Author: hollyida

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All the Lies and Wishes

Sometimes a memory of your dead loved one will bonk you on the head when you least expect it.

I facilitate a book discussion group at my library called “Grieving Through Reading.” It was initially created by a volunteer but she never officially started the group due to a change in workplace. When I was asked to do this, I said yes before the question was fully formed. As you know, talking about grief, death and dying is what I enjoy doing. I guess it’s really the sharing of grief and being able to provide comfort is what really brings me joy.

This week, “Being Mortal: Medicine and What Matters in the End” by Dr. Atul Gawande was our book choice. There is an hour long documentary of the book that we didn’t have time to watch. So I started our discussion with a short clip from the film, where Dr. Gawande is discussing what his father’s doctor communicated to them regarding treatments for his cancer. The doctor was encouraging the father to take the chemotherapy and said, “Who knows? You could be playing tennis by the end of the summer.” This was absolutely ridiculous. As Gawande tells it, his father was weeks from being paralyzed. There would never be tennis playing again, yet the doctor tells this foolish and utter lie.

As my book group is in the room watching this clip, I suddenly get a flashback at what my brother’s cardiologist said to him just a month before he died. Phil was going to have surgery where a VAD (ventricular assist device) would be implanted to help his failing heart to pump blood to his body. Phil wanted to wait until early winter to do it. His doctor said that the surgery would prolong his life and he’d visit my brother and his partner on their anniversary in several years time.

What a bunch of horseshit.

As I sat in the room with my book group, watching this video for the third time (I literally watched it the day before), it dawned on me this interaction my brother had with his doctor is just like what Dr. Gawande described. Why it took 7 years for me to realize this and at this exact horrible moment, I don’t know. (I know I can be slow sometimes, but for christ sakes this is bonkers.) I was momentarily stunned and felt such an intense fury and grief, that I wasn’t sure I could do anything. I ended up missing the ending of the video, then snapped out of thoughts, shoved those emotions down deep, and went on.

I was in a pretty awful mood directly after the program and then just kept pretty quiet. My eyes and face felt like I had been crying, although I hadn’t. I felt deeply sad the rest of the day.

But I never cried, which is highly unusual for me. It’s like a put a stopper in my soul because this bit of grief and anger felt too big to deal with.

Today, however, it’s slowly seeping out. I’ve thought about Phil more and more these last few days. I want to figure out the name of Phil’s doctor and write him a letter, although the energy that would take at this moment seems too much. I had this sweet text exchange today with my former brother-in-law about my son and how proud my family would be of him. I mentioned it first, and my BIL said he didn’t want to say anything because he didn’t want it to land wrong. But after he saw my son a few weeks ago, he said all he could think of was how fucking proud Phil would be of him. I wept when I read that.

I’m angry that Phil’s not here to see this kid turn into a beautiful young man, but I’m mostly feeling bereft. I wish someone had been more honest with him about his chances. I wish I had been more honest with myself. Phil knew he was going to die and maybe he knew the doctor was full of shit. I wish I could ask him. I wish Phil was here to talk to my boy about the colleges he’s applied to, the amazing stories he’s written lately, and the political climate of our country. Phil would have many things to say about all of it. I still remember Phil telling me how good one of my son’s stories was when he was in 3rd grade. Phil could see that potential, and I’m so glad he did. I hope he had an idea of how his nephew would turn out.

I’m doing a lot of wishing and missing tonight, big brother. I love you. We all love you. And we miss you so fucking much. ❤

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Frozen

It’s been a few months since I’ve posted anything here. So much has happened in my life in the past two months–some of it good, much of it horrible.

Our family friend, Virginia Cookson–my niece’s best friend for over 25 years–was murdered by her ex-boyfriend at the end of September. I’m not ready to write about what happened, and may never. It has changed all of our lives in ways I’m not sure we can define yet.

My niece has been speaking about Virginia in public presentations, and I’m tremendously proud of her. I know how hard public speaking is for her, yet talking so openly about Virginia may be cathartic at times. But fuck…it’s also like having to speak at her funeral over and over. My niece is so damn strong, even though she’s not always aware of it. I also know that strength, or people expecting you to be strong, is exhausting. But she knows our family and some of her lovely friends will support her and prop her up when she just can’t stand anymore.

Since Virginia’s murder, my sister has become an advocate for domestic violence victims and I can see that this will end up being part of her life’s work. Virginia was her “other daughter” and her horrible death has propelled my sister to fight for others, to speak for those who can’t, in the hopes of saving at least one person from domestic violence. My sister is a survivor, too, and I’m so damn proud of her for volunteering, getting the word out, trying to make a difference.

As for me? I will support my family and Virginia’s daughter in any way I can. I will advocate for domestic violence victims and I will do what I can to make sure Virginia’s murderer goes to jail for life.

