump or lump on my chest, that I’d been thinking might actually be bone. Matt thought so too when I showed him. And Undevia was like, yeah probably, you’ve lost some weight, things start looking and feeling different. Let’s check it out.

Then: Yeah, bone. Oh wait. Hmmm. Can I move it? Hmmm. It’s something. I think a cyst. Not cancer. Your case is so complicated. I’m just going to order an MRI.

I’m not freaking out at all. Honestly.

I told him, you know I have heard the word cyst before and look how that turned out. I also told him I don’t care what it is because I have him to take care of me now. Whatever it is, we deal with it. He said it’s not cancer and we’re probably going to do nothing. Let’s just check.

Yeah. Let’s just check.

He also suggested adding tart cherry juice for the joint pain. Okay. Sure. I’ll try anything at this point.

Then off to the infusion center. Where I got a nurse who was, let’s say, enthusiastic with the needle. It’s not technically a shot, it’s a pellet they inject into my lower abdomen with a fairly significant gauge needle that most people ice before and after. I never do the ice. Yes, I am a complete madwoman. But she used what I can only describe as unnecessary force. The needle is going in regardless, you don’t need to stab me. Got my bandage, scheduled my next injection and bone infusion in three months, and was sent on my way.

I left a little distracted, knowing I now have an MRI to schedule, which is why I skipped the bang trim and the eyebrow threading. I just wanted to go home. I also need to get an ultrasound of my carotid artery because my cholesterol has been suddenly high. My PA flagged it last month.

It’s hard to get old.

TGIF. When I head out of here I’m going to check on my dad and Kathy because during last night’s storm they lost power and as of the last report it won’t be back on for two more days. So we may be having a sleepover.

Have a great weekend.

Like I said — ended up being longer than I thought.

Let’s start with the good news.

Frank is doing well. Really well. Thank you, sweet baby Jesus.

We are done with the emergency vets and specialists for now and back to just seeing Dr. Palmer, who is an absolute sweetheart. The diagnosis is in — PLE, Protein-Losing Enteropathy, with inflammatory bowel disease. The name is a mouthful, but we are catching it very early. The plan is a special diet and supplements first, followed by a two month recheck to see if his protein levels respond. If they don’t, we add steroids. Surgery exists as an option but it is not one we are considering. Not just because of the financial reality, but because of Gus. We spent everything we had trying to save him. A major surgery, a brutal recovery, completely drained our savings and we still lost him. My heart cannot do that again.

The complicated part is that the PLE has nothing to do with what happened neurologically. Dr. Palmer believes he had a seizure and the hope is that it won’t happen again. The silver lining is that the seizure led us to find the PLE before Frank got really sick. Before the chronic diarrhea, the severe weight loss, the fluid buildup, the swollen limbs. We caught it before any of that.

I know my little loaf is going to respond to this. He is going to eat his fancy prescription food, take his supplements, and be a smelly, stubborn, ridiculous sixteen year old pug someday. I am manifesting it.

In the middle of all of Frank’s drama, the projectile vomiting, the drunk sailor impression, the stupid fender bender, the emergency vet, the $3,000 and counting… my toenail fell off.

Just fell off. No injury. No explanation. I had my toenails painted yellow at the time. So when it came off it looked exactly like a piece of corn.

Then I went to see Anthony’s school dance. The sweetest boy. Maggie was out of town so of course I was there to support him when Aunt Susie asked. The finale was the three of us with Anthony and all the other kids and families doing the Macarena. I was best at the hip swivel. I am not the most coordinated with the arm movements.

And speaking of Maggie… I received the shocking news that she was laid off. Her whole department, apparently. She is so talented. So compassionate. Another company is going to be very lucky to have her. As for this one with the audacity, I hope they go bankrupt. Fuckers. How dare you. She has enough on her plate.

There was also a high school graduation party for Samuel in there somewhere. This handsome, quiet, incredibly intelligent young man. You would never know he kicked leukemia’s ass as a toddler. My sweet Donna has such a hard time with her children’s milestones, not because she isn’t proud, she is bursting with it, but because she just wants them to stay babies forever. It’s okay. She’ll always be my baby to look after and hug.

This week at work has been Associate Appreciation Week, which is one of my favorite weeks of the year and also one of the most exhausting.

I take it personally. I drive everyone a little nuts about it because I want it to be perfect. There are theme days, food, raffles, photos. But when you work with people who show up every single day, do hard physical work, and still manage to be genuinely wonderful human beings despite all the little heartaches that are happening on the outside, they deserve a week that feels special. They deserve to know someone sees them.

