grief

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The Firsts

I really hate the firsts.

My first day back at work since my husband died. The first night coming home from work without him here. The first doctor’s appointment without him here to find out what my doctor said and if I was ok. The first time I had to fill out paperwork and mark “widowed” instead of “married.” Even the first oil change on my car left me missing him.

Each one of these events left me either crying or angry or just…empty.

That first night I came home from work, I impulsively changed the message on our answering machine to just list our number. Another first. A message with no names, no joking, just our number. But immediately after I changed the message, I felt like I had erased my husband from existence. It was never his voice on our machine, but his name. With my name. With our son’s name. It’s like I erased our family in 10 seconds. I cried so hard I started to hyperventilate. I had to walk around the house and focus on my breathing so I wouldn’t pass out.

These “firsts” are things I had never thought about before. When my brother and parents died, I became very familiar with death dates and first holidays and birthdays without each of them. But this? It is vastly different when your spouse or partner dies. Our lives were so intertwined that anything I used to typically do, seems wrong now. Going to the grocery store is like trying to walk in a fucking minefield. I go through the aisles and try to pick up items I would buy for Wally, things I can’t even eat or drink, but it’s so ingrained in me to make sure I take care of his needs, too, that I feel bereft each damned time I walk through the store. I’ve even tried different stores, but it doesn’t matter. My brain can’t quite compute that Wally isn’t here for me to buy for, to take care of. So typically I wander in the store a bit, wonder why I’m even there, and leave with very little.

Lima sitting in Wally’s chair with some of his cremains

But this weekend, I had my first “not completely horrible day.” I still cried a few times, but I didn’t feel quite as heavy as I had the day before. Much of that heaviness has already returned, but that’s ok. I don’t want it to completely go away. I want to keep carrying this grief, this love, this pain, around with me because I want to stay connected to Wally somehow. Sometimes talking out loud to him or looking at photos or watching videos with him in them—it’s not enough. Everything just feels…off. Wrong. Disconnected.

And yet at the same time, I’m canceling his credit card and trying to get his life insurance and shutting off his cell phone. And I feel horrible about it!! I know I need to do it all but jesus fucking christ, it’s like I just continue to try and erase him when all I really want to do is talk to him and kiss him and hold him again.

In Wally’s eulogy, I said that I know that no one will ever love me again like my husband did. It’s true. I was so lucky to have his love for over 30 years. But my god, the hole that it left when he died seems infinite.

I know I have only just begun all the “firsts” and although I shouldn’t be, I’m still surprised at how exhausting they are. His birthday is coming up, along with all the damn holidays. I’m about to go to my first conference since he’s been gone. We used to talk each night of my conferences and I’d tell him what I learned, who I saw, what cable tv I was able to watch in the hotel room. He’d always say how much he missed me and loved me and to make sure I stayed safe. I’m really going to miss those conversations. All of our conversations. Everything.

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The Love Won’t Die

Many of you who read this blog are people that I know personally or through social media. For those of you who do not fit in those categories, you know about my life, my joy, and my struggles through my writing. I’m having difficulty writing much down these days, but wanted you to know that my husband died on October 2nd. Although he had been in hospice care for 7 months, I really thought we had at least a few more weeks. But I was wrong.

Our son and I wrote Walter’s obituary while he was laid out in the living room with his mother, sister and niece hanging out with him. I kept Wally’s body for 8 hours after he died, and probably would have kept him longer. But I needed to let go at some point, I guess.

I wonder if I’ll feel any relief that the caregiving part of my life is over. Right now I don’t. I just want to talk to my husband. I want to hear him laugh. I want him to make me laugh.

Instead I just talk to his chair. In my head I can hear him responding to me. Each night and morning, I carry the pillow he died on and hold it to my chest like a teddy bear. I’m not sure why I thought I wouldn’t hurt as much and as deeply as I do. Denial, I suppose? This is more horrible than I ever imagined. There were times when I didn’t want to be married, times when I wanted to live alone. But when your spouse of nearly three decades is no longer on the planet, it doesn’t matter what I wanted before. I just want him here for a little bit longer.

But I don’t get that. Our son doesn’t get that either.

I miss you, Wally. I love you.

