This Body is Bullshit

I couldn’t remember where I left off, so I went back and reread the post about my dad’s birthday. We did have a nice evening out — even though I’m pretty sure he was onto me ordering him virgin drinks.

Shortly after that, the bottom dropped out for me. Whatever upper respiratory thing I was fighting knocked me completely flat. I was down for at least three days and weeks later I’m still coughing.

We also just came off two weeks of Matt working nights — outside, in a parking garage, during the coldest stretch of winter so far. It was brutal on him. I won’t lie though — coming home to quiet evenings alone wasn’t terrible. Unfortunately neither of us adjusted well to the sleep schedule so now we’re both exhausted and playing catch-up.

One of those evenings I had Kathy drop my dad and George off to hang out with me and have dinner while she got some time to herself. I also intended to have some direct, uncomfortable conversations with him.

The most overwhelming, frustrating, and honestly mind-blowing part of FTD is that he doesn’t know he has it. He doesn’t understand it. He can’t comprehend it. No matter how simply or clearly I explain — facts, examples, logic — it just doesn’t stick. Just when I think he gets it, he questions it. Or makes an excuse. Or changes the subject. Or acts like the conversation never happened.

The social worker told us not to explain. She said we have to adjust because he won’t. He can’t.

Kathy really struggles with that. I don’t have it in me not to try.

When I talk to him and try to explain what’s going on, he tells me he’s glad I’m letting him know because he’s confused about why certain things are happening. He asks me to tell him when he’s causing Kathy stress because he never wants anything to affect his relationship with her.

That part is heartbreaking in the most tender way. He loves her so much. He’s obsessed with her. And while it’s sweet, it’s also a lot for her.

That night we talked about alcohol. I told him it makes everything worse and that he shouldn’t be drinking. His compromise was that he wouldn’t drink at home — but if he goes out, he should be allowed one or two to keep up appearances. I didn’t argue. The next night he found a hidden bottle and made himself a drink before Kathy came downstairs.

The no-power-tools rule went right out the window too.

Then we talked about driving — the hardest topic of all. I explained that there’s a note in his medical record requiring testing he hasn’t done, and that if he were ever in an accident he could financially devastate Kathy. I told him that even though he can physically drive, his reasoning, problem-solving, reaction time, and ability to navigate are all affected.

He denied it. Explained it away. Minimized it.

Finally I told him that his license expired on his birthday and that we likely wouldn’t be renewing it.

Most of this happened at the dinner table. Then we moved to the living room.

He said that when the time comes that he can’t drive, he wants me to be the one to tell him.

What I wanted to say was:

WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK WE WERE JUST FUCKING TALKING ABOUT!!!????

What I actually said was, “Okay.”

Then he said we should keep everything we talked about between him and me — he doesn’t want to upset Kathy.

I said okay again.

For the record, Kathy and I tell each other everything. Especially the things he tells us not to.

This week I also had my two-year post-radiation follow-up. The nurse hugged me. The doctor hugged me. They’re wonderful people. It’s strange to spend so much time with a medical team — thirty-one days in a row, two years ago — and then suddenly not see them anymore. It’s a good thing, of course. But you don’t realize how attached you become until they’re telling you they don’t need to see you unless you need them.

We’re just a call or email away.

Wow.

Two years out. After four years of absolute hell that permanently altered my body — but maybe also made me a better person. I nearly died from sepsis. The cancer didn’t kill me. It changed me. The medication is kicking my ass and has genuinely broken parts of me, but I’m not letting it win.

Tomorrow I’m getting together with my girlfriends to celebrate Donna’s birthday, and I’m also meeting with the elder attorney with Kathy. Because apparently this is where we are. In just over a week I’ll be in Puerto Vallarta with Natalie.

There is so much good in my life. The good usually outweighs the bullshit.

I just need to stop watching the news. And stop reading what friends on the opposite side of the political spectrum keep posting.

And it feels like this might be the last normal one.

The five of us — Matt, Grace, Kathy, Dad, and me — are going out to dinner tonight. I’ve been fighting some upper respiratory bullshit for the past few days, trying to hold it together long enough to make it through the evening. I’m worried the bottom’s going to drop out at any minute.