We had themes every day and our people showed up for every single one. I love taking photos with the associates, watching them laugh and be silly. We post everything internally through the company intranet and it’s just fun to see.

Wednesday was the luncheon. First shift ate in ninety degrees and a bazillion percent humidity — we were all basically melting into our sandwiches. Then right after second shift started, the sky opened up. One hell of a storm came through, practically a tornado, and just like that the temperature dropped. So second shift got to eat lunch in actual human conditions instead of dripping sweat onto their plates.

Last week we went out for a couple of beers for Frank’s birthday. Frank my colleague, not Frank my pug. I’m the only woman in my group of guys at my building and we all get along so well. I like being one of the guys. And I like that my husband is cool with it. I guess he knows I couldn’t do better than him.

Over the past couple of weeks I’ve had two tattoos touched up. Meaningful ones I wanted refreshed. The oak tree, in honor of the poem Matt gave me in a card years ago that became one of my daily mantras. And a pelican for my grandparents and Marco Island.

What I do not love is that my daughter has apparently decided to keep pace with me. Actually she’s lapped me, she now has more than I do. Which is how I found myself telling a grown adult woman with a master’s degree that she is not allowed to get any more tattoos until she is fifty. I also recognize the complete absurdity of that coming from me. Which really resonated with me when I listened to the Smartless podcast episode with Jon Bernthal. I was not a fan going in. I was judging him. And what was I even judging? A character he played that I didn’t like? Embarrassing in retrospect. Classic you can’t judge a book by it’s cover. Because this man had me. The way he spoke, the things he said about “parenting through adversity” I don’t even have the right word for what it did to me. Inspired doesn’t quite cover it. Just go listen. It might be too late for me to apply most of it but maybe not for you.

And then there was the Whole Foods incident.

Kathy needed to run to O’Hare to finish up her Global Entry for her upcoming Paris trip — she absolutely deserves that trip — so I met her near one of the Dynamic buildings on the way and took my dad with me. I had what I thought was a brilliant idea. I needed to stop at Whole Foods for a return and figured the shopping cart would give him great support for walking. Get some steps in. Get his blood flowing. Kill two birds with one stone.

We made it in. Did the return. And then he had an accident.

That was the end of the Whole Foods adventure.

I hovered outside the men’s room not knowing what to do with myself, stepping in when I knew the coast was clear, panicking every time someone else went in. I called Matt, who rerouted and was already on his way. About thirty five minutes later my dad reappeared.

Shorts on backwards.

Cancelled Matt. We headed home.

It is so sad. It is also a little bit funny. And that was Tuesday.

I genuinely don’t know how people do it. I am scrambling. Burning the candle at both ends at work, managing things with my dad, trying to support Kathy, trying and kind of failing to show up for the people I love and by the time I get home I have nothing left. I want to sit on my deck and stare at my plants and not talk to anyone. That’s it.

And then I feel like a bad person about it.

A couple of weeks ago my girlfriend’s daughter ended up in the hospital. Infection, surgery, the whole terrifying ordeal. I cannot imagine what it’s like to watch your child go through that. She is a hospice nurse, by the way. She spends her days caring for people at the end of their lives with grace and tenderness and I genuinely don’t know where she finds it. And yet, I happened to mention that Matt wasn’t feeling well and she showed up with soup and bread. While her own family was going through something awful. She always makes you feel seen and important and loved and I want to be more like her even though I am currently running on fumes.

My neighbor stopped by in the driveway the other night while Matt and I were trying to get a few things done in the yard. She is so nice, she would do anything for us and we try to reciprocate when we can. I told her honestly that I was burning the candle at both ends, emotionally drained from work and from everything with my dad, and that when I get home I just want to sit on my deck and exist quietly. She totally understood… and then sweetly invited me over to her backyard, which she has made absolutely beautiful with a water feature. So relaxing, she said. Just sit and listen to the water.

She is not wrong. It sounds genuinely lovely.

I still haven’t gone.

Which brings me back to Megan. She also has a beautiful backyard. Also a water feature. Also constantly inviting me over. And I want to go, I really do, and I also really don’t want to go anywhere or do anything or talk to anyone. Both things are completely true at the same time and I feel terrible about it.

I need to be more intentional about my downtime. Real downtime. Not just collapsing between obligations. Actual chosen stillness where I’m not feeling guilty about what I’m not doing or who I’m not seeing.

And speaking of my deck and my plants. Aunt Susie showed up at my house and planted Zinnias. Just came over and planted them. Started some of the pots on my deck. Without being asked. Without making a big deal of it. Just showed up and did it because she knew I hadn’t had the bandwidth and she knew how much it would mean to me.