But I think that’s all I can do.

I’ve felt this wide range of stressors pressing me down to the ground since Virginia was murdered. One day last week, I was unable to get out of my car for what I think was a few minutes but felt like longer. I started to think about the variety of “things” I had on my plate–my responsibilities both at work and at home and every single thing I’m worried about. Typically when this happens, I have an anxiety attack and have trouble breathing. But this time I just couldn’t move. Everything was just too fucking much.

A week after Virginia’s murder, I took my husband to the emergency room because he couldn’t breathe and his heart rate was in the 130s. While we were there, his blood pressure rose to 224/146 and a heart rate of 141. He became delirious and told me he loved me and that he would miss me. I remember staring at him as he said it then standing up and petting his head, kissing him on the forehead. Was this it? Was this the day? This was October 4th–five years to the day that my mother died. I started talking to Mom in my head. “Mom, this is your day, right? I’m thinking Wal shouldn’t share that day with you. He can die another day, don’t you think?”

He was eventually stabilized, diagnosed with pneumonia, but didn’t come home for 5 days. And when he did come home? He came home with oxygen. He used it for a few days, but not enough in my opinion. He now uses it occasionally when he has rough days or nights. Will it be forever? I’m not sure. It feels like the next stage in congestive heart failure to me. But I honestly don’t know.

Then this week? We’re fighting with CMD Powersystems who caused a propane leak at our house and could have blown up our home and killed my family. I asked to have a bill paid to another company that had to fix said leak and to fill our propane tank. That’s it. Since that’s not happening, I’m going to take them to court. I refuse to let this company to take advantage of us. If they think not taking responsibility for this huge mistake is ok, they are sorely wrong. I’m done being a fucking doormat.

On Wednesday, I was verbally assaulted by a patron–this is not something I say lightly. I’ve been yelled at by patrons before, most people that have worked with the public experience it one time or another. This time though the guy called me some particularly nasty things, but what was scary was how his face changed. As I was explaining a particular policy, it’s like a mask fell from his face to show me what a cruel bastard he really was. The nastiness started shortly after. I had planned to take the next day off, and although I had a meeting via Zoom I was going to attend, I bowed out of it and took care of myself instead. I ended up having a pretty great day with my husband and son and put everything work related aside. It felt like a huge deep breath.

And then the next morning, we found out our beautiful doctor, Adam Lauer, died from pancreatic cancer. It was such a friggin’ kick to the chest. I often talk about Adam and did so a few years ago in my post about having part of my pancreas removed. We knew Adam had cancer and would die much earlier than we would, but he had such hope that he’d get into clinical trials. He did everything he absolutely could to be there for his children, but fucking cancer took him anyways. Adam made such a difference in hundreds of lives in this area. I honestly feel like he saved my son’s life by working through some of his depression through medication and therapy.

Today I went to the visiting hours for Adam. I canceled my appointment with my hospice folks that I visit each Sunday, and went to pay my condolences to Adam’s family.

It was awful. There were many people in old house that has been converted to a funeral home, and there was a line to shake the hands of some of the family members and to see Adam’s body. I was ok at first, but the longer I stood there I knew that I wouldn’t be able to tamp down my emotions. As I said “hello” to Adam’s dad, I choked out how his son had been my doctor and my family’s and how much we cared about him. His father, also a doctor, told me how when he was a young adult, his doctor died. His doctor was a lot like Adam, he said, and he was devastated and thought he’d never find another such a great doctor again. And then Adam, his son, became his doctor. “There’ll be another good doctor for you,” he said. Here was this man, having lost his son, trying to comfort me. I thanked him, told him how tremendously sorry I was, and moved on. I could not tell him how much more Adam meant to our family then just our doctor. We cared about him and he cared about us. He swore like a fucking sailor and he made us feel so comfortable with anything and everything. He never put a time limit on our appointments and he always explained everything in a way we could actually understand. He created personal connections with many of his patients. He never felt like “just” our doctor. There was no one like him.

I miss him. We all miss him. Adam Lauer made a difference in our community. One can only hope to affect the world like he did.

And now…I need to put all of those events in little boxes and file them away. I need to finish washing the dishes, fold laundry and prepare for the work week ahead. Just like we all do, right? I will go to bed tonight, breathe through my range of hot flashes, listen to make sure my husband is still breathing, and hope I can sleep through most of the night and not wake up at 3:30 with my mind swirling in every bad direction it could possibly go. Then I’ll wake in the morning, drink a cup of coffee, get the kid up, and do my best to make it a decent day.

I’m not sure there’s much else we can do, is there?