What’s happening with him still feels surreal. Kathy and I talk a lot about the slow decline — about how there’s still so much of him there, which somehow makes it harder. Managing him, redirecting him, watching him struggle while still being mostly himself. It’s brutal. Not that I’d ever wish him further into this disease, but sometimes it feels like it might be easier once things are clearer. That’s a horrible thing to think. But it’s honest.

Years ago, when The Sister Project started their blog about their mom’s FTD diagnosis, I followed their journey closely. Michelle became almost a full-time caregiver. They had nursing help. They were able to buy her a place of her own. It was heartbreaking and remarkable and I never once thought we’d be here someday. I reached out to her recently. There are no answers. Just shared knowing.

Today, I want to celebrate him.

He’s a shell of the big, macho, tough guy I grew up idolizing. Now he’s a small old man who looks like the Lorax — the eyebrows, the mustache — but without the belly or the orange. He’s sensitive. Anxious. Trying desperately to hide fear and confusion.

This is the same man who rode Harleys, worked construction, got into fights, and knocked people out. His claim to fame was making a citizen’s arrest of an attorney in Carbondale — handcuffs, duct tape, backseat of his car — driving him all the way to Chicago where the police greeted both of them. My dad spent a night or two in jail, made the Sun-Times, the evening news, and still technically has a felony kidnapping record.

Which is hilarious.

If you ever called him stubborn, he’d act like you’d called him a cunt. Worst insult imaginable. He is stubborn. And vain. And an only child who has been spoiled his entire life. He made it to 84, outliving both of his parents by over a decade. He tried hard in life. His intentions were always good, even when things didn’t work out. And except for Kathy — he absolutely hit the jackpot with her — so much didn’t.

I don’t know what this year will bring for him. I just hope he always knows who I am.

And if someday he doesn’t — like my friend Tricia says about her mom — maybe he’ll still know that he loves us. And maybe that has to be enough.

Kathy and I keep wondering how long this has really been going on. FTD is usually diagnosed in people under 60. He’s 84. Could this have been unfolding for 25 years? Honestly — maybe. Looking back, there were signs.

I dread the day he can’t take care of himself or understand what’s happening. He’d be devastated. He’s too proud. He never wanted to be a burden. Sometimes I even think he might be lucky enough not to wake up one day, because living fully aware of what’s coming would destroy him.

Losing him is already happening in pieces. And like Donna and Tammy, I’m realizing how strange it’s going to be to exist without parents. I’m incredibly lucky to have amazing stepparents. But it’s still a reckoning.

I think about my mom a lot too. Our relationship was complicated. I know she loved me with everything she had — and she loved Grace even more. But it was hard. I loved her, but I was often frustrated and hurt. That wasn’t all her fault. I wasn’t easy either. And now, as a parent to an adult daughter, I see how anxious and worried she must have been. I probably shaved years off her life.

She didn’t take care of herself at the end. I miss her. And I wish I hadn’t gotten angry about things that were beyond her control. It probably didn’t help that I was always such a daddy’s girl, putting him on a pedestal.

If I could tell her one more thing, it would be this:

I love you. I forgive you. I’m sorry.

Tonight, and for however much time we have left, I’ll celebrate my dad. I’ll listen for that wheezy laugh. Watch his eyes close when he smiles.

Cheers to 84, my maniac dad.

Love you, old man.

This blog started because I needed somewhere to put things.

Not to teach. Not to inspire. Not to brand myself.

Just to survive my own head.

If you’ve read the last 41 entries, you already know this isn’t a highlight reel. It’s a running log of grief, exhaustion, dark humor, tenderness, medical appointments, family chaos, work stress, joy, and the occasional moment where I realize I’m still standing.

This blog is therapy. Whoever reads it is a mystery to me. And that’s exactly how I want it.

When I look back at the earliest entries, I can see how angry I was. Not loud, explosive anger — but sharp, brittle, always-on-edge anger. Truth be told, I would choose violence if I could. The kind that comes from being overwhelmed, grieving multiple things at once, and having no room to set anything down. I was surviving on adrenaline and obligation. Everything felt urgent. Everything felt heavy. I didn’t trust rest. I didn’t trust stillness. I’m still negotiating both.

Somewhere along the way, that shifted.

