This Body is Bullshit

I’m tired of the noise.
The shouting. The finger-pointing. The “if you’re not with us, you’re against us” mentality that’s swallowed this country whole. Somewhere along the way, common sense and compassion became radical concepts and that breaks my heart.

I’m a values-first voter. I lean progressive on many issues but see the world through a moderate lens. I believe in empathy, common sense, and protecting the vulnerable, but I also believe in accountability, law and order, and practical solutions. Those things can coexist. In fact, 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 deeply about the environment, veterans, farmers, and small businesses. I’m spiritual but not religious. I own a gun, but I don’t think civilians need assault rifles. I’m not far-left or far-right — I just believe 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 #@&*$#( fill in the blank). There’s a difference between being conservative and being a Trump supporter, and I wish more people could see that.

I respect wealth and success. I understand that some policies benefit certain groups more than others — and that’s life. But I also believe 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, to buy groceries, to stay afloat. My daughter’s college debt is suffocating, but I wouldn’t change it. Education matters. Opportunity matters. I want her to have a world that doesn’t punish people for being born without privilege.

I believe in helping your neighbor, loving without conditions, and protecting people who can’t protect themselves. 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.

The thing is, I work with people who are scared — hardworking men and women, many immigrants, many parents — who come in every day and give everything they have. They hear words like “ICE” and “deportation,” and I can see the fear take over their faces. They’re not political pawns. They’re human beings trying to survive. When you see that kind of fear up close, it changes how you look at policy and people. It’s not theoretical — it’s personal.

I’m exhausted watching people treat politics like a team sport where the only goal is to crush the other side. I miss nuance. I miss empathy. I miss when people could disagree without disgust. We’re all living in the same broken system, and yelling at each other won’t fix it.

I want leaders who tell the truth, even when it’s messy. I want people to stop pretending complex problems have easy answers. I want decency to matter again. Accountability without cruelty. Compassion without weakness. Progress without arrogance.

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

Before the last thing he said to me that night — the one that wasn’t “goodnight” or “I love you,” the one that made me take a Xanax because I knew it would eat at me all night — I was thinking about how grateful I was. Grateful for him, for our life, for the little world we’ve built together. Because of his hard work, something good and hopeful was finally taking shape. I planned to thank him in the morning, to tell him how much I appreciated him and how excited I was for what’s ahead.

But then came a quiet comment — one that cut deeper than he probably realized.

It wasn’t about money or secrets. It was about feeling misunderstood. About how sometimes I try to handle things quietly, not because I’m hiding anything, but because I don’t want to add more weight to his shoulders. I want to do things, make progress, have fun, be happy. He just has a different idea of how that looks — and sometimes that easy version of him only comes out around his closest friends. I try to protect him, to keep peace, to carry my share. Somehow it still lands wrong.

He’s a good, sensitive man. He takes care of our dogs like they’re his kids, and my daughter like she’s his own. He vacuums, mops, does laundry, mows the lawn, and picks up after me and the dogs. I’m truly grateful for that. But sometimes it feels like he’s already 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 feel bad about that. I do. But I also know 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 of effort that doesn’t show up on a list or look like productivity, but it’s there — always there. And even when I’m exhausted or in pain, I’m still trying to hold things together. Sometimes chores for him are about quantity, while mine are about quality.

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, a history, and a love, but we don’t always share a rhythm.

The pain and fatigue I live with are invisible too. People can’t see it, so they assume I’m fine. But it’s always there, a quiet hum beneath everything. And sometimes, when he looks at me, I can tell he doesn’t fully understand how hard I’m trying just to move through the day and still stay soft.

I love him, but sometimes it feels like he doesn’t even like me. He seems irritated, quick to argue, or shuts down completely. He scrolls on his phone instead of talking to me, and I end up feeling invisible. I miss when we used to talk, laugh, and look forward to things together. I wish he’d take more initiative — make plans, be spontaneous, show excitement about doing things with us.