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The Ramp to Oblivion

I’ve been finding myself stuck lately. Like…I stop where I am and I can’t move at that moment. I can feel this darkness fall over me and when I’m able to put one step in front of the other again, I feel heavy. Sometimes I’m sitting at my desk at work or on the couch at home and I appear to be lost in thought. Yet it’s more that I’m trying not to cry because I’m feeling everything that I’ve lost and about to lose.

I’m lucky in the fact that I get to see my husband every day still. I know others don’t have that luxury. Is it hard watching him slowly die? Fuck yeah, it is. There are days that I want it all to be over. And there are days that I hope it never ends. Humans are full of contradictions, aren’t we?

The past 2-3 weeks have been challenging. Wal’s health declined suddenly–including severe leg weakness and a dizzy spell that has left him with some short term memory loss. (Possible stroke?) I’ve mentioned before how congestive heart failure (CHF) is one of those staircase diseases. You go down a step, and then you plateau. But you keep going down the steps, not back up. Your health will just continue to decline until you die. In just a 4-day period, Wal was no longer able to go up or down stairs and had a bit of memory loss. Once again, his heart isn’t able to pump blood the way it needs to. This is what CHF does.

When my husband has a new decline, we have some serious conversations, but ones we’ve had before–where will he be cremated, who to call, etc. This time, however, was scarier because the thought of Wal having a stroke that completely takes away any of his autonomy is our worst case scenario. We ended up talking with his hospice nurse last week about when a hospital bed would be needed and Wal was worried about where it would go. (Right in the living room, I assured him. Right where he sleeps in his “forever chair” now. Not to worry.) I also started to apply for Paid Medical Family Leave for when I need to be home more. I know I need to change my schedule now, but I want this all squared away first and we’re still waiting on Wal’s doctor to finish up some paperwork. But even through all of that, humor still found our way into our conversation one night. “I know this disease is supposed to be like going down a staircase,” Wal said, “but now it feels like a ramp!” We both laughed because there was nothing else we could do.

Talking about a ramp…we now need one or Wal won’t be able to leave the house most days. Yesterday he had a rare good day and we ran errands, with him in the car most of the time. It felt good to finally get him out of the house after over two weeks with being unable to. Going back up the steps was not easy and I basically pushed his body and helped lift one of his legs for every step. But we did it! Thankfully, we have some incredible neighbors who are going to build us a ramp soon, which will make our lives a lot easier for when Wal has to or wants to leave the house.

I want you to know that our lives are, believe it or not, not all doom and gloom. Are we all a bit depressed most days? Yes. Of course. Mondays for me, in particular, are awful. I go to work and I really do feel like there’s a dark cloud following me about. It’s difficult for me to smile on those days and I know I have an aura of sadness. I can tell just by the way my co-workers interact with me. This was confirmed last week when a co-worker, an absolute sweetheart of a human, told me they just don’t know what to do for me or even how to be around me sometimes. I was so grateful for their honesty, but also I wasn’t sure how to respond. I wasn’t really surprised by their statement and yet I was still caught off-guard. I can only hide so much and I guess I was really sucking at hiding the grief. So I told them that they could always say they were sorry this was happening to me and to keep making me laugh like they usually do. Laughing is the best balm for all of us right now.

So, my friends, find something that makes you laugh today. Cat videos, a dad joke, a funny film, a Far Side comic strip, a Weird Al song, whatever! It’ll lower your blood pressure and increase your endorphins. And if you’re like many of us, if you laugh hard enough you might pee a little, too!

Hugs to you all, friends. ❤

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The Scream

While on my way to work the other day, I was sitting at a stop light when I started to hear some kind of high-pitched…noise? Music? Birds? I shut off my audio book and listened more closely. I looked in my rear view mirror and realized it was the driver in the white truck behind me. She was screaming.

She wasn’t singing. She wasn’t talking loudly or yelling at someone. She was screaming. I think there were some words being pushed through, but I couldn’t make them out. She did flail her arms a few times, but not at anyone in her vehicle or at me. It was absolutely unsettling.

Once the light turned green, I drove forward and she stayed behind me for a short time, but wasn’t keeping up. Once she turned off, I took a deep breath and eased it out.

It was an unpleasant way to start the day. It seemed to set the tone of my morning, then dissipated by noon. But I can’t stop thinking of this woman. What happened to her?