I had been so stretched that I hadn’t been able to tend to something that genuinely brings me joy. Something as simple as my plants. And she just took care of it. That’s Aunt Susie. She sees what needs doing and she does it quietly and lovingly and without any fanfare.

It made my day. My week. My whole month. Thank you. From the bottom of my heart.

I’m working on the stillness.

Slowly.

From my deck.

Surrounded by Zinnias.

Staring at my plants.

And through all of it, Frank’s diagnosis, the corn toenail, the tornado, the Whole Foods backwards shorts situation, the tattoos, the Smartless revelation, my dad is always there in the background of everything

On the days I can’t get to him, I at least call. Some evenings are the hardest. Evening is when the confusion sets in deep, when the paranoia creeps in, when he gets agitated or scared or convinced of something that isn’t true. On those nights I talk to him anywhere from one to five times. Sometimes more. I just go along with wherever he is. I don’t correct him. I don’t argue. I just try to meet him there and slowly, gently talk him to the other side of it.

It works sometimes. Sometimes it doesn’t. I know those are the hardest nights for Kathy too.

And then you hang up and sit with it for a minute.

And then you go back to staring at your plants. And then it’s tomorrow. And tomorrow is your quarterly appointment with oncology.

I honestly can only remember two things about Mother’s Day weekend.

Saturday I went into the city to hang out with Grace. It was a beautiful warm and sunny day. We had lunch at this place called Little Bad Wolf which was delicious, then walked around, explored, and shopped. It was a really great day. Just the two of us, no agenda, exactly what I love and needed.

Sunday was a late lunch, or maybe it was early dinner, at this little Bohemian hole-in-the-wall restaurant I never knew existed. My dad, Kathy, Anne, Matt, and me. Good food, nice time. So stuffed. On the way there, Kathy, my dad, and I had stopped at Drew’s to meet Michael, the caregiver who has now been helping Kathy out a couple days a week. My dad is not a fan. He’s having a hard time accepting it. Which is a whole thing we’re navigating.

If my memory serves me right, which it usually doesn’t, the following weekend my cousin, Heather, hosted a luncheon for her husband’s 60th birthday and her son’s high school graduation. Matt, Ken, and I went together, which was really nice. Got to see my other cousins and my aunt, ate way too much delicious food, and just enjoyed being together and spending time with Heather’s extended family.

And then — Matt and I went to Florida!

A little getaway for the two of us. Our belated celebration for both our 50th birthdays and our ten year anniversary, even though we’re creeping up on eleven and Matt is already 51. His idea. He knew exactly where to take me, Marco Island. It’s nostalgic in the deepest way because that’s where I grew up going, where my grandparents lived. We had a condo on the other side of the island from where I’m used to, but it didn’t matter. I just feel better in Florida. I breathe differently there. The water was as clear as I have ever seen it. The shelling was not great though, which was weird.

Wednesday we headed to Bonita Springs to meet up with Rusty and Heather, which has become one of my favorite traditions. They are our people in every way — same schedule, same energy, daytime sun, boating and pool, beach walking, happy hour, early dinner, early bed. They’ve always been so generous letting us stay at Heather’s parents’ beautiful home. It was perfect. All of it was perfect.

And then we came home.

Our flight got delayed over three hours. We didn’t walk in the door until nearly midnight. Grace had been with the dogs for the week but left around 2pm, expecting us home by 8:30 at the latest. By the time we got home they were absolutely starving. We got them taken care of, got into bed, and within about two hours Frank started projectile vomiting. I have never seen a dog do that. Got him settled, cleaned up, went back to bed. He was restless. We got up around 5:30 and before I could even get his breakfast together he was at the slider door getting fresh air off the deck and then projectile vomited onto the deck again. He was not himself. He was very unwell.

Off to the emergency vet, Arboretum View. $1,300 and four and a half hours later, we came home with no definitive answer. Some blood levels off, some intestinal inflammation on the x-ray, an anti-nausea injection, and fluids. Within a couple of hours he was back to himself, which felt like a small miracle.

My dad, Kathy, and George came over later. It was Memorial Day. Kathy brought an entire meal. Barbecue ribs, corn casserole, sweet potatoes, veggies, and cookie bars for dessert. My dad was content and happy being here. We started early because we were both running on nothing from the night before, so by 5:30 we were done eating and I felt bad because I know Kathy would have liked to stay longer. They headed home. My dad called me later, a little confused, sitting outside with his dog watching the sunset. Confused but not manic or scared or angry. That’s a good night for me. I just hope it was for Kathy too.