Please try to be good to yourself this week. It’s gonna be a rough one. ❤

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Dysfunction Reports

If you’ve ever had to apply for disability for a physical ailment or diagnosis (Social Security Disability Insurance–SSDI), you know that you need to fill out a shit ton of paperwork. Oddly, I typically love doing paperwork. I love surveys and questionnaires and I’ve helped my husband fill out many kinds of paperwork throughout our entire marriage. It brings me a little joy.

But the function reports you fill out for Social Security are so…depressing. The questions asked are to show the government what you *can* do, but also what you are no longer able to do. As we went through the list of questions, my mood dipped lower and lower and lower. He talked about how things have changed. He used to make dinner on a regular basis, and still does occasionally, but now he has to do it sitting down on his walker. Often he can’t stand for more than 5 minutes, and if you’re boiling or frying something, it would be silly (and dangerous) to sit in another room if you can’t see or hear what’s happening on the stove.

On the form, there’s a question that asks you to describe your typical day. As Wal described his day, and the amount of dozing and napping and sleeping that he does, I just got really sad. Between his heart not working well, his chronic pain and the medications he has to take to keep living, he is *literally* sleeping much of his life away.

Then we got to the question about what he can no longer do. He listed off a bunch of things, first the work-related activities, then many of the tasks at home he can’t do any longer. This is when I cried just a bit, and he started to sigh more.

As you age, you expect things to change. You expect to not be able to physically accomplish what you once did. But when you’re ill, you realize that you can’t do what you did just last year. Or even 6 months ago. I don’t feel like I’m been particularly naive about Wal’s sickness, but crikey. Filling out these forms and seeing in black and white how far he’s deteriorated, was still a surprise.

Yet when the opportunity came up to visit with a dear friend and for Wal to meet my friend’s family for the first time (and go to the coast!), he was up for the challenge. I drove us to Bar Harbor, and I loved how he kept the window down and did what I typically do when we go to the coast. He inhaled deeply as we neared the ocean and exclaimed how good it smelled. The salty sea air always rejuvenates us!

We met our friends at Acadia National Park and I rode up to Cadillac Mountain with them as Wal drove to the restaurant we would meet at for dinner. (Walking at all on Cadillac was not something he felt he could do.) I had a lovely time with my sweet friends, then we all met at the restaurant where we ate, drank, talked and had a good time. It felt like years had been rewound and my husband was more like he used to be. Not the chronically ill man who is in near constant pain, who gasps for breath when he naps, who *has* to nap, whose hand tremors often make him have to eat with his left hand instead of his usual right. He was just…Wally.

After we left our friends, we did a quick stop at the grocery store to pick our boy up something for dinner. But as we made our way to the check out, it seemed like Wal’s energy was draining and his pain was ratcheting up. The way he walked started to change, the grimace formed on his face, and he was back to the man who can no longer work, the man who doesn’t eat much anymore, the man who can no longer take short walks with his wife. By the time we arrived home 90 minutes later, it was an effort for him to get out of the car. It was time to take his medications and hope his pain would not be so bad through the night so he could sleep.

Then it was back to me watching his chest to make sure he was still breathing, back to counting out his meds and placing them into the pill caddy, and back to helping him in the shower.

But…it was the perfect respite for both of us. He felt like he was living again, and I got to remember what life used to be like. Our days may not be like they used to be, but that one evening gave us our lives back for a little while and it’s made both of us grateful for those fun and sweet moments we still have.

And the kind, kick-ass friends we have in our lives.

Thank you, Jo, Ray & Freddie for a fantastic evening. And thank all of you friends and family who continue to support us by listening to us, loving us, and lending us a hand when we desperately need it.

I feel very, very lucky to have all of you in my life.

*hugging you tight*

❤

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Difficult Conversations

This weekend, my husband and I had “the” conversation. Within any marriage or long-term relationship, there are many types of big, important discussions. Before we were married, I told my husband I did not want children. I knew that he did, but it just wasn’t something I wanted when I was in my 20s. He loved me enough to marry me anyways. Then in 2002, five years after we got married and a few months after my stepfather died unexpectedly at the age of 58, Wal and I were sitting in a Wendy’s in Bangor. We were reflecting on my stepdad’s life and talking about my mom’s future, when I blurted out that I think I wanted kids after all. My family is so wacky and weird and wonderful, why wouldn’t I want that to continue? Of course then it took 4 more years until my boy was conceived due to my endometriosis, but he was well worth the wait.

We’ve had other conversations that should have been tremendously impactful for us both, but often they were not. Talking about debt, sharing household chores, and parenting are the first ones that come to mind that have had only short-term effects.