Was she screaming because life was hard and she was feeling helpless and just didn’t know what to do next? Was she screaming at the ghost of her lover who has left her with a pile of debt AND no way to pay for a funeral? Or was she just letting off some steam to help her keep moving forward in this batshit-crazy world, and as soon as she got out of the truck she’d start singing “Shake It Off”?

I cry often in my car, but only scream on dire days. And since I live in a rural area, I can scream in my car and no one will see me nor would they hear those tinny, ear-piercing sounds that can come from a grief howl. And now that I know what it can do to others, I’m glad people can’t hear it.

But I haven’t screamed in a very long time. Right now it just seems like an exhausting task. I’m not sure what to make of that. I’m too tired to express my grief and rage?

Yeah. I guess I am.

I don’t know why the woman in the truck was screaming, but I hope she found some relief from it. And I really hope she’s ok.

I hope you are, too, friends. I hope you’re more than ok. 💜 But if you need to scream in your car, your room, or at the sky, do it.

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Our Dying Checklist

I absolutely LOVE checklists. On the weekend when I’m trying to figure out what I need to get done, I make a delightful list of cleaning chores along with running or walking, writing, and even reading a book. It’s all stuff I need to or want to get done. Am I a nerd? Obviously.

As I’ve helped folks with their end-of-life planning, I’ve created checklists that includes tasks like working on their living wills, making lists of passwords and account numbers, and making plans for their pets. But as my husband’s health declines, I realized we needed to make a new checklist just for us.

Once Wal stopped working a few years ago, I started writing down random things I needed to know. We already had a notebook started back in 2021 after Wal had a widow maker of a heart attack. Back then, once he got home, I started asking more questions about what switch went to which thing. How do I actually start the lawn mower? How do I turn on the water faucet outside? And of course I ended up learning how to put new heat tape on our pipes whether I liked it or not. But now that he’s in hospice? Our to-do list has changed.

My husband still worries about things that need to be taken care of, as do I. We need new steps and new gutters. The basement needs to be cleaned out. Wal’s office needs to be at least organized if not also cleaned out (this is a sore spot so I try not to bring it up). But those are things that I know can be taken care of later. After he’s gone. Last week, however, we started on a short list of tasks that only he can do. We went to our local Spectrum office where Wal added my name to the phone/internet account. I’m not sure why his name was ever the only one on it, but it was. And I’ve heard horror stories from widows and widowers who have tried to get the name changed on a Spectrum account that took months instead of just a phone call. So last week when Wal was having an ok day (not really the best but he wanted to go), we stood in line for about 10-15 minutes and he added my name to the account. I even asked the young woman who waited on us, “if” something happens to my husband, would I be able to make any changes to the account, and she replied, “yes.” And that’s all we needed to know.

This may sound like it’s no big deal, but let me paint you a picture. My husband walks very slowly with his cane. Steps are very difficult, but he can typically still get up and down a few. He was very fatigued that day, but we got down our house steps and he got into the car. It’s a very slow and sometimes painful process for him and I know my face shows some of the anxiety I feel when I watch him. The wrinkles on my forehead have become deep crevices!

Once we got to the Spectrum store, we saw that there was no parking directly in front. It’s part of a strip mall and the parking lot is across a little road. We parked in the very closest spot, but it’s still a little walk to get to the store. THEN, he had to step up onto the curb/sidewalk because there is no handicap ramp or entrance for the sidewalk at this store. Once we got into the store, we signed in then stood to wait. There are seats, but there’s a very low couch and a very tall table with tall chairs. It all looked daunting to him, so he just tried to keep standing and was grateful it was only 10 minutes. Once we walked back outside, there’s that step down off the curb, across the road and basically he fell into the car. “That felt like a marathon,” he rasped.

I thanked Wal multiple times on the way home. I know how tough that was, for multiple reasons. Knowing he needed to do this so I won’t have to argue with a stupid phone company after he dies, was a weight off both of our shoulders, but also more weight into our hearts. The things we carry, right? All the grief and loss we carry around every day. But watching my husband, my dying husband, try to mark off a few items from our new checklist to make sure that I won’t have to struggle quite so much after he’s gone? That shit is heavy.

But the list continues. There’s a credit card that needs to be canceled.  Our AAA membership needs to be minimized to just the boy and myself. A car registration and title that needs a name change. And a few other tasks that should be done sooner rather than later.