We went to bed.

The plan for today was simple: Matt would take the day off, pick up a rental car — his car is still in the shop, another long story — take Frank to his follow-up with Dr. Palmer, and I would go back to work. Frank had other plans.

When I got out of the shower, Matt was very concerned. Frank could not stand without swinging in circles. His head was bobbing. He looked like a little drunk sailor. I had no idea what was happening.

We piled in the car to drop Matt at the rental car place first. The parking lot was chaotic. I was distressed. I was not paying attention the way I should have been. And I have no idea how I did it, but I took out the corner of a parked rental car and trashed the side of my own.

Instant tears. Full breakdown. How could this be happening? We just got back from the best trip and now I have a very sick dog and I just did something so incredibly stupid.

Matt knew I was distracted. He wasn’t really angry – disappointed, maybe. We have his car already on an insurance claim for hail damage. Our house exterior is being redone because of hail damage. And now this. He stayed to deal with the accident report and the rental car situation and I headed to Dr. Palmer alone.

Dr. Palmer is the best. He came in expecting a routine follow-up from the emergency vet visit and immediately saw that something was very wrong. He looked at Frank and told me that while he could do some things in his office, what Frank really needed was a facility with higher-tech capabilities — specifically an MRI. Because what he suspected, based on what he was seeing, was either a brain tumor or a stroke.

Not something I was prepared to hear sitting alone in a vet’s office.

As I was walking out Matt was walking in. We left the rental car at Dr. Palmer’s and drove to the emergency facility in Aurora. The one that treated Gus for his cancer. I know it well. They’re wonderful. But it’s not somewhere I ever wanted to be again. Matt and I took turns crying on the way.

The doctor there was thorough. She examined him, ran tests, and concluded she believes it was a seizure. But it could be one possibly caused by a small stroke. We’re waiting on some test results to know more. An MRI would have been seven to eight thousand dollars, which was not an option. What I can tell you is that he was in really bad shape when we got there. Clearly something serious had happened neurologically. But after nearly five hours of being there, something shifted. He started snapping out of it. By the time the doctor was giving us the diagnosis, Frank was ready for a nap but only after accepting several pieces of cheese from the doctor, because he is still Frank even in crisis.

He’s made what appears to be a full recovery. For now. A big miracle.

I missed work today and I feel guilty about it. But I was where I needed to be. My kid and my dog will always be a priority. I just hope my little guy is going to be okay. And to justify it a little for myself, I did work on Memorial Day catching up on emails and verifying timecards. Plus, dealt with the ongoing poop issues while in Florida. That was shitty.

We went from “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times” in about forty-eight hours.

That feels about right.

I was not expecting the response I got. You all made me blush and feel uncomfortable. Thank you.

Kevin, my brother-in-law, a partner and chief creative director at probably one of the number one ad agencies in the world, read the blog and texted me to say it’s fantastic and that I’m a good writer. I didn’t know what to do with that. I still don’t fully know what to do with that. There is no higher compliment than one coming from him on this subject. Even though maybe he was just being nice — that guy is a sweetheart. THANK YOU! I thought Aunt Susie was my only reader for a long time and honestly, I liked it that way. Less intimidating. But apparently, there are more of you now. Which is terrifying and wonderful. I’ll choose to try to focus on the wonderful.

Here’s something I want to clear up though: I am not sitting at a desk with a pen and a leather journal like some kind of put-together person. My hands barely work. You cannot read my handwriting. I am typing and voice-memoing and then putting it all together, and thank God for grammar/spellcheck because without those two things you would all be reading something that looks like a ransom note. The non-edited versions of my thoughts would make you genuinely question everything you thought you knew about me.

So… That’s the behind the scenes. You’re welcome.

I’m not an intellectual. I didn’t go away to college. I graduated high school a semester early in January of my senior year because I just wanted out. I went to COD for a while but those were the partying years, so mostly I just worked and partied and stopped going to school. I had my own apartment at 18. Grace was born when I was 23. The rest is history and also this blog.

I wish I had gone away to college. I wish I had lived in the city. I wish I hadn’t quit basketball my sophomore year of high school. I’m still obsessed with Michael Jordan. I still want to “Be Like Mike.” These are some of my regrets.

But here’s what I’m also realizing: not going to college doesn’t mean I’m not smart. It means I didn’t give myself a chance back then.

What I am — what I think I’ve always been — is aware. I notice things. I notice everything, actually. I hear things even when I don’t react. I read rooms before I commit to them. I watch people. I absorb. There’s probably a meme about this, something about how the quiet ones are always watching, and yes, that’s me, even when I’m also the loudest person in the room.

