This Body is Bullshit

Four Years and a Full Day

Today is four years since I lost my mom.

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

Anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And for today — that’s enough.

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.

Cup Half Full (Even When It’s Cracked)

I had an eleven-hour workday last week that ate my soul. Came straight home, drew a bath, added extra epsom salt, and was fully soaking when Drew called. I let it go. A few minutes later he called again. I picked up. Small talk, how’s it going — and then he goes: are you in the bathtub right now?

I was absolutely in the bathtub.

Turns out he and his mom Jan had just been at Costco and were sitting in my driveway. I jumped out, hollered for Matt — half asleep on the couch — and we ended up having this completely unplanned little visit, hanging out in the garage because Drew didn’t feel like dealing with his ramp. I am deeply antisocial during the week. I usually hate drop-ins with a passion. But Drew showing up on a random Tuesday while I was dripping wet and laughing? I loved every second of it. Some people just get a pass.

Still racking my brain about my dad and poor Kathy.

We went to the No Kings protest last weekend — their first one was not, but mine was. I was excited, and even more so when Mike and Megan said they’d come. Megan gave me a gummy that was significantly more potent than advertised. I rallied. Kathy tried to get my dad to wear gym shoes. He refused. Wore cowboy boots.

He’s got the old man shuffle going now — unsteady, not great on uneven ground — and those boots did absolutely nothing to help. Watching him navigate curbs and crowds was painful. He looked fragile in a way that caught me off guard. Frail. Old. It broke my heart a little. And yet he loved every single minute of it. Stood there proud as hell in those boots, probably because he thinks they make him taller.

He’s also developed this habit of plucking hairs off the top of his nose. Constantly. It is so bizarre and so gross and Kathy and I are on his case about it and he does not care even a little.

Kathy talked to him about the drinking. He swore he’d only drink on Saturdays now. We’ll see if he remembers that conversation. When she was out of town and I was on Dad Duty, I gave him drinks with zero alcohol in them. He didn’t notice the difference. He wanted to go out every single night — Kathy takes him out several times a week, which has to be exhausting and expensive. He is so spoiled and has absolutely no idea how good he has it with her. If it were me I’d be putting the hammer down. But it’s not me living with him every day, so I give him his virgin cocktail and bite my tongue.

My body has been staging its own protest — joint pain, muscle aches, fatigue hitting everything at once. Neck, shoulders, back, hips, knees, hands, feet. All of them, all the time. I did something I never do and Googled bone cancer at midnight. I don’t actually think I have it. It was just one of those late-night doom spirals when I couldn’t sleep. Fucking stupid. I closed the laptop and took a Xanax.

Work has been heavy in a different way too. I’m seriously thinking about asking to step back from my Hillside 5 responsibilities. It’s not that I can’t do it — it’s that I get anxious before going there, and that’s not how I want to feel about work I’ve been doing for fifteen years. I’m turning fifty. I used to want to move up, become a manager. That ship has sailed and I’m genuinely fine with it. I just want to do my job well, take care of my people, and not lose myself in the process. I just don’t want to disappoint Johnny or Nancy.

Speaking of Nancy — we had dinner recently. We always end up in these deep, winding conversations when we actually sit down together. I feel for her. She carries a lot — loneliness, old wounds that don’t heal clean. When she’s good she’s amazing. When she’s off she’s sharp. We’ve both changed, but there’s still love there. She mentioned wanting to take a trip together, which would be wonderful, but she’s in a very different financial world than I am. I know she’d probably offer to pay and that would just make me feel guilty. Still. I love her.

Donna — one of my breast cancer warrior sisters — is doing incredible. She was terrified at first but has handled everything like a total badass, all while grieving her mom at the same time. One surgery left. She’s frustrated about gaining a few pounds but she looks amazing — better, honestly, though she’ll disagree. Strong. Beautiful. I wish she could see herself the way I see her. She’s sensitive underneath all that strength and I sometimes worry about what she’s holding quietly. She doesn’t have to perform okay. Not with me. She knows that.

My cousin Jennifer had to put her dog down this week. It fell on the anniversary of Kirby’s death. That day always carries weight, and this made it heavier. I changed my Facebook profile picture to one of all the Malek girls — my mom’s whole side of the family together. It feels like another lifetime. Aunt Susie is always the one holding us together, even as we lose a few pieces along the way. We’re doing our annual pumpkin carving this weekend and I’m looking forward to it more than I expected.