I’ll be honest: sometimes I worry he’s not attracted to me anymore. I miss the way we used to flirt, the easy fun, the spark that made everything lighter. I don’t need constant romance, but I do need to feel wanted.

He’s quick to say no to most of my ideas. I know he doesn’t mean to shut me down, but it happens. Sometimes my excitement or joy seems to annoy him. My silliness, my energy — the parts of me that used to make him laugh — now seem to wear on him. I try to snuggle closer, and he pulls away a little. I know I can be a spaz sometimes, overly affectionate, probably too much — but that’s me. That’s how I love. We used to both be funny and silly.

And there’s one more thing I can’t shake: I know I’m not great at talking about my feelings out loud. That’s why I write. My blog isn’t just something I do for fun — it’s how I process everything, how I make sense of what I feel. It’s my therapy. So it stings that he’s never really taken the time to read it. Maybe it’s uncomfortable for him, or maybe he just doesn’t want to go there. But that also means he doesn’t really see the realness — the part of me that’s been trying to reach him in the only way I know how.

I’m not trying to guilt him. I just need him to understand that when someone you love doesn’t want to know what moves you or what you’re working through, it makes you feel unseen. I wish he wanted to know me on that level — to see what’s beneath the surface.

I miss feeling like we’re in sync — like teammates, not just two tired people keeping things running. I want us to plan weekends to actually do things together — finish the projects we’ve talked about forever, clean the garage, fix the bathroom, make our space feel new again. It’s not about chores. It’s about shared effort, shared laughter, shared purpose.

I know love changes. I know marriage ebbs and flows. But I don’t want to stop reaching for him. I don’t want to stop trying. Ten years in, I still want the laughter, the curiosity, the small spark that reminds us why we chose each other.

Maybe that’s what love really is — choosing to reach for each other again and again, even when it’s hard. And we do that, I think. But some days, like today, it just feels harder than others.

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

I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. I want to be real trail magic for someone—not with Gatorade and granola bars, but with care, belief, presence. Because I do believe in the people I surround myself with. And sometimes, just knowing someone believes in you is enough to keep going. I think I do a good job of making my people know I’m proud of them and love them. At least I hope I do.

Then there’s this other thing I’ve been thinking about—something not nearly as warm and fuzzy: 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’s what happens when someone you love is physically here but psychologically gone. Or when they were gone long before they actually left.

I realize now I coped with ambiguous loss for years with my mom. I grieved her before she died, because she was slipping away from me even while she was still right there. And now… it’s starting again with my dad. Maybe ambiguous grief is the better term. Because it’s both. It’s loss and longing and confusion and love, tangled up together. It’s knowing you can’t fix it—and still trying anyway.

I’ve been trying to read anything I can get my hands on about FTD. The neurologist recommended The 36-Hour Day and The Unexpected Journey by Emma Willis. The first one was brutal—dense, clinical, depressing. The second was sweeter, but neither had much to say about FTD. They were mostly about caregiving. There are still no answers. Just a long list of questions—things I don’t know to look for, how to handle, or what’s next.

And while I’m trying to hold all this emotional stuff together, my body’s staging a full-scale revolt. Every joint, every muscle—my neck, my shoulders, my back, my hips, my knees, my hands, my feet. They all ache. They all hurt. It’s so fucking stupid.

Meanwhile, my obsession with animals is out of control. My empathy and compassion for furry things are off the charts. I want all of them—dogs, cats, goats, bunnies, tigers, manatees, bears, jaguars, foxes. I scroll through rescue pages like it’s religion. Maybe it’s because animals don’t need you to fix them. They just need you to be kind. This is how I’ll die, I hope—hugging or petting a wild animal.

Kathy went to New Jersey last week to celebrate Mae’s birthday, which meant I was on Dad Duty. I managed to keep him from going to any restaurants in the evenings. We went to his house one night, and he came to ours twice. I met him out in the woods with the dog.

The whole time, I watched his location like a maniac on my phone—calling and texting him nonstop. Thursday night at his house, 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, watching, managing—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.