What I have — what I’ve always had — is common sense and street smarts. And I’ve come to realize that’s not nothing. That’s actually a lot. Book smarts are great but they don’t teach you how to read a person or know when something’s off before anyone has noticed. They don’t teach you how to survive hard things and come out the other side with your sense of humor intact. Life experience does that. And I have had plenty of life experience.

I’m also becoming wise — slowly, imperfectly, sometimes the hard way — in the way that only comes from actually living through things. Not reading about them. Not studying them. Living them. The grief, the illness, the single motherhood, the bad relationships, the good ones, the loss, the joy, all of it. It adds up. It means something. And I’m finally starting to trust that.

Which brings me to something I just learned about myself: I think I’m an omnivert. Not an ambivert, someone who maintains a stable balance of introvert and extrovert. An omnivert swings between the extreme poles. Total extroversion or total introversion depending on the situation, the people, the day, the energy. Intense, situational, sometimes erratic shifts.

And then I thought, wait, can you be both? Because I think I am. With my people — my Fab Five, my JJAM crew, my BFFLs — I am fully on. The life of the party. Loud, present, generating energy for the whole room. But put me somewhere unfamiliar or with people I don’t feel comfortable with and I go completely quiet. I watch. I notice. I say nothing and take in everything. No one has lived this more than Natalie. When we travel she will talk to anyone. Everyone. I sit on the other side of her and almost never engage with the person next to her, it’s like I’m not even there. I’m not rude, I think I’m friendly. But I just listen, maybe judge a little, and then talk to her about it later.

And then there are the days, and I’ve written about these, where even being with my people takes everything I have. Where I’d rather sit back and watch them laugh than be the one making it happen. Where contentment looks like witnessing instead of performing. I love watching them have a good time and be happy.

That’s not inconsistency. That’s a nervous system that’s been through a lot and learned to read every room before deciding how much of itself to give.

The awareness thing, the noticing, I think that’s actually a survival skill. I think I learned to read situations before committing to them because at some point in my life I had to. When you move around a lot as a kid, when home isn’t always stable, when you’re trying to figure out who’s safe and who isn’t, you learn to watch first. You learn to notice.

I was made to feel not smart a long time ago. And I mean a long time ago, it started in first or second grade. My mom and I had moved around a lot when I was young and at one point we lived in Milwaukee for a while, which is a whole other story that involves my dad showing up and threatening a principal. When we moved back to Illinois and I was at Highlands in La Grange, something happened that would never happen in today’s world. It was October or November of second grade when they decided my education in Milwaukee was not up to Highlands standards and they moved me back to first grade. Mid-year.

I’m not sure my school confidence ever fully recovered from that.

I spent years pretending to be the smartest person in the room while half the time not knowing what was going on. Always feeling smart but insecure about showing it. Because people, certain people, had a way of telling me I didn’t know what I was talking about. That it wasn’t my place. That I was wrong. And I believed them for way too long. Probably until about five years ago, if I’m being honest.

But people also lifted me up. Mary Nelson, who worked with me at Hinsdale Dental and passed away recently, always told me I was smart. That I had more potential than I was using. That she saw something in me. For some reason I believed her. I still think about her. I hope she knew what that meant.

As I get older I am genuinely fascinated with learning. Podcasts, books, documentaries, articles, I want to consume them. I’m curious in a way I never let myself be when I was younger. That’s not a failure. That’s just late. And late is still something.

Something else about myself, this one isn’t really new. In a fight or flight situation, I am always fight. Always. My first instinct is never to call 911. I don’t have the natural fear response most people have. My brain calculates that I can handle it faster than waiting for help. And then I just act. It’s a trauma response, apparently. My nervous system decided somewhere early on that action was safer than waiting. That doing something, anything, was better than standing still and hoping for the best. That I could not afford to be passive. Which also probably explains why I struggle to ask for help. Fighting means handling it yourself. Always has. My friend at work told me I go from mild to wild real quick. He is not wrong.

Kathy and I did the Wine Walk in Downers Grove. Fourth year in a row, which now feels like a real tradition, and I love that. My dad and George stayed with Matt and our dogs while we went, which meant Matt got to experience something I don’t think he was fully prepared for. I won’t get into all the gory details. What I will say is that it started with my dad being in the bathroom for a long period of time, Matt getting worried, and my dad calling him in to take a picture. My dad was still talking about what he had created long after he got home with Kathy. Matt may be traumatized for life. We appreciate his effort more than words can say.