Due to a particularly bad breathing day, I’m home with Wal today. I plan on crossing a few of these things off my list while he sleeps, but I decided to make him a blueberry pie and write to y’all first.

Ignore the cracked crust.

I hope you’re hanging in there. Today is the Primary Election Day here in Maine, so we’re feeling hopeful. I always expect the worst but hope for the best. *fingers crossed*

Hugs to you all, friends. ❤

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Canceling Plans

I facilitate a grief book group at my work. Because of the group and because of my interests, I’m always reading about death, dying and grief. This past month we discussed “The Grieving Brain : the surprising science of how we learn from love and loss” by Mary-Frances O’Connor. It’s absolutely fascinating! I have post-it notes all through the book, marking phrases and words I didn’t know but now want to remember–like “counterfactual thinking.” That’s when you think “If I had just told him to take his blood pressure pills, he’d still be here.” Or, “If the doctor had done this, then she’d still be alive.”

The word, “zeitgebers” or “time givers” was a new one for me, too. O’Connor defines zeitgebers as “those environmental clues that synchronize a person’s biological rhythms to Earth’s twenty-four-hour cycle of light and dark.” (p. 171) She talks about zeitgebers related to falling asleep, like a period of watching tv or reading before going to bed, or the warmth and smells of the person you’re going to bed with. So when your partner is no longer there, this lack of zeitgebers relating to them can cause rumination about the person you’re missing. That lack of your spouse’s snoring or the smell of her lotion are additional reasons why we start to think about them. It’s not always that something reminds us of them, it’s the LACK of the thing that reminds us. And we wonder why we can’t sleep when we’re grieving. (Of course, there are SO MANY reasons why you may not be sleeping right now. Grief may just be one of many reasons.)

It made me start to wonder how I’ll react to my husband’s absence. What will I miss?

Because of his breathing problems, Wal hasn’t slept in our bed for over a year. So the snoring that always put me to sleep, hasn’t been there for quite a while. So I probably won’t miss that. But missing his smell? Yeah. Especially that piney, clean smell from his soap and beard oil. His laughter? Hell, yeah. I miss hearing the laughter of every single person I’ve lost, don’t you?

Do I like to think about this?

No.

And yet…I can’t help it. I think it’s part of anticipatory grief. I feel so damn sad and lost now, so it’s natural to wonder what I’ll be like afterwards. I was so untethered by my brother’s death and so fucking lost, and part of me is afraid that I’ll be like that. But I just CAN’T BE LIKE THAT when my husband dies. I just can’t. I’ll be alone and I am the person responsible for taking care of everything. Just like I am now. But…not like I am now at all. I still have him here to bounce ideas off of or get advice. He’s still here so we can plan for tomorrow and plan for when there is no tomorrow.

I already miss how strong he used to be–those thick, muscular legs are now only thick with fluid because his fucking heart doesn’t pump the way it should. His arms are so much thinner now. He used to be able to carry all the groceries in at once for me. Now, when he’s particularly ill, I have to open soda or water bottles for him because he doesn’t have the strength to do it.

Before you say, “He’s still here so enjoy it! Spend every minute you can with him! Be grateful!” I want you to stop and not say any of those things to me. Ok? If you do, I may not talk to you anymore. Do I enjoy my time with Wal? Very often, yes. Every day or every minute? Fuck no! I don’t love every minute of every day with anyone, including myself. So don’t you fucking dare to tell me to be grateful. I love my husband. There’s no doubt about that. And I am grateful for much of the time we’ve had together and will have. But being a caregiver, even one like me who still works outside the home full time, is so….

fucking.

hard.

A few months ago, my workplace gave me the opportunity to go to a national conference that I’ve ALWAYS wanted to go to since I became a librarian nearly 30 years ago. Much of it would be paid by my work and I’ve been so excited to go. But I’ll be gone for a week. And Wal has been very unwell for this entire month. So after trying to get doctor recommendations about his health and getting no answers, we finally have a referral to get an evaluation to see where Wal is really at. Is he ready for hospice care or remain with some sort of palliative care? We might get some answers in the next few weeks. But since we still don’t have ANY recommendations, I ended up canceling my travel plans for the conference.