I’m less angry now. Still tired. Still frustrated. Still grieving. But less reactive. Less jagged. Don’t get me wrong — I’d still pop someone in the mouth if they needed it.

I’ve become more intentional with my time, mostly because I no longer have the energy to waste it. I’m choosier about where I show up, who I show up for, and what I say yes to. I’m learning — slowly, imperfectly — that doing less doesn’t mean I care less. It means I’m trying to stay functional.

A lot of these entries are about my body. Cancer. Meds. Pain. Fatigue. Brain fog. Scars. Side effects that linger. This body is bullshit sometimes — but it’s also carried me through more than I ever expected. I don’t romanticize survival anymore. I just acknowledge it and keep going. There’s a word for this phase: survivorship. You’re not done, you’re not healed, and you’re definitely not back to who you were. You’re rebuilding. Or adapting. Or just trying to feel like yourself again. If that sounds familiar — you’re not broken. You’re responding normally to something that changed you forever.

Family runs through every part of this blog — the love and the complicated parts. My mom’s absence. My dad’s decline. Caregiving without a roadmap. The strange grief of losing someone in pieces instead of all at once. Trying to protect everyone while quietly unraveling myself. Learning, very slowly, that I can’t control outcomes no matter how vigilant I am.

Matt is here too — steady, loyal, sometimes annoying, always showing up. We’ve changed together. Not in a shiny rom-com way, but in the real way people do when life keeps handing them things they didn’t ask for. We’re still learning how to meet each other where we are, not where we used to be.

And Grace — my daughter, my heart, my mirror. She’s grown now, which is both beautiful and brutal. Watching her navigate her own life, her own emotions, her own hard things has forced me to loosen my grip and trust that I did enough. That she’s strong. That she’ll find her way. That part is still hard. It might always be.

There’s also joy here. Real joy. Friends who show up. Dogs who anchor me. Shared meals. Traditions. Laughter. Moments that don’t fix anything — but soften it.

If there’s a theme to the last 41 entries, it’s this: I’m learning how to live inside the mess without trying to outrun it.

I want more texture in my life now. More depth. More curiosity. Less noise. I want to travel — not to escape, but to stretch. I want to learn. To see how other people live. To gather stories and perspectives instead of just responsibilities. That takes time and money and space — all things I’m still negotiating with.

I don’t want a bigger life. I want a truer one.

So this is the 2026 version of me: Less angry. More aware. Still sarcastic. Still tired. Still showing up.

This blog will keep being what it’s always been — a place where I tell the truth as I understand it in the moment. No tidy conclusions. No five-step takeaways. Just honest documentation of a life that keeps changing, whether I’m ready or not.

If you’re reading along, welcome.

But mostly — this is for my own sanity.

A few months ago I started listening to Hidden Brain. Not because I was trying to reinvent myself or do the work — I’ve been doing the work against my will for about five years now — but because I needed something steady in my ears that didn’t involve murder, cults, or politics. It started making sense and I got hooked. It didn’t fix anything or change my life overnight, but it helped me put language to things I’ve been living for a long time. The way trauma rewires your brain. The way grief lives in your body. The way we chase worthiness like it’s a moving target instead of something we already have. If you haven’t listened, I recommend it. All kinds of topics, not just heavy stuff, and it has a way of explaining why we are the way we are without making you feel broken.

Then today — New Year’s Eve — a close friend posted something beautiful about standing still as the year turned. Breathing. No resolutions. No new version of herself. Just choosing to stay exactly where she is.

It hit me. Because this blog has never been about one rough year. It’s about the last five. Five years of cancer diagnoses, surgeries, recurrence, reconstruction that didn’t go the way I hoped, and learning how to live in a body I didn’t trust anymore. Five years of grief stacked on grief — losing my mom, watching my dad slowly disappear, friends getting sick, dying. Five years of being reshaped by things I didn’t ask for and couldn’t control. This is my therapy, and I’m sorry it’s sometimes a pity party. But it’s real.

Here’s the part that feels important to say out loud though:

I actually have a good life.

Matt and I have a good life. We love each other. We laugh. We have enough. We are safe. I know that and I’m grateful for it. But also — I want more. Not more stuff. Not more success. I want space. I want to travel. I want to be near water and in nature and see how other people in other parts of the world live, slow down, exist differently. Maybe not all their food — I know who I am — but everything else.

