It’s been over two months since I’ve sat down at my laptop and written with purpose. I’ve missed it. Since writing this blog is often a form of therapy, I ended up leaning on my friends more over the past few months and talking to my therapist about things I just can’t do here. But I’m ready to come back again.

The past few months have been a whirlwind. Here’s a quick and dirty list of what has transpired:

• Started my new job as the Head of Circulation at the Bangor Public Library. It is seriously a fantastic workplace and job. I can’t begin to tell you how much I love it. Or I might do that in the coming weeks.
• Discovered I had plantar fasciitis the same week I started my new job. It was so freaking painful and frustrating. Still working through it, but my foot is finally healing.
• Won the Outstanding Library Advocate Award at the Maine Library Conference in May. It was a surprise and a surreal moment. I won it due to the backing of the Pittsfield Library community during budget season last fall, and because my colleagues are some of the most generous and kind souls that exist.
• I turned 50 and went on a solo road trip with my goals being to have an adventure, and to be at the Christmas Story House on my birthday. Achievement unlocked! That trip will need to be a post all by itself. It was so dang fun.
• I officially entered menopause. I’ve looked forward to this for years, and only recently started to dread it. I blame menopause on my body’s refusal to give up the 10-23 pounds I want to lose, but I am enjoying not bleeding every single month.
• Many of my friends have just turned 50 also or will in the next 6-7 months. Because of this huge milestone in our lives, four of my dearest friends and I placed a deposit on a villa in Belize and will spend a (hopefully) glorious week there next year.
• Continued to volunteer for both hospice and The Trevor Project. Both are getting a little more difficult, and I can already see myself stepping back from Trevor Project this winter. I don’t always give it the real time it deserves and if I can’t be truly present during my shifts, then I shouldn’t do it. I’m going to work on that this summer and hopefully will be able to continue for a lot longer.
• My baby boy got his driver’s license and started taking an online college course in American Government. That has given me glimpses of his future and mine. It’s both scary and exciting.

What really has affected my mental health in the past few months has been my birthday. The number itself isn’t the problem. In so many ways I’ve loved turning 50. Heck, I talked to some folks from AARP at the Bangor Pride Festival, asking why I haven’t received anything in the mail yet!

I’ve referenced Sally O’Malley numerous times and listened to Molly Shannon’s autobiography, “Hello, Molly” when I began my road trip. I can, indeed, “kick and stretch and KICK!” Although I draw the line at wearing red polyester pants that would give me a camel toe. 😉

I’ve given gifts to a few friends that already turned 50 this year and look forward to celebrating next year with some of them. My husband and I bought a spectacular kitchen table and chairs for my birthday, too. Sounds like an odd gift, but one I desperately wanted. We’ll be paying for it for a while, but I’m ok with that. PB&J sandwiches are a-ok in my book!

My problem isn’t my age, it isn’t that I’m now a half century old. The issue is that my dear brother never made it here. He died 11 months before his 50th birthday. I absolutely HATE that I am older than him now. It’s wrong. It makes me angry and tremendously sad.

I don’t just grieve for the fact that I don’t have Phil around anymore to laugh with or to talk with or to read his stories. Nor do I just grieve for my son who battles depression that began with losing his uncle. I also grieve for my brother and everything that he didn’t get to do. To me, this is what a large part of grief is. It’s thinking about what that person lost. To be honest, when I start to think about what Phil lost, I can’t breathe. I start to panic and either take a walk or a run, move around the room, or just shut those thoughts down and think about something else. The latter never works so I usually eat something instead. (My go-to coping mechanism is to reach for food, something that I will probably work on in therapy for my eternity.)

He didn’t get to have a 50th birthday party. He didn’t get to see the Christmas Story House and I know he would have loved it. He didn’t get to see the fucking awesome display of George Carlin’s work at the National Comedy Center. Phil introduced me to Carlin so long ago and at that time I didn’t swear much. Carlin’s routine back then made me cringe and laugh and I thought it was incredible. Phil probably would have really liked to see the “Birthplace of Superman” in Cleveland, which is where Jerry Siegel, one of Superman’s co-creators, lived and created the character. My brother often said that he lived his life with the philosophy, “WWSD”–What Would Superman Do? You can still be good but a bad-ass, too. (Although Phil was really more like Batman. A decent person, but dark and would have lived in a cave if he could have.)

And the books Phil can never read? The stories he’ll never write? The films he’ll never see?

I AM STILL SO FUCKING MAD!

I will never be ok with the fact that my brother died at the age of 49. Never. I know it’s been said that we were all fortunate enough to get him for that long, because he was never supposed to make it to 18. But I don’t really care about that. I still want him here and you can’t tell me to feel lucky that I got to have him in my life for 44 years. It should have been longer. My parents certainly believed it should have been longer. I often wonder if both of my parents would have died just two years later if Phil had lived.

So….what now?

I keep on living, I guess. I will remain pissed off that Phil isn’t here, but I’ll also keep talking about him and re-telling stories to my son about his dear uncle, and about how much my boy is like him. I’ll keep reading books that I wish I could discuss with him, and I’ll continue to call Phil my big brother. He can’t be any other way to me, no matter my age or his.

And I’ll try to continue to “Kick, Stretch and KICK!” all without breaking a hip.

Hugs and sloppy kisses, friends.

❤