Grace came to Sunday lunch with Matt’s family, which was good because she’s been quiet and a little distant lately. She goes through these phases where she pulls back and goes dark and I don’t like it. I worry. Maybe she’s overwhelmed. Maybe she’s talking to that ex again, which I hope to god she isn’t. But she’s twenty-six and she doesn’t need to talk to her mother every day and I know that. Knowing it and being okay with it are two different things.

I skipped a close friend’s 50th birthday celebration last weekend. I love her. But by the time I factored in dry cleaning, a gift, dinner at a new restaurant, and the casino, it would’ve been close to $300. That’s my weekly budget right now. We’re having breakfast in a few weeks and she gets it. I didn’t feel guilty, which is genuinely progress for me.

I’ve been trying to get intentional about time and money — two things that disappear if I’m not paying attention. I want more from life and I’m starting to actually think about what that means. Animals. Photography. National parks. The ocean. Learning things that make me feel curious instead of just busy. I’ve been listening to podcasts, reading, watching documentaries. I want to learn languages. Travel and actually speak to people in their own language. I’m not an adventurous eater — bad gag reflex, we don’t need to discuss it — but I want to be adventurous in every other sense of the word.

I heard something recently: some people are ferns and some are cactuses. They need completely different things to thrive. What nourishes one can drown the other. I’ve been sitting with that. I think it means something about a lot of things in my life right now.

By the time I get off work tonight it’ll be dark and cold — no more hammock weather. I’ll probably stop for a couple returns, go home, make dinner, and make it to Pilates at 7. I wish I could squeeze in a manicure but that’s not happening. Honestly that’s fine. A night that ends with movement and some quiet is enough right now.

I’m a cup-half-full person, even when the cup’s a little cracked.

Still trying to figure out what the fern-and-cactus thing means for me.

And still hoping for that mani-pedi.

Somewhere in the Middle

I’m tired of the noise.

The shouting, the finger-pointing, the you’re-either-with-us-or-against-us mentality that’s swallowed everything whole. Somewhere along the way, common sense and compassion became radical concepts. That breaks my heart.

I’m a values-first voter. I lean progressive on a lot of issues but I see the world through a moderate lens. I believe in empathy and protecting the vulnerable — and I also believe in accountability, law and order, and practical solutions. Those things can coexist. They should.

I support access to healthcare, education, and reproductive rights. I believe immigrants who work hard and follow the rules deserve a path forward. I care about the environment, veterans, farmers, and small businesses. I’m spiritual but not religious. I own a gun and I don’t think civilians need assault rifles. I’m not far-left or far-right — I just think we should take care of each other and stop turning every disagreement into a war.

I usually vote Democrat because it aligns closest to my values. But I don’t vote party line. I vote with my heart, my brain, and my conscience. I loved Obama — not because he was perfect, but because he was decent. I hate Trump — not because he’s Republican, but because he’s… you can fill in the blank. There’s a real difference between being conservative and being a Trump supporter, and I genuinely wish more people could hold that distinction.

I respect wealth and hard work. I understand that some policies benefit some groups more than others — that’s life. But if you’ve been fortunate, you should pay your share. You don’t have to lose for someone else to win. We rise higher when everyone has a chance to stand on solid ground.

I was a single mom. I’ve struggled to make rent, buy groceries, stay afloat. My daughter’s college debt is suffocating and I wouldn’t undo her education for anything. I want her to live in a world that doesn’t punish people for being born without privilege. I don’t think that’s a radical thing to want.

I support LGBTQ+ rights and I’ll never apologize for that. Nobody should have to fight for the right to exist or love who they love. Full stop.

Here’s the thing that made all of this feel personal instead of political: I work with people who are scared. Hardworking men and women — many of them immigrants, many of them parents — who come in every day and give everything they have. When words like ICE and deportation are in the news, I can see the fear move across their faces. They’re not political pawns. They’re human beings trying to survive. When you see that kind of fear up close, in the faces of people you know and care about, it stops being theoretical. It becomes personal. And it stays that way.