That doesn’t mean I’m ungrateful. It means I’m alive.

And then there’s Grace. I am so proud of her it almost hurts. She worked her ass off for her degrees and is putting them to use in a way that actually matters. That didn’t happen by accident. And because I’m her mother I can hold two truths at once — I’m proud of everything she is, and I want more joy for her. More confidence. Less hiding. Less isolation. I want her to feel solid in who she is, not just capable. Happy, not just functioning. Loving your adult child is a strange mix of pride, hope, fear, and knowing when to shut up and trust that they’re finding their own way. I’m still working on that last part.

I am absolutely exhausted by Christmas. Crawl-into-January-on-my-hands-and-knees exhausted. And yet I genuinely love it. I love giving gifts — not in a healthy budget-conscious way, more like a mild condition. If something makes me think of someone I buy it immediately. I don’t wait for birthdays or holidays. I see it, I think of them, and suddenly my card is out. This is why December arrives and I look at my bank account like huh, interesting. I just hope people remember that random Tuesday in March when I bought them something because it reminded me of them. Because that counts. That’s how I love. My bank account would strongly prefer I express affection some other way. It doesn’t get a vote.

FTD is a fucking bitch. Incomprehensible. There are no answers, no roadmap, no clarity on why he’s acting this way or what’s coming or how to help Kathy. Just confusion and heartbreak and the slow loss of someone you love while they’re still standing right in front of you. Zero stars. Do not recommend. I hate it. I hate how unfair it is and how powerless it makes everyone involved.

And yet I still get up. I still show up. I still love fiercely and laugh and want beauty and warmth and water and rest.

What Hidden Brain helped me understand is that when trauma and loss stretch on for years, your brain gets very good at survival and very bad at rest. You don’t stop wanting joy — you just stop trusting it. You brace. You scan. You wait for the next shoe. And then you judge yourself for being tired and reactive when your nervous system has been running emergency drills for half a decade.

I need to say this plainly because I tend to minimize it: I live with pain, fatigue, and brain fog constantly. Not occasionally. Not dramatically. Just always. The kind that doesn’t look impressive from the outside but quietly dictates how much energy I have, how clearly I can think, how far I can push before my body reminds me who’s in charge. Some days I feel sharp. Other days I lose words mid-sentence and forget why I walked into a room. It’s humbling. It’s frustrating. It’s real. And I’m tired of pretending that surviving well means pretending this part doesn’t exist.

For a long time I thought healing meant getting back to who I was before all of this. Before cancer. Before grief. Before pain rewired my body and loss rewired my brain. That version of me is gone. And chasing her nearly broke me.

So as this year turns, I don’t want a new me. I’ve already been remade too many times and none of it was optional.

What I want now is simpler and harder: to stay in my body without apologizing for it to hold gratitude and longing at the same time to stop treating worthiness like something I earn after surviving well enough

No resolutions. No reinvention. No pretending the last five years didn’t change me.

Just me. Feet on the ground. Hand on my heart. Breathing through whatever comes next.

And honestly? That’s enough.

What 2026 Will Bring

It’s Monday and the Midwest is doing its cruel thing — yesterday was 50 degrees, today it’s 7. Raw and bitter and deeply rude. I really wanted snow on Christmas. Didn’t get it. But overall, the holidays went really well, and I’m coming off a weekend that was full in the best and hardest ways.

I did make it to the prime rib dinner Friday night, just late. Delicious as always. Aunt Susie makes everything festive and beautiful and thoughtful — she really is something else. I love spending time with Maggie’s boys. They bring such good energy into a room.

It was a little odd though.

Maggie’s husband — who, let’s be honest, is not my biggest fan, and honestly I get it, I did something years ago that landed wrong and he has never forgotten it, nor does he have to — was surprisingly warm this year. It started with a hug, which caught me completely off guard since the previous standing instruction had been no hugging. No touching at all, actually. So I genuinely did not know what to do with my body. I took it as progress and kept moving. At the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter whether he likes any of us — as long as Maggie and those beautiful boys of hers are happy. That’s all I need.