Somewhere in between all this, I’m trying to figure out what I actually want. How to be intentional about it. I want positivity, joy, simplicity. I don’t need grand gestures—I just want things that feel good and real.

Cancer didn’t make me sick. I had cancer—they took it out. Radiation was hard, surgeries were harder, the scars are tight, healing was slow, and the infections were hell. But the only time I was actually sick was when I had sepsis.

The rest of it? It was just living. It was surviving.

And maybe that’s what I’m still doing now—trying to survive this strange mix of grief, pain, and gratitude. Trying to make my own trail magic.

I got back Sunday from my trip to Austin with Natalie for her birthday. What a cool city. We had the best time exploring, eating, and laughing. We were asleep before 10 o’clock every night. The bed in our hotel was so comfortable we named it The Marshmallow. I swear it hugged us. We even laid around in the mornings watching TV, something neither of us ever does at home. It was casual and easy—just pure fun.

I adore her. I don’t think most people get to see the quiet, curious, gentle, and generous side of Natalie that I do. We both recharged, used each other as sounding boards, and already started scheming our next trip. I rode an electric scooter for the first time (terrifying but hilarious), and she taught me a new card game. Even though I was popping 800 mg of ibuprofen a few times a day thanks to these stupid joint pains, I enjoyed every minute of it. It could’ve been the sleepy gummy we took before bed that made The Marshmallow feel like heaven—because when I got home Sunday night, I could not fall asleep to save my life.

It was a beautiful day when I got home, though. So good to see Matt and the dogs. I spent the afternoon working on the deck and clearing out the plants for fall. Monday was right back to reality—super busy at work—but I managed to catch up before heading out early for a doctor’s appointment with Dr. Fine.

As the day went on, the creeping anxiety started building. I called Matt to tell him I was feeling uneasy. He was, of course, supportive, but I couldn’t shake the feeling. By the time I got in the car, I had a full-blown panic attack. I tried to hold back tears, but I think deep down, I was scared.

Dr. Fine is wonderful—he talked me down and helped me figure out a plan. I was supposed to get the nipple “bumps” that day—a small procedure I thought would make me feel or look more “normal,” maybe help with intimacy, maybe make me look more like the old me. But the truth? I wasn’t ready. I think I wanted it for Matt more than for myself.

Dr. Fine told me I could move forward with the tattoos even without the bumps, and honestly, that sounded better. My chest is basically a roadmap of scars—adding more doesn’t exactly thrill me. He even drew Sharpie nipples on me to show where they’d go (which was hilarious and oddly grounding) and told me to order temporary tattoo nipples on Amazon. He also warned me not to Google “temporary tattoo nipples” because I might not like what pops up. Fair enough.

His PA, Lexy, is the one who originally talked me into scheduling the bump procedure. She said it makes things look even more real and natural, and I wanted to believe that. I think I was excited about the idea of Matt seeing me that way again. But once I was there, it hit me that I didn’t need it—or maybe that I didn’t want it yet.

When I got home, Matt and I talked about it. He was kind and reassuring, as always. He just wants me to be happy and healthy. And I just want him to still find me attractive. It’s such a weird, vulnerable place to be—caught between hormones, scars, and the ghost of who I used to be.

Tomorrow I’m meeting a group of women for our “warrior dinner” to kick off breast cancer awareness month. It’s bittersweet. Some are closer than others, but there’s this sisterhood that doesn’t need words. We’ve all been through it. We don’t have to explain. We just show up.

Last week I kept feeling like I just wanted to call my mom. We had an interesting relationship, but I never doubted she loved me. And one of the things I miss most is having her as my sounding board. I could bitch, complain, rage, and she’d let me. Sometimes she even tried to fix it—and sometimes she actually did. Lately though, life has been overwhelming and out of control. The exhaustion is bone-deep. I feel like I’m all over the place. The fatigue and joint pain have been more pronounced lately too—hopefully that’ll fade back into the background soon.