I’m exhausted watching people treat politics like a sport where the only goal is to destroy the other team. I miss nuance. I miss when disagreement didn’t require disgust. I want leaders who tell the truth even when it’s complicated. I want accountability without cruelty. Compassion without weakness. Progress without arrogance.

Maybe that makes me naïve.

Or maybe it just makes me human — standing somewhere in the middle, tired of the extremes, still believing that decent people can disagree and build something better together anyway.

I have to believe that.

Ten Years

Before the last thing he said to me that night, I was lying there feeling genuinely grateful.

Grateful for him, for our life, for the little world we’ve built. Something good had been taking shape because of his hard work, and I was thinking about how I wanted to tell him that in the morning. How much I appreciated him. How excited I was.

And then came a quiet comment. Not loud, not cruel — just a small thing that landed in exactly the wrong place. The kind that finds the crack you didn’t know was there. I took a Xanax because I knew if I didn’t it would eat at me all night. It ate at me anyway.

I’m not going to get into the specifics. That’s not what this is. What I want to try to say is the thing underneath it.

He is a good man. A genuinely good man. He takes care of our dogs like they’re his kids and Grace like she’s his own. He vacuums, mops, does laundry, mows the lawn, picks up after me and the dogs without complaint. I am grateful for that every day. But sometimes it feels like he’s done everything before I even get a chance to, and then — without meaning to — he keeps an invisible scorecard. One where I always come up short.

I do things he doesn’t always see. Quiet things. Emotional things. The invisible labor that keeps the edges of our life from fraying — the kind that doesn’t show up on a list or look like productivity but is always there. And even when I’m exhausted or in pain, I’m still trying. Still holding things together. Still showing up. Sometimes his version of contribution is about quantity. Mine is about quality. We’re not always measuring the same thing.

We’re coming up on ten years of marriage next month. Ten years. I want to feel that connection again — the joy, the laughter, the partnership that made us us. Lately it feels like we’ve drifted into parallel lives. We share a home and a history and a love, but we don’t always share a rhythm.

I love him. And sometimes I wonder if he even likes me.

He gets irritated easily. Shuts down. Scrolls his phone instead of talking to me. I end up feeling invisible in my own living room. I miss when we used to laugh, really laugh. I wish he’d take initiative sometimes — make a plan, be spontaneous, show some excitement about doing something together. I try to snuggle closer and he pulls away a little, and I don’t always know what to do with that.

I’ll be honest about the thing I don’t say out loud much: sometimes I worry he’s not attracted to me anymore. My body has changed so much. The scars, the weight, the medication, everything. I don’t need constant romance. I just need to feel wanted. And sometimes I don’t.

He says no to most of my ideas. I know he doesn’t mean to shut me down — that’s just how he moves through the world, cautiously, slowly. But my excitement seems to wear on him sometimes. My silliness, my energy, the parts of me that used to make him laugh — I can feel when they become too much. I know I’m a lot. I’ve always been a lot. That used to be something he loved.

There’s one more thing I can’t shake, and I’m going to say it even though it’s uncomfortable: he’s never really read this blog. My blog isn’t something I do for fun. It’s how I process everything. It’s my therapy, my truth, the realest version of me trying to make sense of my own life. And the person I share a bed with hasn’t really gone there. Maybe it’s too uncomfortable. Maybe he just doesn’t want to. But it means he doesn’t see the part of me that’s been trying to reach him in the only way I actually know how.

I’m not saying this to guilt him. I’m saying it because feeling unseen by the person who’s supposed to know you best is its own particular kind of lonely.

I don’t want to stop reaching for him. Ten years in, I still want the laughter and the spark and the feeling of being on the same team. I still want us.

Some days that feels possible.

Last night wasn’t one of those days.

Trail Magic

There’s this thing hikers talk about called trail magic. A good Samaritan leaves snacks or cold drinks somewhere along the path — something a weary traveler stumbles upon when they need it most. It’s not really about the food. It’s about the reminder that someone out there believes in what you’re doing, even if they don’t know you. That someone cares.

I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. I want to be trail magic for people. Not with Gatorade and granola bars, but with care and presence and the specific kind of showing up that says I see you and I believe in you. I think I do a decent job of making my people know I’m proud of them. At least I hope I do.

Then there’s the less warm and fuzzy thing I’ve been sitting with: ambiguous loss.