Christmas Eve was relaxed and casual — fajitas from Alfredo’s, which was perfect. The owner is just the sweetest man. So genuinely grateful for the business. I hope his restaurant thrives because that kind of warmth deserves it. Grace was a little off — snippy with me, acting like I was the dumbest person in the room. When she gets like that I never really know what’s going on in her emotional world. I try not to react in front of everyone, but I do quietly let her know I won’t be spoken to that way. She really won’t have it when I do, and I don’t think she even realizes when she’s doing it — which is interesting given her entire psychology background. My stepmom jokingly threatened to separate us at the table. It made me sad that everyone noticed, but we still laughed and ate well and enjoyed being together with the family and the dogs. That’s what matters.

I do my best to create Christmas magic. I probably spend too much on presents, but I truly love giving gifts. Watching people open them and hopefully love them brings me real joy. I don’t care much about receiving — though I did get a few really nice ones this year. Christmas morning at home was cozy and simple, still in pajamas. I didn’t get the backpack to carry Frank in, but that’s okay. We got dressed and headed to the annual family brunch at the Wilsons’ — grab bag where stealing is encouraged, chaos ensues, never disappoints. Came home, napped, mentally prepared for work on Friday.

Ken stayed with us Wednesday through Sunday morning, which felt really good. I was glad he wasn’t alone. He absolutely adores Fiona and she loves him right back — good for both of them.

Yesterday was the highlight of the whole stretch. My stepsister Crissy and her family came over, which almost never happens since they live in New Jersey. Usually when they’re in Illinois they’re up north with Kevin’s family, and in the past when Wes was still alive it was just hard to coordinate time together. I used to feel hurt by that, but I understand now. Crissy was honestly one of the first people I watched truly use boundaries as a way to survive, and I’ve tried to learn from her example. Her making the effort to come down and spend time at our house and at Dad and Kathy’s meant everything. We played games with the kids and my heart felt full in that quiet deep way. I miss them more than I say.

I took them to our friends’ incredible property to see the lights. They had no idea what to expect and were completely blown away. They didn’t even realize half the lights were out because of a massive rainstorm earlier in the day — which was a bummer — but it was still magical.

I love Christmas. But it hits differently now. Having Crissy’s kids and my cousins’ little ones around brings some of that magic back — especially now that Grace is grown and that particular version of Christmas has passed. It’s sad, but it’s life. I soaked up every bit of it anyway.

Physically I’m in a lot of pain, which makes everything more exhausting. The holiday busyness layered on top of everything else has made the brain fog worse — though I’m grateful my oncologist confirmed it’s the meds, not dementia. Small mercies. And underneath all the joy there’s that quiet grief that creeps in around this time of year — missing my mom, watching my dad slip further, worrying about Kathy who is overwhelmed and frustrated and doing more than anyone should have to do. I don’t blame her. I just don’t know what to do.

Christmas is strange like that. Joyful and warm and fun and also sad and heavy and melancholy, all living in the same week.

I can’t help but wonder what 2026 will bring.

Just as I hit publish on my last post, reality walked into my office and reminded me why I do this work.

I had written that entry from work, fully expecting to wrap up my day and head out to prime rib dinner. Then a young employee came in — 23 years old — and everything shifted.

He asked what kind of medical leave he could take for Friday, the day after Christmas. That immediately raised a flag. You have to work the day before and after a holiday to be paid for it — if he didn’t work Friday, he wouldn’t get paid for Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. I was skeptical.

He started explaining that he’s been having heart issues. Nervousness. Nausea. Tingling in his pinkies. The longer we talked, the more I noticed the smell of alcohol. The way he was looking at me. The way he was speaking. And eventually I asked him — very directly — if he had a problem with alcohol.

Probably not the HR textbook way to handle it. But he’s 23. And it was heartbreaking.

He wanted to work today. He’s a nice kid. He’s also had attendance issues, and if he missed any more work or left early he’d be terminated under policy. That wasn’t going to help anyone.

He avoided the question for a bit, then finally admitted it. He told me he’s had a drinking problem since he was 14. He showed me a screenshot of a treatment facility his girlfriend had already lined up for him — she was planning to take him there after work.

I told him I knew he was intoxicated and I couldn’t allow him to work. I also told him I didn’t want to terminate him. I wanted him to go straight to treatment.