Saturday, Matt went golfing with my stepdad about an hour away, and I had Pilates in the morning. Then—miracle of miracles—the house to myself. Quiet. Just me and the dogs. I cleaned, did some chores, then collapsed in the hammock to soak up the sun. It was glorious. I can’t remember the last time I was alone like that, able to move at my own pace—flop on the couch, pet the dogs, watch TV, eat snacks, just be. My aunt and uncle even stopped by with their dog, which was a nice surprise.

Later, Ken came down and spent the night. We grabbed a drink when we picked up our carryout, and honestly, it was nice. I know he’s lonely in Wisconsin, but he’s so damn stubborn about moving here. It’s frustrating—especially when he talks about health concerns but refuses to see a doctor. I gave him my unsolicited advice. Between my own shit, Drew’s, my mom’s, Kirby’s, my MIL’s—I’ve collected enough medical knowledge to terrify an actual doctor. No, I’m not a doctor. But I’m also not usually wrong. Still, Ken and my dad both have this annoying habit of brushing me off, like I don’t know what I’m talking about. It drives me crazy.

Sunday brunch with two old friends I used to work with was perfect. We walked the city, caught up, and it was just easy. They always hear me, always get it. We only see each other about three times a year, but 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 short.

I didn’t see my dad this weekend but checked in with Kathy. They went out Saturday night. I called him, but it was one of those calls where you can tell immediately whether he’s in the mood to talk or not. He wasn’t. And when Kathy’s around, he usually isn’t—which is fine. He’s obsessed with her. It’s cute. But she needs the break.

And then there’s Drew. Jesus. He went out, had a good time, came home drunk (par for the course). But when he got in the elevator to go to bed, the door wouldn’t open. The caretaker—whose literal job is to check on him every hour overnight—never noticed. Never called. Never went downstairs to check. Drew got home at 12:07 a.m. He woke up still in the elevator at 6:47 a.m. Can you imagine? This guy had one job: keep Drew safe. Instead, Drew spent the night stuck in the elevator like some sick punchline. Jan fired the guy immediately, thank God. But I swear, I want to throat-punch people like this. Caregivers are already impossible to find, and Drew—who has the worst luck—keeps getting stuck with these clowns. And before anyone asks why Drew didn’t use his phone or why whoever dropped him off didn’t walk him in—first, he’s an adult. Second, the caretaker was being paid to be awake and to give a damn. That’s the whole point. I texted Drew when I went to bed last night. He said he was depressed and down, which of course he is. Who wouldn’t be after that?

Amidst all this, my childhood best friend Amanda reached out when she heard about my dad. We always called each other cousins growing up—basically family. She’s wonderful, caring, and has real experience with memory issues because of her dad, Fred. My dad and Fred were close, and even with his struggles, Fred always remembered my dad. My dad has a million stories about their adventures, and he’d bring the dog to lighten the mood when Fred was in assisted living. Fred had an amazing caregiver, James, and in the back of my mind, I wish we had someone like that for Dad when it’s needed. Resources are different for us, but maybe someday. Amanda even sent me a long email of care ideas and info. We’ll talk more when life slows down. Next time I’m in California with Natalie, I’ll see if I can visit her too.

And because October is right around the corner—aka breast cancer awareness month—I texted a few of my fellow warriors. We’re planning a “warrior dinner.” Not because we want to relive it all, but because there’s this unspoken bond. A sisterhood. Last time, it was four of us—now it’s six. Luckily, everyone’s doing well (as well as you can in this club no one actually signed up for). It’ll be good to laugh, maybe cry, but mostly just be.

Last night, the Sunday Scaries came for me hard. Matt asked me what was wrong, and besides the dread of Monday, I realized I was just carrying this sadness I can’t shake. The weight of no answers, no path forward, no clue what to do with my dad. But I keep telling myself this week will be good. Work will be busy. Pilates will keep me grounded. Meanwhile, Austin is creeping closer—Natalie’s 50th birthday trip—and I cannot wait. Soon, I’ll be in Austin celebrating her—recharging, laughing, living.