It’s the kind of grief that doesn’t have an ending. The kind that leaves you stuck between hope and heartbreak. It happens when someone you love is physically present but psychologically gone — or when they were slipping away long before they actually left. There’s no funeral. No clear before and after. Just this slow, ongoing loss that you can’t fully grieve because the person is still right there.

I coped with ambiguous loss for years with my mom. I grieved her before she died because she was disappearing even while she was still in the room. And now it’s starting again with my dad. Maybe ambiguous grief is the better word. Because it’s loss and longing and confusion and love all tangled together, with no clean way through it. You can’t fix it. You just keep trying anyway.

I’ve been reading everything I can find on FTD. The neurologist recommended The 36-Hour Day and The Unexpected Journey by Emma Willis. The first was brutal — dense, clinical, depressing, a slog. The second was genuinely sweet. But neither had much to actually say about FTD specifically. They’re both really about caregiving in general. I still have no answers. Just the same long list of questions and a growing sense that the answers might not exist yet.

Meanwhile my body is staging a full-scale revolt and I’d like to speak to the manager.

My neck hurts. My shoulders hurt. My back, my hips, my knees, my hands, my feet — all of them, constantly, at varying levels of awful. Some days it’s background noise. Some days it’s the whole concert. The joint pain from these medications is relentless and I’m tired of it and it’s so fucking stupid. I have survived cancer, sepsis, seven surgeries, and radiation, and what’s going to take me out is that I can no longer open a jar without sounding like a sixty-five-year-old man getting out of a lawn chair.

Also, my obsession with animals is becoming a problem. My empathy for furry things is genuinely out of control. I want all of them — dogs, cats, goats, bunnies, tigers, manatees, bears, jaguars, foxes. I scroll rescue pages like it’s a spiritual practice. Maybe it’s because animals don’t need you to fix anything. They just need you to be kind and show up. That I can do. This is probably how I’ll go out — hugging something wild and magnificent. Honestly fine with that.

Kathy went to New Jersey last week to celebrate Mae’s birthday, which meant I was on Dad Duty. I kept him from going out to restaurants in the evenings — we went to his house one night, he came to ours twice, I met him out in the woods with the dog. The whole time I watched his location on my phone like a maniac. Called and texted constantly. Thursday night at his place he didn’t have a drink. Friday and Sunday he wanted one — so I gave him one. Minus the alcohol. He didn’t know the difference.

It was exhausting. I know I was overdoing it. Hovering, tracking, managing every variable. But I can’t help it. If it were up to me I’d keep him home all the time. But that would kill him just as surely as the disease will, just faster. So I give him his virgin cocktail and watch his location and try to breathe.

Somewhere in all of this I’ve been trying to get intentional about what I actually want. What makes me feel good. What I’m doing this for. I want joy. Simplicity. Presence. Not grand gestures — just things that are real and feel like mine.

And I’ve been thinking about this a lot: cancer didn’t make me sick. I had cancer. They took it out. Radiation was hard. The surgeries were brutal to recover from. The scars are tight and always will be. But I was only actually sick when I had sepsis, and when the infections came after surgeries. The rest of it was just living through something hard. Surviving. Which is apparently what I do.

Maybe that’s still what I’m doing now — surviving this strange tangled mess of grief and pain and gratitude and love.

Trying to make my own trail magic while I’m at it.

I got back from Austin Sunday and I’m already trying to figure out how to go back.

What a cool city. Natalie and I ate and explored and laughed and were asleep before 10 every single night like the glamorous women we are. The bed at our hotel was so absurdly comfortable we started calling it the marshmallow. We laid around in the mornings watching TV, took our time, wandered without a real agenda. It was exactly what both of us needed.

I think a lot of people only see one side of Natalie — the funny, bold, life-of-the-party side. But I get the quiet, curious, generous, genuinely thoughtful side too, and that’s the person I travel with. We used each other as sounding boards, recharged, and are already making plans for the next one. She taught me a new card game. I rode an electric scooter for the first time in my life. I was popping 800mg of ibuprofen a few times a day for the joint pain — because my body loves to remind me it’s in charge — but I enjoyed every bit of it anyway. We also may have taken a sleepy gummy before bed each night, which probably explains why the marshmallow felt so magical. When I got home Sunday I couldn’t fall asleep at all. Coincidence, I’m sure.