That’s when it really hit him.

He put his girlfriend on the phone and I walked her through what we could do to protect his job and get him medical leave. This poor girl — calm, steady, completely devoted. I hope he knows how lucky he is to have her.

While we waited, I kept him in my office. His brother also works here. Confidentiality-wise I probably shouldn’t have said anything — but I needed someone to check on him at break. His brother broke down in tears. Said this has been a long-standing problem, that the whole family is devastated.

Watching it all unfold was a lot.

I hope I’m doing the right thing. I hope this is a turning point and not just another stop along the way. I can’t stop thinking about what Christmas is going to look like for that family this year.

So now I wait. Making sure the paperwork is right. Making sure he gets where he needs to go.

And I’ll be late to prime rib dinner.

Christmas Magic and the Light Matters

Last Thursday turned into an impromptu girls’ Christmas dinner that honestly shouldn’t have worked — but somehow did. Those last-minute plans sometimes surprise you. I got together with Megan, Carrie, and Donna, and before dinner we squeezed in photos with Santa. Yes. The four of us grown women with Santa. The pictures were ridiculous and perfect and I have zero regrets.

I worked remotely Friday because I had to take Matt in for his colonoscopy. Everything turned out fine, but we were there forever. I’d already told my dad I’d pick him up afterward to take him Christmas shopping for Kathy and then bring him back to my house to order the Kindle she wanted.

By the time I picked him up, it was dark. I ran into Nordstrom while he stayed in the car, nervous the whole time I stood in line — worried he’d get out and wander. But there he was, still waiting. We headed to a couple of shops I thought might be good for finding something unique for Kathy. I could tell immediately he was anxious. Tapping his legs, repeating questions, uncomfortable in his own skin.

First store — one quick loop and he was ready to leave. Second store — same thing. The whole point was to spend time together, get him out of the house, give Kathy a break. It wasn’t going according to plan. He just wanted to go home.

I tried to figure out if he was hungry. He said he’d already eaten dinner, which wasn’t true. I kept offering restaurants. He kept turning them down. On the drive to my house the questions kept coming, and the deep breaths — his nervous tell. He was confused about why we were ordering the Kindle from my computer at home instead of going to a store to pick it out. When we were almost there he said: just take me home, you can order it yourself.

I told him no — he needed to be there. He came inside, used the bathroom, stood over me while I ordered it, and immediately said let’s go. So much for giving Kathy a break.

I’m going to try again — during the day, in the light. I know nighttime makes things harder for people with dementia and that probably played a big role. Still, it was disheartening. Sad. Not personal — I know that. But hard. He just cannot be away from Kathy. I’m not jealous. I’m just sad that this is where he is, and I know it’s not going to get better.

Our original dinner plans got derailed by the Bears game against Green Bay Saturday night. We ended up at Kenny’s instead, which is what Heather wanted for her birthday anyway. I brought decorations so it still felt celebratory. Honestly, it was fun.

Tonight is the fancy prime rib dinner with Aunt Susie and Uncle Brad, Maggie, and her family. Aunt Susie is spreading herself way too thin making Christmas magic for everyone, and she mentioned yesterday she’s been dealing with some health issues messing with her sleep. No bueno. I need her to take care of herself. I ordered fajitas for Christmas Eve from our favorite little Mexican place and I’ll be making fruit salad for Christmas brunch at the Wilsons’, so at least those parts are easy. Then I work Friday.

Of course I do.

I’m anxious about how Dad will do on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Trying not to spiral. Mostly failing.

I’m hoping tomorrow starts to feel more like Christmas. I’m bummed it’s supposed to be 50 degrees — a white Christmas feels too far away this year. Still, I’m excited for all of it. I just also need a nap.

And I really, really hope Santa brings me that backpack to carry Frank in.

Happy Birthday, Mom

Today is my mom’s birthday. She would’ve been 78.

And today, my dad pulled a new one on us.

This afternoon at work I checked his location like I always do. Something was off — he was somewhere unfamiliar, and Kathy wasn’t with him. My stomach dropped. I called her immediately. She had no idea he’d left the house. They only have one car. I was at work. Cue instant panic.