I keep picturing my dad getting lost in the woods and me having to call friends and family to form a search party. My brain won’t stop spinning worst-case scenarios. What if he wanders? What if he falls? What if he gets behind the wheel and hurts someone? I don’t know what the hell to do with him.

There are no real answers, and I’m drowning in questions. Is there seriously no way to reason with him? To explain this disease in a way he could actually hear? It feels impossible. Maddening.

The drinking is ridiculous. He slurs, stumbles, and God forbid we try to steady him—his pride explodes. He doesn’t want anyone to think he needs help. But he does. He’s going to fall and hurt himself, and I don’t know how to stop it. Sitting him down and pointing out how much drinking impairs him feels like the only option, but would it sink in? The doctor already told him: no more than two drinks, and not every day. Kathy and I remind him. He ignores us. Where the hell is this obsession with drinking even coming from?

And then there’s the driving. He’s already getting lost, but loses his mind if you say it. “I’m not lost, I just don’t know where I am.” Almost funny—except it’s fucking terrifying. What if he really hurts someone? What if Kathy loses everything because of him? The truth is, there’s nothing he needs to do or anywhere he needs to go without one of us. But how the hell do you take away his independence without stripping his dignity? He’s so damn proud. So vain.

Does he know what’s happening? Does he even have half a sense of it? I want to sit him down, make him aware, but every book and article says he won’t comprehend it. I can’t wrap my head around that.

Meanwhile, Kathy is go-go-go every single day. She’s going to burn out, and I don’t know how to help her. She needs to breathe. To rest. But she’s stuck in the grind of living with him every single minute, and I don’t know how she does it.

I’ve been trudging through The 36-Hour Day, the so-called bible for caregivers. Long, boring, depressing. Half of it is obvious. Half of it is dead-on. I can only do the audiobook—if I try to read it, I fall asleep.

All of this weighs on me. It’s in my chest, my brain, my sleep. I wake up exhausted, clenched. And then I go to work, where grown-ass adults can’t follow directions and I have to write them up. Fucking idiots. And then I wonder—do I have dementia too? My memory’s shit lately. Probably just my brain overwhelmed with menopause, surgeries with anesthesia, meds, three thousand things to track and people to worry about.

This morning there was a rainbow. I took a picture, posted it, wished everyone a good day. But it didn’t sink into me. Not today. Still, I’ll smile, make people laugh, get my job done. That’s what I do.

The one thing that’s been giving me peace is laying in the hammock, sun on my face. My new little ritual. Headphones in, that depressing book playing, swinging, just existing.

At least Frank’s on the mend. He’s finally acting more like himself again—aside from the explosive diarrhea in the living room, dining room, and laundry room this morning. Because of course.

And while I’m juggling all of this—why does no one ever tell me when my eyeliner’s halfway down my face? My husband did point out a whisker the other day though. That’s love, right?

I had breakfast with my cousin Greg this weekend—which is kind of a miracle, because usually I only see him at funerals or weddings. The kid grew up on the East Coast, lives in Florida now, and still somehow looks exactly like his dad. (Which is wild, considering his dad—my mom’s brother—died tragically when Greg was just a baby. Hawaii. Drowning. His whole family on the beach. A nightmare I’ll never forget.)

Greg and I are twelve years apart, but that never mattered. He’s always been the kind of guy you can just talk to—open, no bullshit, no awkwardness. He seems to be in a good place now, and he’s basically a great stepdad, kind of like Matt. He deserves happiness. What I really want is to know the woman he’s with sees it—that she respects him, doesn’t take advantage, and actually gets how sweet, hard-working, and kind he is. He’s a fucking catch, and I will fight anyone who doesn’t treat him that way.