It was a beautiful day to come home. Matt and the dogs were waiting and I spent the afternoon on the deck clearing out plants for fall, just happy to be in my own space again.

Then Monday hit, and with it, my appointment with Dr. Fine.

I knew it was coming. I’d had it on the calendar. But as the day moved forward I felt the anxiety creeping in — that slow closing-in feeling I’ve learned to recognize. I called Matt from the car to tell him I was feeling off. Sweet and supportive as always. But by the time I was actually driving down there I was having a full-blown panic attack, fighting back tears the whole way, and genuinely unsure why I was so scared.

Dr. Fine talked me down, as he always does. I was supposed to get the nipple bumps that day — a small procedure that would create the physical shape under the skin before getting the tattoos. I thought I wanted it. I thought it would help me feel more normal, help with intimacy, help Matt see me differently. But sitting there in that office I realized — I wanted it for Matt. Not for me. And I wasn’t ready.

Dr. Fine was wonderful about it. He said I could absolutely move forward with the tattoos without the bumps — a lot of people do, because the 3D tattoos are that realistic on their own. And then he drew Sharpie nipples on me to show placement, which was somehow both hilarious and oddly grounding. He also told me to order temporary tattoo nipples on Amazon to try before committing, and warned me — very specifically — not to Google that phrase. Just go straight to Amazon. I will be following that advice.

His PA Lexy was the one who originally talked me into scheduling the bump procedure, and she’s not wrong that it makes things look more natural. I was excited about it when I booked it. But once I was actually there, something shifted. I think what I was really excited about was Matt seeing me that way — and that’s not a good enough reason to do something to my body that I’m not ready for.

When I got home that night Matt and I talked it through. He just wants me to be happy and healthy. I just want him to still find me attractive. It’s such a strange, vulnerable place to be — caught between scars and hormones and the ghost of whoever I was before all of this. We’re figuring it out together. Slowly.

Tonight is the warrior dinner. A group of us — some closer than others, all connected by the thing none of us asked for — getting together for breast cancer awareness month. It’s bittersweet every time. But there’s a sisterhood in it that doesn’t need explanation. We’ve all been through it. We show up. That’s enough.

I Just Wanted to Call My Mom

Last week I really just wanted to call my mom.

We had a complicated relationship, but she loved me — I know that. And I’ve been realizing lately how much I used her as a sounding board. I could call her and bitch and complain and vent about everything making me crazy, and she’d try to make it better. Sometimes she actually did. With everything so overwhelming and out of control right now, I keep reaching for that and coming up empty. It’s a specific kind of grief, missing someone not just for who they were but for the function they served in your life. The place they held. I miss her.

Saturday Matt went golfing with Ken about an hour away, and I had the whole house to myself. Just me and the dogs. I did some chores, laid in the hammock, got some sun, fully fudged out. I cannot tell you the last time I had a quiet day completely alone like that. No agenda. No one needing anything. Just me eating a snack and petting my dogs and watching TV and existing. It was genuinely restorative in a way I didn’t realize I needed until I was in the middle of it.

Ken came back and spent the night. We went out for a drink, picked up food, had a good time. I love having him around. But he’s so stubborn about moving down here from Wisconsin, and it drives me crazy — especially when he hints at health concerns and then refuses to see a doctor. I gave him my thoughts, unsolicited as always. Between my own medical journey, Drew’s, my mom’s, Kirby’s, my mother-in-law’s — I have accumulated enough medical knowledge to genuinely terrify an actual doctor. I’m not a doctor. But I’m also not usually wrong. Ken and my dad both have this infuriating habit of brushing me off like I don’t know what I’m talking about. It’s maddening.

Sunday brunch with two old work friends was exactly what I needed. We walked around the city, caught up, laughed. They always hear me. They get it without me having to explain everything from scratch. We see each other maybe three times a year and every time feels solid. When I got home Matt and Ken were watching the Bears game and my cousin Heather stopped by with her husband for a quick visit. Nice to catch up even if brief.

I didn’t see my dad this weekend but checked in with Kathy a couple times. I called him and could tell immediately he wasn’t in the mood to talk — you learn to read that fast. When Kathy’s around he usually isn’t looking for conversation anyway. He’s obsessed with her. It’s sweet and exhausting in equal measure, but she needs every break she can get.