But in the past few years, Walter and I have talked a lot about end-of-life. This is partially due to my brother’s death, then my parents and my father-in-law. We wrote out our living wills the month after my mom died in 2019, which happened to be just three months before Wal ended up on a ventilator and in a coma. We’ve both changed our living wills a bit since then, having learned the hard way what we want and don’t want our bodies to go through.

This past year, though, has been particularly difficult to talk about death when it seems like it’s much nearer than we thought it would be at this time in our lives. I may have been volunteering for hospice for nearly two years now, but it’s so different when it’s your own spouse. This weekend, my husband admitted that he’s finally seeing how sick he really is. He realized that some of what he was able to do last summer he can no longer do. “I hope I’m here at this time next year,” he said to me last night. We started to talk about his beliefs after death, how he’s not scared to die but doesn’t want to. But also how tired he is. When you have congestive heart failure, your heart WILL stop working at some point, and right now, his heart is working overtime.

Most of the time I have faith that my husband will live another 6 or 7 years, maybe even 10. (He does have incredible longevity genes, and most people in his predicament would have been dead a year ago.) But after the week we’ve had, with constant pain, tremendously high blood pressure and heart rate (but not quite enough to go to the ER), and high blood sugar levels, I’m not so sure about the number of years anymore.

There was a LOT of caregiving to do this past week due to a wrist injury Wal incurred a month ago. It gave me flashbacks of when my mom lived with us for those two short and exhausting, stressful months. And possibly a glimpse into our future? I can already see that I will either need to change my work schedule or honestly, not take care of myself as much as I do right now. I’m fortunate that I have the time to walk before work (unless I don’t sleep well, which is happening every other night lately) and I sometimes walk at lunchtime while the weather is still good, then workout at the gym after work a few nights a week. But that’s leaving my husband alone a lot. Am I frustrated by his lack of social circle? You bet your ass I am. I can only encourage so much, then I have to let it go. But…the guilt does set in. He’s told me before that he wants me to live my life but then admits he gets lonely.

And I keep thinking, “What if this really is his last year?”

I made time for my parents and brother in the last years of their life. I didn’t realize it was the last year for my brother, but I made time because I loved being with him. I knew my parents’ time was short, and I wanted to make sure I did right by them. And although I often enjoy time with my husband, this just feels complicated. Maybe because there’s a lot of anger towards him for not taking care of himself for our entire marriage (and before)? And because our son won’t have his dad around for much of his adulthood? Probably.

But…I still want to do right by my husband. We’ve been together for 29 years, married nearly 27. When you’ve been with someone that long, you know so much about them, including when they are scared or hurt. I have a lot of empathy for people, but I feel the pain and fear and disappointment that my husband is feeling. So I’m trying to make his life AND death to be whatever he wants it to be, but it’s not easy. I often feel helpless and frustrated and sometimes I just want it to all be over.

And then I think about this goofball, and say “Nah. You can keep going, old man.”

Maybe a few more years? ❤

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Dragonflies Dancing

Have you ever been on a walk or run or bike ride, and had dragonflies flitting and dancing about your head? It’s truly one of the most glorious experiences.

Photo by Richard Ricciardi

This evening, I was taking a walk to get the rest of my steps in. It was warm but not as humid as earlier in the day. I was listening to a cute romance novel, enjoying the sun on my skin and walking at a steady but not rushed pace. Just enjoying myself.

As I walked along, I saw the occasional dragonfly scooting past me, until I saw at least a dozen dragonflies flitting back and forth, dancing, playing, even watched one flip upside down in mid-air then right it self again. I could not help but gasp with awe and absolute delight! I tried to take a photo, but that wasn’t happening. Instead I took a selfie to show how happy and content I was feeling at that moment.

Seriously. Look at me! I was just feeling and looking good. Almost glowing.

I’m trying to capture these moments, trying to enjoy all the little things life can offer. Something as beautiful as a flight of dragonflies should be celebrated, you know? We won’t always have “big” momentous occasions or activities to acknowledge like vacations, graduations, new homes or jobs. Instead our lives are typically filled with just seconds of glee and wonderment, yet those seconds really do add up. It doesn’t always feel like it, I know. I often feel like I’m swimming in sorrow and grief, and you might, too. Or maybe you just feel overwhelmed with what life has been throwing at you lately. I get it. You know I do.

Try, please try, to find something that lifted you up for a minute this week. Was it that cup of coffee that tasted extra good today? Maybe you had a good hair day one day this week? Saw a cool cloud that looked like a heart? Or maybe it was that text from your friend you hadn’t heard from in a while.

Earlier today I sat on my porch with a smutty book and a glass of peach wine. It was bliss. And I knew it, acknowledged it and heaved a contented sigh.

What about you? What are some moments of delight you’ve experienced lately? If you haven’t experienced any, please let me know. I’m happy to send you cat or dog cuteness videos. Or giraffe videos. Giraffes are the best!