On the way home, I stopped in at Starbucks where Maggie was working. She’s one of those people who spreads herself way too thin with work and family, but she looked good—better than the last time I saw her. Sweet as ever. Honestly, she was probably checking in on me as much as I was checking in on her. We spotted a bald eagle while talking, which totally derailed me because… animals. I cannot focus when there’s wildlife around. I’m out here craning my neck like David Attenborough while she’s trying to update me on life. Fittingly, we might’ve been talking about ADHD at the time.

Last night was our block party. There was a little collective side-eye going in, everyone wondering if our neighbor with the ongoing mental health crises might show up and start shit. They didn’t—and honestly, thank God—because the turnout was great. Fourth year running and probably the biggest yet. People stayed until 10. Me? I bailed at 7:30. My social stamina outside my inner circle is pathetic. Still, it was nice to see familiar faces and meet a few new ones. I missed Carol and Vito, though—it wasn’t the same without them.

This morning, I snagged a last-minute spot in Pilates off the waitlist, and it made my whole day. Afterward, I meal-prepped, cleaned out a couple cabinets, and now I’m stretched out in the hammock. God, I wish I could do this more often. I don’t understand people who go go go all weekend. My weekends are my only chance to cram in errands and chores since I don’t get work-from-home days, so if I want downtime, I have to literally force myself to schedule it.

I’ve been making a point to catch up with people too. Briefly chatted with Natalie, had a great phone call with my Aunt June (who’s starting to remind me of my grandma more and more), and a long, heart-filling conversation with Aunt Susie while Frank was recovering from his procedure. Poor guy was a wreck 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 us connected, carries more than her fair share, and still makes time to check in on everyone. She’s a damn beacon.

And honestly? She might be my biggest blog fan. She makes me feel good about writing this, even when I don’t really want to talk about it. She gives me confidence, and I have a feeling she’s shared it with a few more people than I realize. So, if you’re new here—hi. Just know this is therapy for me. It’s messy, it’s honest, and I try not to let it turn into a “woe is me” pity party. But it’s real.

Then, like an asshole, I remembered I’d missed my cousin Bryon’s birthday. He’s one of my favorites on my stepdad’s side, and he’s always so damn thoughtful about birthdays. Meanwhile, I forget his. Classic. Hopefully I’ll see him next weekend with his new wife Laura, who’s absolutely lovely, and maybe we can celebrate properly. Ken’s supposed to be in town too, so fingers crossed for a family gathering.

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

But for now, it’s me, my hammock, and the 70 TikToks Grace has sent me that I still need to catch up on.

This morning I dropped Frank off at the vet for his dental procedure, and I just wanted to cry. They’re cleaning his teeth, but while he’s under anesthesia, they’re also biopsying a lump in his gum that doesn’t seem dental-related. On top of that, they’re scoping his esophagus and nose to check for any blockages. He’ll probably lose some teeth. Best case scenario? There’s a pea or toy wedged in his nose.

Poor little guy weighed in at 23.4 pounds—they want him closer to 20. He’s a pug, yes, but he’s my portly pug. The silly, stubborn, loud little jerk who somehow managed to fill the gaping hole Gus left behind. God forbid something happens to him today. I don’t know what I’d do.

Yesterday I was already in a tailspin. One of those days where I sat at the bottom of the shower until the water ran cold, not wanting to go to work, just feeling overwhelmed. I ended up going to the doctor, and they upped my antidepressant—I’ve been on the lowest dose for almost four years. It feels overdue, and also right on schedule.

And of course, life keeps piling on. My stepsister and her husband got some tough news about Heather, Kevin’s sister. When I reached out just to say I loved them, she put it so perfectly: “a real kick in the dick.” Exactly. That’s what this life has been handing out lately. My other girlfriend, Megan, always called it a shit sandwich. Either way, the taste lingers. And I can’t stop thinking about Crissy and Kevin—how much they already carry. The grief of losing Wes is still stitched into everything, and now this with Heather, who might just be both of their favorite person in the world. It feels cruel and unfair, piling more pain onto people who’ve already had their share. While Suleika Jaouad was my inspiration to start journaling, Heather and Kevin were my inspiration to put it in a blog. Man, if I could write like them.