And then Drew.

He went out, had a good time, came home drunk — par for the course, nobody’s judging. But when he got in the elevator to go up to bed, the door wouldn’t open. The overnight caretaker — whose literal job is to check on Drew every hour — never noticed. Never called. Never thought to go look for him. Drew got home at 12:07 in the morning. He woke up still in the elevator at 6:47 a.m.

Nearly seven hours. Stuck in an elevator. Because the person being paid to keep him safe was asleep.

Jan fired him immediately. Good. But I want to throat-punch this guy. Drew has the absolute worst luck with caregivers and it’s not funny anymore — it’s scary. Finding good ones is already nearly impossible, and Drew keeps getting stuck with people who treat it like a job they can sleep through. He texted me that he was feeling depressed and down. Of course he was. Who wouldn’t be?

On a warmer note — my childhood best friend Amanda reached out when she heard about my dad. We grew up calling each other cousins, basically family. She has real experience with memory issues because of her own dad Fred, who was actually one of my dad’s closest friends. Even as Fred’s memory faded, he always remembered my dad. My dad would bring his dog when visiting, telling all their stories, lighting up the room. Fred had a wonderful caregiver named James, and I’ve filed that name away in the back of my brain for whenever we get to the point of needing someone. Amanda sent me a long email of resources and ideas. We’ll talk properly when life slows down. Next time I’m out in California with Natalie I’ll see if I can get to her too.

And since October is basically here — breast cancer awareness month — I texted some of my fellow warriors and we’re planning a warrior dinner. Not to relive it all. Just to be together. That sisterhood is real, even when nobody wants the membership. Last time there were four of us. Now we’re six.

Sunday night Matt asked me what was wrong. I said besides the usual Monday dread — I’m just sad. Carrying that weight of no answers and no clear path forward with my dad and not knowing what’s coming. That quiet grief of missing my mom and not being able to call her.

But this week will be good. Work will keep me busy. Pilates will keep me sane.

And Austin is almost here. Natalie’s 50th. I cannot wait.

The 36-Hour Day

I keep having this vision of my dad getting lost in the woods and me having to call everyone I know to organize a search party. My brain just keeps going there — what if this happens, what if that happens, what if he gets in the car and we can’t find him. I don’t know what to do with these thoughts because there are no answers. Just questions that loop.

How do I get him to stop drinking before he falls and really hurts himself? Because that’s what I’m scared of — not the drinking killing him, but him getting drunk, slurring his words, shuffling around, and going down hard. And God forbid you try to take his arm. He’ll pull away and get pissed off because he doesn’t want anyone thinking he needs help. That pride is going to be the thing that gets him.

How do we get him off the road? He gets lost and then loses his mind when you point out that he got lost. What happens if he hurts someone? What happens if Kathy loses everything because of an accident? There is truly nowhere he needs to go and nothing he needs to do without one of us with him. But how do you take away someone’s independence without stripping their dignity? He’s so damn proud. So vain. It feels impossible.

Does he even know what’s happening? Does he have any sense of it at all? Every book and article says he can’t comprehend it, that there’s no explaining or reasoning with him, that we’re the ones who have to adjust because he can’t. I understand that intellectually. I cannot accept it emotionally. I keep thinking if I find the right words, the right moment — but there is no right moment. That’s the disease.

Meanwhile Kathy is go-go-go every single day and she is going to burn out. She’s living with this every minute and I don’t know how to help her slow down and breathe. I worry about her as much as I worry about him.

I’ve been trudging through The 36-Hour Day — supposedly the bible for caregivers. It’s long and depressing and half of it is obvious and the other half is dead-on accurate and I can only do the audiobook because if I try to actually read it I fall asleep. I’ve been listening to it in the hammock in the backyard, sun on my face, just swinging and existing and absorbing other people’s grief about this disease. It’s become my weird little ritual and I’m not sure if it’s helping or just keeping me company in the spiral.

All of this is in my chest and my brain and my sleep. I wake up exhausted and clenched. And then I go to work where grown adults cannot follow basic directions and I have to write them up. Fucking idiots. And then I wonder — do I have dementia too? My memory has been genuinely terrible lately. Probably just the menopause, the anesthesia from surgeries, the medication, the three thousand things I’m tracking at any given moment. Probably.