The Wine Walk itself was good. Basically shopping and shots of wine. Amy met us, which was really nice. Donna was going to come but she was having a bad day, which I hated. We were a little rushed trying to get through it all and get back to Matt in time for his bedtime. Yes, his bedtime, he is a 3am person and we respect the schedule. It’s usually one of us staying with my dad, so getting Kathy out and doing something just the two of us was nice.

It’s a beautiful day today. Hope it continues for Mother’s Day weekend.

I’ve been thinking about how many of my friends are without their moms. Or have complicated relationships with their moms. Or complicated relationships with their kids. It can be a strange holiday when you really think about it. Joyful and melancholy all at once, which seems to be the theme of most things in life lately.

I hope everyone finds their joy this weekend. Even just a little bit of it.

I’ve been having a conversation with myself lately. It started because I’ve been thinking about going public with this blog. Really public. Not just quietly existing out there on the internet hoping nobody finds it, but actually putting it out there intentionally. Sharing it. Letting people in.

And I keep stopping myself.

Here’s the thing about vulnerability — I don’t do well with sympathy. I never have. When people feel sorry for me I don’t know where to look. I change the subject. I make a joke. I find the nearest exit. I would rather crack you up than make you cry on my behalf. And yet here I am, 47 entries deep into one of the most honest things I’ve ever done, thinking about handing it to the world. This was supposed to be my therapy. And it totally has been. It has really worked. By no means am I cured — but it has helped so much.

The contradiction is not lost on me.

I’ve been watching other people do it and feeling simultaneously inspired and terrified. Just this week, Gloria — who we lovingly call Gogo — has put her cancer journey out there for all of us to follow. Completely open. Completely real. Letting everyone in. She lives out loud on social media through every life event, and I watch her do it and think: that takes guts. And also: I want to do that. And also: what if I’m not good enough at this to deserve the space.

The Sister Project, Kevin and his sister Heather — I was into their writing before the word journaling even entered my vocabulary. The way they write wrecks me in the best possible way. They take something devastating and make it beautiful without making it neat. Without tying it up. Without pretending it’s okay when it isn’t. I read their words and feel seen in a way that surprises me every time. That’s what good writing does. It reaches through the screen and grabs you by the chest and says you are not alone in this.

And then there’s Suleika Jaouad.

She wrote Between Two Kingdoms about her cancer diagnosis and recovery and it genuinely changed something in me. She put language to feelings I had been carrying for years without knowing what to call them. The grief of losing the person you were before illness. The strange guilt of surviving. The way your body becomes a place you don’t fully recognize anymore. I read that book and kept stopping to just sit with it. Then she wrote The Book of Alchemy — about journaling, about creative practice, about noticing your own life — and I never in my life thought I would be a person who journals. I am not that person. I am the person who makes jokes and keeps moving and does not sit still long enough to feel things on purpose.

And yet. Here I am. Forty-seven entries.

Okay — Suleika did basically start out as a polished, well-educated writer, so that comparison has its limits. But she also started out sick and scared and honest and needing somewhere to put it. And she changed people’s lives. Not because she had all the answers. Because she was willing to say: here is the question I can’t stop asking. Here is the thing I can’t make sense of. Here is what it actually looks like from the inside.

That’s all I’m doing here. Trying.

I’ve been reading and consuming so many blogs, memes, reels, books and podcasts lately. What keeps stopping me, is when something says exactly what I have been thinking or feeling for years but could never find the words for. The way trauma lives in the body. The way grief doesn’t follow a timeline. The way we perform fine for so long that we forget what not-fine even feels like. The way empathy is a gift and also an exhausting, relentless, never-ending thing to carry. Every time something like that crosses my feed I think — that’s it. That’s the damn thing I’ve been trying to say.

And then I wonder: am I just absorbing other people’s thoughts and calling them my own? Do I actually know who I am?

The answer I keep coming back to is: yes. I do. Because when those words land, they’re landing on something that was already there. I’m not learning something new. I’m recognizing something true. There’s a difference.

I know who I am.

I am someone who tries — genuinely tries — to be a good person every single day. To lift people up. To find the bright side even when it’s hard to locate. To bring joy into rooms. To make people laugh when they need it and sit with them when they don’t. I would also, without hesitation, cut a bitch for the people I love. I am not condoning violence. I am simply stating facts. My friends and family know I am their ride or die, their wingman, their person who will show up and throw punches if necessary. That’s just who I am and I’m not apologizing for it.

I am an empath to my core, which means I feel everything — my friends’ pain, my family’s fear, strangers’ struggles — and I carry it like it’s mine because it kind of is. That’s not always easy. It’s actually exhausting. I have nothing left some days. And I’m still learning that I’m allowed to say that out loud.