Hugs to you all.

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And I live…

I took the day off to live. The anniversary of Phil’s death requires me to do so. I didn’t go ziplining or travel to Europe, although both are on my bucket list. I did what I had intended to do today. I visited the Farnsworth Art Museum, stopped by the Rockland Public Library, found a kick-ass coffee shop and drank ambrosia (the actual name of the coffee with espresso), people-watched, took a walk in the rain, and cried. Not necessarily in that order.

There were some amazing pieces by Jamie Wyeth, especially the screen door sequence. The last two photos here are of the first in that sequence, along with a description. “In capturing a fleeting moment, Wyeth reminds us that our friends and loved ones may be in our lives only briefly.”

So. Fucking. True.

And yes, I was one of those people who stood in front of a piece of artwork and wept.

So much of Wyeth’s work is quite dark, and I couldn’t help but think, “Man, Phil, you’d love this shit!” There were comparisons to some of his pieces and Hitchcock’s film, “The Birds” (a film I watched with my brother several times) as well as Kubrick’s “The Shining” (also saw with my brother, but only once because he scared the bejezus out of me.)

The Farnsworth not only features the Wyeths’ works, but also a variety of artists. There was this great display of collaborative artwork by students. The pieces that are in blue, one that features the gun with “why why why” all over it was a piece by a high school student, as well as the other bluish piece that had one line that got to me. “My biggest fear is I will be forgotten.” Right now that’s not my biggest fear, but forgetting my brother is.

I’m sure that’s part of the reason why I write about him so much, why I continue to grieve him. He was such a fun and weird and interesting human and I wish everyone I’ve ever known (or never known) could have met him. I need him to live on in some way. And I guess this is my way. Because now it’s 7 damn years without him on this planet, and it’s just…wrong.

So take a moment, and if you ever met Phil, think about him. His laugh, his morbid and off kilter humor, his love of horror films, his love of his family and friends. And if you never had the great pleasure of meeting my big brother, I’ve told you a lot about him. Here are a few photos, too. Just take a few seconds and think about him. Let him live for another few moments, would you?

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Grief Mode

This past weekend, I gathered beach items from my basement and my friend’s shed, picnic items from the depths of our fridge and cupboards, and along with my ailing husband off we went to my favorite state park. I have been waiting for this for weeks! Peaks-Kenny State Park is one of my favorite places in the world. It doesn’t look like much, but the memories I have there begin as a very young child and continue to memories from just two years ago. It’s a special place for me.

One of the best memories (and stories) I have is when I was maybe 5 (?) years old. My mom kept talking about this giant slide and playground at the beach. But my little ears heard “Giant’s slide”, which meant the Giant must live there, right? We drove up to the park, about a 30 or 40 minute drive (I thought it took FOREVER to get there) and as we climbed out of our car, I saw a boulder with a sandwich sitting on it. I ran to it and yelled, “The Giant left his sandwich!” My mother had no clue what the hell I was talking about. Eventually it was sorted out, and it became one of the most adored stories of my childhood.

Once my son was born, we visited this park most summers. I needed to show him where the Giants used to live! It’s a wonderful place to hang at the beach, play on the playground, go for a swim, picnic, and walk the trails. Although I knew my husband couldn’t do many of these things, he could still hang on the beach and we could have a picnic. But…for the very first time in over 45 years of visiting this park, when we got to the entrance we were told the beach was full and either we could wait in line with at least 6 other cars until some folks left, or just leave.

We sat in line for 30 seconds, and then I drove the hell outta there. I was devastated. I was angry. I was so damn sad! It just took SO MUCH to get to this point. I packed the chairs, the umbrella, and the cooler. I made the sandwiches and brought the bag of snacks (and bottle of wine, because come on!). I made sure we had towels and sun block and books. It felt a bit like taking my son when he was a toddler. I had to do everything, but I knew it would all be ok and it would be so fun. At least for me. My husband typically doesn’t walk well anymore and he honestly hates the sun, but he was doing this for me. It’s been the one thing I’ve asked him to do with me this summer that involved being outside. Just the ONE THING.

And that one thing was gone. I was “angry driving” at this point so I pulled over when we had cell service. I asked my husband to look for a beach somewhere near by because I was about to lose my shit. For a change, I didn’t cry. I was too pissed off at the world to do that. I knew if I had to drive home without some sun and swimming, I was going to sob for a long time and eat a carton of ice cream–and not that little pint bullshit but a half gallon.

Now, when I say I wanted to go to the beach, I mean a lakeside beach. We are in central Maine and the thought of driving to the coast on a Saturday in July is basically suicide. We would be one of 10 Maine cars with the hundreds of others all out-of-state vehicles. This is the only time we really have traffic here, and I’ll pass on that!