Even my dad’s doctor finally got back to my questions on MyChart, and the answers were… disappointing. Not really answers at all. Half of it isn’t his fault—it’s just the limits of what medicine can tell us right now—and the other half, I’m realizing, will probably fall more to the social worker when we can finally get in. Until then, we’re just floating in the unknown. And I hate it.

I know part of what’s making me spiral is control—or the lack of it. I like having my hands on the wheel, and lately everything feels unhinged. That’s why I’m so out of sorts. Despair more than depression. Overwhelm more than sadness.

And yet, life doesn’t stop. In a couple weeks, I’m heading to Austin for Natalie’s birthday. Of course, in true Natalie fashion, she’s basically treating me to the trip (which feels terrible because it’s her birthday). But maybe it’s exactly what I need. She just went through a breakup, and the timing for both of us couldn’t be better. She’s funny, generous, one of my best travel buddies and best friends. Texas wouldn’t have been my first choice, but she swears I’ll love Austin. “It’s super liberal,” she says—hilarious, considering she’s on the opposite end of the political spectrum from me (thank God, not a Trumper). I’m excited to recharge with her. To laugh. To have heart-to-hearts. To relax.

Meanwhile, I’m racing to work, already late. I might have to log in from the car because I’m 20 minutes out and in 10 minutes I’m supposed to be logging on to an ICE-prep Q&A for some of my team. Imagine that—getting us ready in case of an immigration raid. That’s the world we’re in right now.

Once I get to work, I usually leave everything at the door, and in a way that’s a good thing. But it’s also why I’m burning out. My whole job is dealing with people and their emotions, their issues, their drama. Some days it feels like I’m less of an HR generalist and more of a kindergarten teacher. Adults can be children in better shoes.

I’m at our Hillside location today, which always feels more stressful, less personal than Melrose Park. MP is family. Here, it’s just… work.

Anyway. That’s where I’m at this morning. Anxious. Exhausted. Hopeful. Nervous. A little bit of everything. Please—send good vibes for Frank today. He’s my chubby little guy.

I can’t believe this is the 26th entry. Twenty-six times I’ve come here to put the chaos down in words. It doesn’t fix everything, but it makes me feel lighter. Here’s to keeping at it—one messy, fucked-up, trying to be honest entry at a time

Since we got my dad’s diagnosis—FTD—I can’t shut my brain off. The questions are endless, and the answers are few and far between. Doctors take forever to respond, and when we’re actually in the room with them, my dad hijacks the appointment. He tells stories, cracks jokes, makes light of everything. That’s just who he is. But it means we leave without the clarity we desperately need.

What side of his brain is more damaged—behavioral, physical, verbal? Because it feels like all of it. What specific type of FTD does he have? What stage is he in? How long has this actually been going on—years, probably—and how fast is it going to get worse? Because it seems like it’s accelerating now. What does life expectancy even look like anymore?

The scariest part is that he doesn’t know he has it. He doesn’t realize what’s going on. Watching him spin the truth into jokes or denial doesn’t make it easier. When he got lost and we tried to gently point it out, he said, “I’m not lost. I just don’t know where I am.” Lost is a trigger word for him. It makes him flip out. Do you know how heartbreaking and terrifying it is to watch someone be unable to comprehend what’s happening to them? He still clings to the fact that he was once a pilot—as if that alone means he could never get lost.

The doctor told him to try puzzles or brain exercises. He asked instead if he could do home projects and trim work. The answer was no. The doctor said to ease up on power tools, and Dad thought he was nuts. But the truth is, he hasn’t been able to finish projects in a long time—his measurements and angles are always off. He blames the tools, the wood, anything but himself. The doctor said one or two drinks occasionally; Dad wants his drinks daily.