There was a rainbow this morning. I took a picture, posted it, wished everyone a good day. It didn’t really sink into me. But I’ll smile anyway. Make people laugh. Get my job done. That’s what I do.

At least Frank is on the mend. Finally acting like himself again — aside from the explosive diarrhea this morning. Living room, dining room, and laundry room. Because of course.

And one more thing — why does nobody ever tell me when my eyeliner is halfway down my face? My husband did point out a whisker the other day though.

That’s love.

I had breakfast with my cousin Greg this weekend, which is basically a miracle because the only time I usually see him is at funerals or weddings. He grew up on the East Coast and lives in Florida now. His dad — my mom’s brother — drowned when I was in junior high. It happened in Hawaii. My aunt Becky, my grandma, and Greg as a newborn were all on the beach when it happened. I’ll never forget it. Greg looks so much like his dad that it still catches me off guard every time I see him.

Twelve years between us, but that never mattered. He’s always been easy to talk to — open, no bullshit, no awkwardness. He seems to be in a good place now, basically a great stepdad, kind of like Matt. He’s a fucking catch and I just want to make sure the woman in his life knows that. Really knows it. He’s sweet and hardworking and kind, and he deserves someone who sees all of that and doesn’t take a single bit of it for granted. That’s all I want for him.

On the way home I stopped at the Starbucks where Maggie was working. She spreads herself so thin but she looked good — better than the last time. Sweet as always. Honestly she was probably checking on me as much as I was checking on her. We spotted a bald eagle mid-conversation, which completely derailed me because I cannot function when there’s wildlife nearby. I’m out there craning my neck like I’m on safari while she’s trying to have an actual conversation. Fittingly, we may have been talking about ADHD at the time.

Then I got home and realized I’d missed my cousin Bryon’s birthday. He’s one of my favorites on my stepdad’s side and he is always — always — so thoughtful about those things. Meanwhile I just forgot his entirely. Classic. I feel terrible. Hopefully I’ll see him next weekend with his new wife Laura, who is just lovely, and we can celebrate him properly. Ken’s supposed to be in town too, so fingers crossed for a real gathering.

Last night was our block party. There was a collective side-eye going in — everyone quietly wondering if our neighbor with the ongoing mental health situation might show up and make things interesting. She and her husband didn’t come. And honestly, thank God, because the turnout was the biggest we’ve had in four years. People stayed until 10. I bailed at 7:30 because my social stamina outside my inner circle is genuinely embarrassing. Still — nice to see familiar faces, meet a couple new ones. I missed Carol and Vito though. It wasn’t the same without them.

This morning I snagged a last-minute Pilates spot off the waitlist and it made my entire day. Got some meal prep done after, cleaned out a couple cabinets, and now I’m lying in the hammock. I wish I could do this so much more. I truly do not understand people who go nonstop all weekend. My weekends are the only time I have for errands and chores since I don’t get work from home days, so downtime has to be intentional or it just disappears. I’m working on that.

I did some catching up with people too. Briefly talked to Natalie, had a nice call with my Aunt June — who is starting to remind me more and more of my grandma, which is both sweet and a little heartbreaking — and a long, really good conversation with Aunt Susie on Friday while I was home with Frank after his procedure. Poor guy was completely wrecked from the anesthesia for two and a half days, but he’s finally back to his pompous little self.

Susie though. She’s the glue. She keeps everyone connected, carries more than her share, and still makes time to check in on everybody else. She’s a beacon. She also might be my biggest blog fan — she makes me feel good about writing this even when I’m not sure I should be, and I have a feeling she’s shared it with more people than I realize. So if you’re new here, hi. This is therapy. It’s messy and honest and I try not to let it turn into a full pity party, but no promises.

Aunt Susie and Uncle Brad joined Greg and me for breakfast too, which made it even better.

Now it’s Sunday night. The Scaries are creeping in right on schedule. Tomorrow will probably be another one of those Mondays where I need a crane to get out of bed. I want to get back to walking this week, keep the Pilates going, try to feel like a functioning human.

But for now — hammock. And the seventy TikToks Grace has sent me that I still haven’t watched.