I am also — slowly, imperfectly — learning to care for and appreciate this body. Which is hard, because there was a time I felt completely betrayed by it. But I’m getting into exercise. I’m trying to eat better even though I am shamelessly addicted to sugar. I barely drink anymore. Drugs have been out of the picture for a long time. I mean, unless you have some magic mushrooms. In which case, call me. I take approximately nine thousand vitamins and supplements and prescriptions to keep this machine running. And I have lost over 30 pounds, which I am genuinely proud of. Even though the losses are starting to make me look older in my face and skin is doing things I did not authorize. Nobody warned me about that part. Rude.

I try my best at work. I think I do a good job. I genuinely love my people — my MP crew, the employees who come to me when things are hard. But it is stressful in ways that are hard to explain and emotionally draining in ways that don’t show up on any job description. Some days I come home and I have given everything I had to everyone else and there is just nothing left for me. I am working on that. I am not there yet.

And I keep coming back to this question: have I found my calling?

I don’t think so. Not fully. I think it has something to do with animals. I don’t know exactly what that looks like yet — working with them, photographing them, advocating for them, being near them in some capacity that feels like purpose. I just know that when I’m around animals something in me settles. Something that is usually braced and scanning and managing just — relaxes. And I want more of that. I want to build something around that feeling eventually. I don’t know how yet. But I know it’s there, and I’m paying attention to it.

There’s something else I’ve been sitting with.

There’s a quote that found me recently — the way the right words always seem to find you exactly when you need them: Forgive yourself. You did the best you could with who you were at the time.

I’ve been applying it to my mom.

Our relationship was complicated. She loved me with everything she had — I know that. She loved Grace even more than that. But it was hard. There were years of frustration and hurt and distance that I didn’t always understand and couldn’t always forgive. And now she’s gone and I can’t call her and sometimes I’d give anything just to hear her voice, even if we were arguing.

But that quote has started to crack something open. She did the best she could with what she had, with who she was, with everything she was carrying that I didn’t fully see or understand. And I was doing my best too. We both were. Imperfectly. Messily. With love underneath all of it even when it didn’t look like love.

I’m healing that. Slowly. It’s not linear. But I’m healing it.

And I think about Grace. About the ways I’ve fallen short as her mother — the things I couldn’t give her, the mistakes I made, the times I got it wrong. And I hope — I really hope — that someday she finds her way to that same quote. That she understands I was doing the best I could with who I was at the time. That the love was always there even when everything else was imperfect. That she heals whatever needs healing, the way I’m healing mine.

That’s the thing about motherhood. The grief passes down and so does the love and sometimes you can’t separate them and you just have to trust that the love is louder in the end.

So. Back to the blog.

I’ve written 47 entries. I found my voice — which is raunchy and tender and sarcastic and earnest and messy and sometimes all of those things in the same paragraph. I’ve told truths that scared me. I’ve written about nearly dying from sepsis, that after Matt had to drop me off at the hospital door alone for a mastectomy because of COVID and then went home to cry. I’ve written about carrying cancer in my body for two years while doctors called it a cyst. I’ve written about sitting on the shower floor until the water runs cold because getting up felt impossible. I’ve written about my dad — the man who once made a citizen’s arrest, handcuffed an attorney, drove him from Carbondale to Chicago, made the Sun-Times, and still has a felony kidnapping record — now shuffling around in cowboy boots at a protest because he thinks they make him taller. I’ve written about giving him virgin cocktails and watching him not notice. I’ve written about Drew spending seven hours stuck in an elevator because his caregiver fell asleep. I’ve written about the Wednesday Waffle and the Twat Waffles and the murder boat and microdosing mushrooms on a beach in Sayulita. I’ve written about the poop memo. Again. I’ve written about Gus — always about Gus. And I’ve written about two strangers at Northwestern who called me pretty on a hard day that I held onto for the rest of the afternoon.

That’s the blog. That’s all of it. The full catastrophe, as someone much smarter than me once said.

And maybe, just maybe, someone out there needs to read it. Someone who is also sitting in the shower until the water runs cold. Someone who is also watching their parent disappear and not knowing what to do. Someone who is also trying to be the strong one and running out of strong. Someone who also consumes memes and reels and podcasts at midnight looking for the words to describe what they’re feeling and finding them and thinking oh thank god, it’s not just me.

It’s not just you.

That’s what I want to say. That’s why I want to go public. Not for sympathy. Not for attention. Not because I think I’m Suleika Jaouad or Kevin or Heather or Gogo or Lauren and Michelle.