My first call was to Aunt Susie, hoping she might already be home with the grandkids. She wasn’t — but being exactly who she is, she jumped into action immediately. Headed home, sent Uncle Brad out to search. From what little we knew, Dad was supposedly in a strip mall parking lot walking his dog. That’s what Kathy managed to get out of him on the phone. How that idea got into his head or where that location came from, we still don’t know.

I called Donna next. She and Mark dropped everything and got in the car. They arrived just as Dad found his car and pulled out of the parking lot. I stayed on the phone while they followed him all the way home.

Watching my friends chase my father around a strip mall parking lot feels surreal. Terrifying. Exhausting.

What makes it worse is that just the day before, I’d already reached out to his doctors because things felt like they were accelerating. On Friday, Dad and Kathy stopped by on their way to Costco. Kathy came in looking visibly shaken and quietly told me he’d just asked what Matt’s name was. My husband. But then Dad walked in joking like usual, greeting Matt and me, loving on the dogs — totally normal. Regular old him. They left for Costco. Then Kathy texted: he thought they’d been at Susie and Brad’s. He couldn’t remember Brad’s name.

Is that a cover-up? Or is it better than him not knowing he’d been at my house — or worse, not knowing my husband’s name? I honestly don’t know which is scarier.

And then Sunday.

His main weekend activity is watching the Bears. After the game ended, about an hour later, he asked Kathy when the Bears were going to be on. She reminded him they’d already played. They’d watched it. They’d won. Oh yeah, that’s right. An hour later, he asked again. The next morning, getting ready for the day, he asked when they were going home — then quickly corrected himself. Oh, never mind. We are home.

It’s getting scary. And sad. And devastating. We still don’t know how to navigate this.

In the middle of all that, I had my quarterly injection and a follow-up with my oncologist. My DEXA scan showed 17% bone loss since my last scan two years ago — significant and alarming. I’ll be starting infusions early next year, likely March. I adore my oncologist. He’s boisterous and funny and smart. But while we were discussing my worsening symptoms, I got the sense that he genuinely felt bad for me — and that threw me. I’m a push-through-it, power-forward, slap-on-a-grin kind of person. I think he respects that. But it was sobering.

Minimum five more years on these drugs, and they are unrelenting. The joint pain is real and significant — separate issue from the bone loss entirely. The fatigue is real. The brain fog and memory problems are real — not dementia, he assured me, just side effects. Then there’s the dry skin. The dry everything — you know what I mean. I now have a new insert for that particular problem that contains estrogen, which is deeply ironic given that the entire point of these drugs is to block estrogen. He assures me it won’t absorb systemically. There’s also a new drug coming that works more like tamoxifen — attacking instead of blocking, supposedly much easier on joints. He’s looking into whether I’d qualify. I’d be one of the first patients to try it. Not sure how I feel about being a guinea pig, but I’m listening.

The infusions should help my bones. First one may knock me flat for a couple days with flu-like symptoms. I’ll also likely experience growing pains. Growing pains. At fifty. Laughable.

I still haven’t tried the temporary nipple tattoos. My chest finally feels settled — less swollen — and I’ve realized I just don’t like the natural look. I know Dr. Fine went for natural and they’re probably perfect. But honestly? I wanted fake. Why not? I’m still going to get the tattoos eventually. I’m going to get fitted for a bra first and see if that helps me get out of my head about it — even though the whole point was never needing a bra again. If I want high and tight, a bra is required. Apparently that’s where we are.

Megan and Mike hosted the most amazing Friendsgiving. They went completely all out — so much food, games, a photo booth, reunions, and just so much love and laughter and friendship. The kind of night that reminds you chosen family is everything.

A couple weeks later was Donna’s annual girls’ Christmas grab bag party with a winter white theme. Small, perfect, exactly what it always is — lots of love, lots of laughter, a little shenanigans. I posted some pictures after and got so many compliments on how beautiful everyone looked in white. We really did look good. Another fabulous night at Club Tavo.

I cannot believe Christmas is next week.

I love Christmas. I love family. I love celebrating my people. And I am also exhausted and want to crawl into bed and do absolutely nothing. I’m trying hard to lose weight — finally dropped two pounds after what feels like forever. After the new year my cousin Jennifer will need a hysterectomy for suspected cancer, similar to what Tammy went through and thankfully came through without complications. I’m hoping the same for her. I never want to see anyone face surgery, but here we are.