Amazingly, there was a beach 30 minutes away at Lake Hebron in Monson. I didn’t even realize Monson had a lake! I was still seriously glum, but I figured I had to try. I ate a tiny bag of sweet potato chips to get my blood sugar back up and then I was able to keep going. We joked about what kind of hell we might find at this public beach. “What’ll you do if it’s bad or super crowded?” my husband asked. I told him we’d get our sandwiches from the back and head back towards home, but hit up an ice cream stand before we got there. I was very ready to eat my feelings.

But instead we found this lovely place:

The beach was literally a large strip of dirt and a side patch of grass, along with several picnic tables, a changing hut and a porta potty. But it was just what we needed! There were only 6 people there, and 3 of them were children. The old man and I staked out a little corner of the grass, I went for a swim, we both ate lunch and read our books. And I drank two glasses of peach wine that just improved my mood. It was absolutely delightful.

Once we got home, after a stop at Dairy Queen, my husband wanted to feel useful and brought everything inside in one trip. Did he nearly fall to the ground? Yes. Could he catch his breath? Not at first. Did I yell at him? No, instead I spoke quietly which is typically worse for him. “Look, we just had a really good day, so maybe don’t ruin it by dying today, ok?” He set the bags down, caught his breath and we carried on.

Am I bummed that we didn’t go to Peaks Kenny? Yes. Very much so. I know that if I’m able to get there this summer, it will be by myself. I know I’ll still have a lovely time, but it would still be good to have another person. But I’m happy we took a chance to try out this little beach. We really didn’t have anything to lose at that point, so why not?

And I’m grateful for those few happy hours. You know, I’m sure my husband will live another 5, 7, or maybe even 10 years. But as I saw with my dear brother, nothing is certain. And after watching Phil slowly die over 9 years, I know the signs–the body not able to move well, the breathing difficulties, sometimes even the mind slowing down. I didn’t know the signs at the time, or I chose to ignore them. I didn’t want my brother to die, even though I knew he would long before me.

But Phil tried to squeak out little bits of living as much as he could. He’d buy and eat foods from other countries and regions because it was his way of traveling AND trying something new. He read “Les Miserables” by Victor Hugo because he wanted to make sure he read the 1,400 page novel before he died. He played with his nephew, spent time with his family and partner–he made memories for US.

That’s what I’m trying to do with my husband. We have nearly 30 years of memories, many good and many awful, But why stop there? He’s never been a very outgoing person, but I’m grateful he’s trying to do a few things with me so I have those memories when he dies one day. He might drive me batshit crazy sometimes, but I’ll still miss him when he’s gone.

It might seem morbid to be talking like this when Wal, my husband, could live another decade. But tomorrow is the 7-year anniversary of my brother’s death. I am in full grief mode right now. I feel such a horrid sense of dread and loss.

I’m at my kitchen table writing this, and I just want tomorrow to come so I can leave the house. These are the times I had a she shed to escape to.

Each year on July 23rd, I try to live. I try to live for my brother, to do something I’ve never done. Some years it’s just been trying a new food, other times it’s traveling with my son. But tomorrow? Tomorrow I’m leaving my house early, by myself, and visiting the Farnsworth Art Museum, where I’ve never been. My lovely library has a free pass patrons can use, so I’m taking full advantage of it. Hopefully the rain won’t ruin a nice walk near the ocean, but it’s ok if it does. Walking in the rain can be life affirming sometimes. Or it will make me feel more miserable. And I might like that better.

Hug the people you love, friends. Tell them you love them. This life goes by in a flash.

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End Times

Thursday morning I awoke with an anxiety attack. I don’t know what I had been dreaming, but my first thought was about my son’s ankles and the fact that they’ve been hurting him for a few weeks, shortly after he started playing football. That one thought spiraled into worries about new shoes and getting him a new doctor and worrying about the health of our current doctor and how do I pay for my last medical bill and I hope the food bank has more produce next week because this week was a bust and we really need more vegetables in the house and I need to stop thinking, stop thinking, stop thinking.

Yeah.

Hello, 4:30am.

So I got up, drank coffee, ate half a banana, and took a 4 mile walk while listening to a gloriously smutty romance novel. (Unfortunately Yours by Tessa Bailey–Anything by Bailey is fun and often smutty. Delicious!) My hip was screaming by the end of the walk, but at least I wasn’t concerned about money. The time outside and moving my body was enough to clear my head and make a plan to at least have my son’s ankles wrapped before that day’s football practice. I just refused to worry about the other stuff the rest of the morning. It was just too much to think about. It was just too, too much.