If it were up to me, I’d take the alcohol out of the house and the car keys away. But Kathy’s the one living this every day, and I want to support her. She’s terrified that if he really understood how bad things are, he’d talk about not wanting to live anymore. And she might be right. Would he act on it? I don’t know. That’s the nightmare of this disease—it doesn’t just wreck the person with it, it leaves the crushing weight on everyone who loves them. We’re the ones making the impossible choices, while he doesn’t even understand what’s happening.

I want to sit down with him, tell him plainly what’s happening, tell him we’re only trying to keep him safe. But everyone says he wouldn’t understand. And I don’t get that. How can he not comprehend what we’re saying, what’s happening around him? It’s impossible to wrap your head around. He’s so difficult and exhausting—but at the same time, still sweet, still sensitive, still emotional.

And it’s bleeding into everything else. I’m not sleeping. I wake up with this ache in my chest—part heartbreak, part anxiety. I drag myself through work, trying to show up for everyone else’s problems when my own feel so heavy. It’s draining. On the worst days, like this week, I feel out of sorts, like I could crack open at any moment.

I’ve even thought about FMLA for me. I’ve used it before—for surgeries, for Dad’s appointments. But now, when I see employees take it for anxiety, depression, or just needing a break—I get it. I really do. Maybe I need that too. Because I can’t just keep piling more and more on myself without some kind of release valve.

And tonight, after all this, I’m heading to a wake. My girlfriend lost her dad after years of caring for him after multiple strokes. I don’t know how she did it. I barely feel like I can manage my life, let alone that.

I hate this disease. I hate what it’s stealing from him. And I hate the way it’s bleeding into every corner of my life.

But this is where we are. And I’m trying to hold it all—grief, anger, exhaustion, love—in the same tired body.

The weeks have been feeling extra long lately. By Tuesday at work, I swear it should already be Thursday. And this week started off even heavier.

On Monday, we had a follow-up with my dad’s neurologist. After months of questions and confusion, we finally got the official diagnosis: FTD—frontotemporal dementia. The same thing Bruce Willis has.

We knew it was some form of dementia or Alzheimer’s, but hearing those three letters out loud… it hit hard. There’s no real treatment. No way to slow it down. And the worst part? He doesn’t know he has it. He can’t comprehend it. If you know my dad, you know he’s a maniac—stubborn, proud, impossible. This isn’t going to be easy on any of us.

I’ve been walking around with this weird ache in my chest. Part heartbreak, part anxiety. Not sleeping much. It’s all-consuming. I can’t even remember the other things I’m supposed to be worried about, because this one thing drowns everything else out.

And yet, life keeps moving. Friday night we hosted the birthday party for Kathy, Cory, and Amy. Everyone showed up in their muumuus, we laughed, we ate, we celebrated. But of course, even that wasn’t without a hitch—Kathy got dropped off by my dad, and on his way home, he got lost. It put a damper on the mood, but we pushed through and tried to focus on the good. Cory spent the night afterward, helped me clean up, and just being with her was a comfort.

Saturday, the ladies took off for a little day together—farmers market, boardwalk shops in Batavia, then lunch and more shopping in Geneva. Then Kathy went home, back to life with my dad. We wished Cory had stayed longer, but she headed home after one of her classic heart-to-hearts, giving us love and hope—so much hope—like she always does.

Sunday, Matt and I went to a celebration of life for his friend Geoff. It was a wonderful service. Geoff’s daughter—just 21 years old and now without both her parents—stood and spoke with such grace. She was beautiful, stoic, heartbreaking. Our friends Rusty and Ben spoke too, both of them somehow managing to make people laugh through the tears. It was touching and sad, but also strangely comforting. Watching these guys—Matt’s closest friends—grieve together, support each other, and still find humor in the hardest moments reminded me how important it is to show up, even when it hurts. And how deeply they want to be there for his daughter, to make sure she’s not alone.

It’s been a lot in just a few days—diagnoses, parties, loss, love, laughter, and grief all tangled together. That ache in my chest is still there. I don’t think it’s going away anytime soon. But I’m grateful for the people around me, the ones who carry me through when things feel heavy.

And now it’s Monday again tomorrow.