Just because I know what it feels like to find the right words at the right moment and feel less alone because of them.

And if I can be that for even one person, that’s enough.

I think I’m ready. But also, I read this back and wonder if I write about the same things too often. If I’ve beaten the proverbial dead horse. Whatever. This is what I’ve got. And maybe it’s a good opener. Even though technically it’s the end, this blog runs backwards, which also seems fitting.

It’s been one of those weeks and it’s only Tuesday.

Sunday evening my dad fell while out walking George. Couldn’t get himself up. Kathy tracked him down after he’d been gone too long and called me to come help. By the time I got there, the fire marshal who lives in their neighborhood had already shown up. He knew exactly what to do. He helped us get my dad back to the house and all the way up to the third floor so we could get him settled and ready for bed. I don’t know what we would have done without him that night. Sometimes the right person just shows up.

Then yesterday was his neurology follow-up at Northwestern.

Northwestern is massive and my dad can barely walk, even though he was absolutely set on doing so. The wheelchair conversation started the second we arrived. He fought it. Of course he did. This is the man who wore cowboy boots to a protest because he thought they made him taller. But somewhere along the way he came around, and by the end I think he actually liked it. I’ll take every small win I can get.

Inside the office he said some not so kind things about the receptionist and others in the waiting room thinking he was whispering, but he very much was not. Which is exactly like his farts. He does not care who hears those either. At one point the doctor asked me to take him out to the waiting room because he would not stop talking. Which, if you know my dad, is not shocking. I couldn’t help laughing a little and also hope the doctor doesn’t think I’m the same way with my gabbing.

On the bright side, while we were waiting at Northwestern two gentlemen walked past me and said oh, you’re pretty. So the day wasn’t a total loss.

I didn’t get to ask everything I wanted to ask. Like should I worry about dementia? My brain has really been mush lately and I forgot half of what I meant to bring up. It’s scary sometimes, the forgetting, the fog. But my oncologist has assured me it’s normal given my medications, menopause, and the amount of anesthesia my body has been through. Matt mentioned not too long ago that he’s noticed a change in me since my surgeries. That landed harder than I expected. But I believe it. I feel it.

Ken had come down yesterday too for an overnight because he had a morning doctor appointment of his own. So last night it was Ken, my dad, Kathy, Matt, and me. And the 3 dogs of course . All of us together, just hanging out. Matt had worked overnight Sunday and was running on nothing, so all he wanted to do was go to bed. But it was actually really nice to have everyone there. I was glad Ken was around. Tomorrow is his and my mom’s anniversary. I didn’t say anything about it out loud.

Kathy is coming around, and I can’t overstate how much that means. She’s been fighting it, not wanting to change her life, not wanting to fully acknowledge what’s happening, and I cannot blame her for one second. This might actually be harder on her than on anyone. She lives inside it every single day. But things are shifting. We finally got the guns out of their house this week. They’re at our house now. Between our guns and theirs, Matt and I are staring down an impressive collection of shotguns and rifles and feeling very ready for whatever purge situation may come our way. We did not expect this chapter of our lives to include a small armory.

Friday I picked my dad up and spent a few hours with him while Kathy went to get her nails done, do a little shopping, and take herself out for a couple of drinks. She deserved every single second of it. My dad kept asking me to call her. I kept telling him she was busy. I was not about to interrupt that woman’s afternoon. And then I gave in. I felt bad. That’s the thing about him — even through all of this, he just wants to know she’s okay. He loves her so much.

The past few days have also been full of things stopping me mid-scroll. Posts about being kind, being a good person. Things that remind me of my mom. Cancer posts — some about real advances that give me hope, some that stir up memories I wasn’t ready to revisit. Things about dementia that hit too close. The internet this week felt personal in all the ways. I keep sharing everything, probably annoying people. I can’t help it.

And then today. Today I got to send my annual message to supervisors to help remind associates about not leaving poop in or on the toilet. Third or fourth year in a row. I would like to think after however many years of doing this job I would have graduated past this particular communication, but apparently not. Yes, I work with adults.

Mother’s Day is this weekend. I’m spending Saturday with Grace down by her apartment, which I’m really looking forward to. Sunday we’re meeting a potential caregiver for my dad. It will be at Drew’s house, it’s one of his caregivers. So everyone will get to see him, and I’ll get to give his saint of a mother a proper Mother’s Day hug. That part I’m not dreading at all.

Tomorrow is also Gus’s birthday. I will always miss that dog. Every single year, almost every single day. I will always miss him.