The thing is…life is not horrible. It’s hard for sure. It’s a struggle. It’s scary not knowing…anything really. The political climate of this country does not help matters. My son, my beautiful child, is a political science/government/history junkie and so we tend to read, listen and watch more news than ever before. But I have now had to stop, because I can’t stop freaking the fuck out.

I’m ashamed to say that when I heard there had been an assassination attempt on former President Trump, I was disappointed to hear that it was only an attempt. The anger I have at Trump for installing so many jackasses to the Supreme Court and his party’s disgusting Project 2025 plan, made me hope for his death. And I’m not happy that I had that reaction. There is no place for political violence.

But I have to be honest in how I feel. We’re living in a country where many women no longer have a right to choose what they do to their own bodies, and where librarians and teachers are harassed and called “groomers” for providing access to books that represent children like mine.

This isn’t the same country I was born and raised in. It’s turning into a hateful place, where people no longer feel safe to speak how they feel about a political candidate unless they are in a group of like-minded individuals. And I am speaking about both Republicans and Democrats. As a liberal Democrat living in a small conservative town, I rarely feel comfortable expressing how I feel here. When you see Trump signs or F*ck Biden signs on just about every road, how else should I feel? But I also know of librarians that are Republicans that will not say a word about politics for fear of their colleagues damning them for their views.

You know, I rarely talk about politics publicly. I work in a public library so I keep my mouth shut while at work (except with some colleagues), and at home we do talk about politics but sometimes it’s just too exhausting. It is incredibly difficult to live with someone who disagrees with you politically. So most days we keep it to a minimum. That’s how we’ve remained married for nearly 27 years. Yet our son, who knows more about American history than we do, and is thoughtful and knowledgeable about our current political system, will bring facts and a sense of calm to our family discussions. (Facts and calm to political discussions. Isn’t that something?) I see my son and much of his generation as a beacon of hope. When they are of age to vote and run for office, I hope we will begin to see a change in our world for the better.

And hope is what we need right now. All of us. For a variety of reasons.

You know, I sent this photo to a friend recently who is no longer speaking to me. I’m not sure why they’re not speaking to me, but it may have nothing to do with me. It was a message to let them know that I have hope that our friendship will remain and hope that our lives will get better, but also just to say that I’m still here.

And I am. I’m here. And so are you. And I’m so happy and thankful for that. So let’s get through another night together. I know we can make it through. ❤

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Your Success

Dear Phil,

Happy birthday, big brother. I miss you.

I continue to have conversations with you, but Phil? I’m scared. I’m not sure how you’d reply anymore. There are times when I think I’m forgetting you, forgetting what foods you liked or what you thought was funny and what was just ridiculous. But…it’s been 7 years so maybe your tastes and thoughts would have changed anyway. We all evolve, or hope to, right?

I’ve been watching the latest season of Bridgerton, and often wonder what you’d think about the show. You’d probably watch it since you got me into Downton Abbey, but this is much steamier and more diverse and just plain delicious! There’s gossip and sex and beautiful gowns and manipulation of pop tunes into classical dancing music. One of the latest storylines has a slightly larger than average sized woman as the romantic interest. You know how I love romance stories with larger women! I just watched the sex scene with the woman and her love interest, and yes, she’s rounder than your average actress, but for fuck’s sake! She’s gorgeous, flawless skin, beautiful breasts. Where are the women with back fat?!? I want to see a middle-aged or older actress, with rolls for a stomach, fat thighs and a cottage cheese ass. AND I want to see the man (or another woman, I don’t care) tell her how fucking beautiful she is. THAT is what the world needs to see.

*current rant over*

I can hear you laughing now. Agreeing with me, but laughing. “Calm down, Chuckles.”

Hey, the Bangor Pride Parade is this Saturday. The family is going–the kid and I, Bon, Am & Ky, too. Remember the last one we went to? It’s bigger now. The only thing I remember about that one in 2017 was that we needed a seat for you. You were gonna be there, one way or another, so I got out my lawn chair and my friend, Trish, helped get us settled or helped us leave. I don’t remember which now. I just remember being there with you, then getting grocery store sushi afterwards and eating at my house. Looking back, that was the day you tried to tell me you didn’t have a lot of time left. But I refused to believe it.

Anywho, did I tell you I’ve been going to Planet Fitness recently? I signed up with the boy in early May and I’ve been going faithfully 2-3 times a week. I’m not losing any weight, but I’ve gotten stronger and damn, I’m getting muscles! And talk about muscles?!? The eye candy at this gym is bananas. Plus the wide range of ages and shapes and sizes makes me happy. I don’t feel like a completely weak, old fat ass when I go there.