Work is still nuts. Left after 6 tonight. But I’m keeping my eye on the prize — after the new year I can drop one building and get back to my people full time. Just need to get through the next two weeks.

Good things are coming. Heather’s birthday, dinner with Heather and Rusty and Ben — the Fab Five Fam. Then the Wilsons’ annual pre-Christmas prime rib dinner, fancy and fabulous and always slightly too rare for Matt and me, though that apparently is the correct way to eat it. Christmas Eve with Dad and Kathy, Matt’s mom and aunt, maybe Ken. Christmas morning at Aunt Susie and Uncle Brad’s for our annual brunch — almost exactly what my grandmother used to serve. I cannot wait for those cookies.

I really need to sit down with Aunt Susie and learn the lasagna. And the cookies. Before it’s too late to learn them from the source.

Happy birthday, Mom.

If you were still here, you’d probably be just as crazy as Dad is now.

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.

Ten Years and a Colonoscopy

Let’s see where I left off.

We did the annual pumpkin carving at the Wilsons and it was such a nice day. Aunt Susie made everything cozy and beautiful and delicious — full Hallmark fall spread, because that’s just who she is. She’s also genuinely one of the best cooks I know. Later that night we went to Rusty and Heather’s for another festive evening with them and Ben. I call us the Fab Five whether they like it or not. Another great homemade meal, great company, one of those nights that fills your tank without anyone trying too hard.

And now somehow October is over.

I really do love October — even if I hate saying goodbye to summer. The leaves are gorgeous, Halloween is always a favorite, and I think of my grandma every year since her birthday is the 26th. One of my closest friends shares that birthday too. But now it’s November and life is back to being a lot.

Work is still hammering me. I’m still carrying the mental load of Dad and Kathy. One bright spot though — instead of flying to New Jersey to visit the Mulroys, they’re taking Kathy to Mexico with them. Well deserved for everyone involved. Truly. However. That means I’m back on Dad Duty, and yes, I fully know I become an unhinged hall monitor when I’m responsible for watching him. I already asked her to drive herself to the airport and park there so he wouldn’t have the car while she’s gone. She thinks I’m nuts. She’s not wrong.

Today is my ten-year wedding anniversary.

A whole decade. And I am celebrating by getting a colonoscopy.

If that doesn’t perfectly summarize midlife I genuinely don’t know what does. Aunt Susie insisted on being my ride because she cannot wait to mess with me when I’m coming out of twilight sedation. I expect to wake up confused and immediately roasted. Matt and I will celebrate tomorrow — dinner and drinks in the city at a place I’ve been wanting to try. Not exactly his scene, but he loves me enough to be a good sport. I know he will.

This morning we were up at 4 a.m. for the tail end of my prep — which, for the record, is just his normal wakeup time, so he had no sympathy whatsoever. We exchanged anniversary cards. And out of every card at Walgreens, we had each bought each other the exact same one.

Ten years of marriage and we are still the same person. I love that.

Looking back at our wedding photos is bittersweet. They’re beautiful. But there are seven people in those pictures who are no longer here. Seven. Life moves in such strange waves — joy and grief and growth all jammed together, and you don’t always notice how much has changed until you’re looking at a photo from a decade ago.

I’ve changed. I know that. I’m softer now. Less angry. More intentional. Writing this blog, turning fifty, surviving what I’ve survived — it shifts something. Rearranges your values and priorities when you’re not even paying attention. What used to feel urgent doesn’t anymore. What used to feel impossible feels more manageable. And what used to feel like enough sometimes isn’t, but in a good way — in a I want more life, not more stuff kind of way.

Ten years married. Fifteen years at Dynamic. Almost fifty years alive. A lot has happened. A lot has changed. Some of it hurt more than I knew how to say at the time. But I’m grateful for where I am.

Still learning. Still evolving. Still trying to lead with kindness even when the world feels heavy.

It’s not flashy. It’s not cinematic.

But it’s real. And right now, real is more than enough.

Cheers to ten years, babe.

Now someone come get me out of this colonoscopy gown.