For my birthday I went out and bought clothes that I couldn’t afford but fit better. I’m sick of trying to fit into clothes that fit me a few years ago. Fuck it. I’m healthy and fit, so I might as well be comfortable and stop squeezing into things that make me feel fatter and more like a sausage than like the woman I am. Don’t you love that it’s taken me 51 years to finally get to the “fuck it” stage? But we both know it’s hard for me to hang onto that. Our self-esteem was always so wrapped up in our weight, both as kids and adults. I’m trying to shed that shit, but it’s not easy. I’ll keep trying though.

I was talking to one of my colleagues about you recently. I was telling her how sometimes I look at your Goodreads account to see what books you read that I haven’t. I want to read more of what you did, yet lately I’m reading mostly romances–straight, gay, lesbian, doesn’t matter. As long as it has good sex scenes and a happy for now (or forever after) ending, then I’m on it. There aren’t enough romances with middle-aged people, though. So many of them are people in their late 20s or early-mid 30s. We need more novels about people in their 50s who want to get laid or have their own happy for now ending. Most books with characters this age are dramatic or depressing. I don’t want a love story. That shit can mean a dead partner at some point. Too much reality. I want a friggin’ romcom with a woman who has the battle scars of a typical middle-aged woman–stretch marks, a possible c-section scar, tattoos, and all the mental and emotional baggage that comes with age. That has all the markings of a good romcom, doesn’t it?

So…I hate ending these letters, you know that, right? But I wanted to tell you something. I’ve told you about the Ralph Waldo Emerson quote that says, “…to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. That is to have succeeded!” Much of the rest of the quote is about appreciating beauty and to laugh a lot and all of those other things that we try to do. But I wanted to make sure you know, and I hope, hope, hope you knew, that you were tremendously successful. You made so many of us laugh and feel loved and breathe easier. Honestly? I feel like I haven’t been able to take a breath since you left.

I love you, my favorite brother.

Hugs & sloppy kisses,

Holly

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My Favorite Month

“I wonder what it would be like to live in a world where it was always June.” –L.M. Montgomery

I LOVE June.

I personally think June is one of the best months you can spend in Maine. Summer is just beginning but the temps are in the 70s, low to no humidity. Everything is green, the lupines have bloomed and it’s just fucking gorgeous. It’s the end of the school year and high school graduation for some. Like January, it feels like a time for new beginnings, fresh starts.

Typically it’s an emotional month for me, too. June is not only my birthday month, but my brother’s, too. It’s a time when we would celebrate our birthdays together, along with my dad’s birthday and Father’s Day. This year, though, I’m canceling any kind of birthday celebration with my family. We’re heading to one of our local Pride parades instead. We’ll celebrate Pride together and to me, it’ll feel like we’re celebrating my brother. Which is what I’d rather do.

Will I still celebrate my own birthday? You bet your ass. Like I’ve said in previous posts, I’ve always loved my birthday but have often been disappointed by others in their lack of celebrating my birthday. So fuck ’em. I might not have a road trip planned like last year’s big 5-0, but I’ll do what I want and create my own celebration.

This month, I’ve tried to take time to really see things around me that bring me joy. That Kermit lawn ornament? I saw it on a lunchtime walk while I was at work, and it cracked me up. The reserved parking sign is at a local grocery store. I’ll never use it, thank goodness, but so so happy it exists for those future moms out there! That photo of me is just from my run today. It was a pretty fantastic 5-miler, the first in 8 months. Certainly worthy of celebrating.

The “Be Your Own Kind of Beautiful” sign was at a restaurant where I had lunch with my dear friend and second mom, Sue. I feel like it’s a reminder that I don’t need others to validate who I am. I’m some kind of wonderful, damn it, and need to cut away those that make me feel otherwise.

See that Maine and Pride flag? I saw those flags at a home, that if you grew up here in Maine, you might automatically think those folks were close minded rednecks that would shoot a gay man on sight if they had a chance. The house was a bit run down with many cars and car parts all over the lawn and driveway. And yet they flew that Pride flag high and proud. I actually laughed out loud. I was a bit ashamed of myself for putting those folks in a box where they certainly didn’t belong. I’ve never been so happy to be wrong.

That last photo is of one of my sistas from another mista, Trish, and the FABULOUS author, Steven Rowley. We were fortunate enough to hear him speak about his latest novel. His humor is infectious and he is just bursting with joy. If you’ve ever read “The Guncle,” it’s definitely a reflection of who Rowley is. And if you haven’t read it, I encourage you to go to your local library or bookstore and get it asap. Then pick up the sequel, “The Guncle Abroad”!

Friends, if you’ve never been to Maine before, I encourage you to visit in the month of June. But if you can’t be here right now, I hope it’s lovely wherever you are. And if it isn’t? May you find something to bring you joy this month.

Remember, if you need a fresh start, this is as a good time as any other.

So let’s do it. Let’s begin again. ❤