I can’t bring myself to sit with my feelings about canceling the trip. My brain tells me this was the right thing to do. If Wal had a week like he had this past week, I would have come home early anyways. It was a particularly rough, rough week–very low oxygen levels, little to no eating, weak, etc. Today, however, he is feeling pretty damn great. He can eat a bit more and is awake and is smiling. It’s really joyful for me to see! These good days are so rare. It might be only the 2nd or 3rd good day of the month, so this is when we celebrate. If he felt really good while I was away, then I’d be ok about leaving. Probably. But an entire week of him feeling good? That is just magical thinking.

My heart, however, is a bit torn about the whole thing. Here’s the thing: I’ve been married as long as I’ve been a librarian. We eloped two weeks after I received my Master’s degree and two weeks after that started my first professional librarian position. So the two are completely entwined. Does my husband mean more to me than my career? Yes. Most days. 😉 I’ve been with him for nearly 30 years, BUT never been to this conference. The cost of it is typically too much for me to go and it’s only every other year. So…I really wanted to go. There were sessions I wanted to attend and learn from, and authors I wanted to meet. But…how could I go when it’s in Minnesota? I can’t drive home. If something happens, I would need to fly home which obviously takes time to change flights and all that jazz. I may have people nearby that could lend a helping hand to my husband, but not me. Not his wife. Not the one whom he knows he can rely on. Not the one who wants to be with him until the end.

So…I just need to let it go, don’t I? I have to realize that my current life is not what it used to be. It never will be again.

Ok, friends, I think that’s enough ruminating for tonight. Or wallowing.

Thanks for reading. I hope you’re doing ok. I really do. I may not reach out much anymore, but I think of you often.

Hugs to you. ❤

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The Upcoming Year

I tend to write on each New Year’s Day about either the previous year or my hopes for the upcoming one. But I just couldn’t do it this year. I wasn’t ready to look back at 2025, a year when I went to more protests then I have over my entire lifetime, nor did I want to look ahead to a year that I expect to be filled with more protests of our tyrannical government, along with the stress and grief from watching my husband’s health deteriorate and wonder if this is our last year we have with him.

It’s no secret that my little family talks very openly about death and dying. It’s taken us a while to get there and we’re not always honest with each other or ourselves, but we’re trying. We’re trying to be real about what my husband’s future looks like, but also what lies ahead for my son and I.

It’s odd to have a conversation with your child, no matter what their age, about what they want of their father’s after he’s dead. The other day, my husband, Walter, was in his office, while our son and I were chatting in the living room. I don’t remember exactly how the topic came up, but we started to talk about Wal’s health and I said something about spending time with Wal because who knew how much time he had left. My son said, “I think this is the year.” I looked at him and softly said, “I think so, too.” My boy replied with, “After he dies, dibs on his fuzzy hoodie.” We nearly argued about that because we both love it and it’s become my husband’s signature look, with the hood pulled up onto his bald head and he looks a little like Obi-Wan Kenobi. But of course I would let my son have nearly anything of his father’s after he dies. I think it would bring me both great joy and sadness to see my son still want that connection to his father after his father’s death.

None of us know when we’re going to die, right? My husband has surprised me over and over and I’ve always said it’s a damn miracle he’s alive now. But more than likely he’ll go first and will die in the next few years. I do hope that he’ll live until he’s 60 or even make it to our son’s college graduation, but I really don’t see the latter happening. I’m honestly glad that my son is being realistic about his father’s mortality because it will be devastating when Wal dies. No matter when that happens. But if our son truly believes his father will see him graduate from college and Wal dies in the next year, that’s just another layer of anger and disappointment to add to my son’s plate.

I personally fluctuate between wanting Wal’s health to at least stabilize so I have him longer, to wanting the process to speed up because watching him die slowly is torturous. He’s often miserable due to pain or fatigue or the inability to do what he used to do or the fear of dying the way he doesn’t want to. I have new wrinkles etched into my face from the worry and anxiety and sadness of watching Wal go through all of this. And yet…I wouldn’t have it any other way. This is a very long goodbye, but I think I’d rather have that if I get the choice (not that any of us really do).

I have no resolutions at all for 2026. I have a few things I hope to accomplish, but my priorities are really just to be the best support and cheerleader for my son and my husband. I hope to not lose myself or my own health in the process, so that’ll be on the list, too.

But I hope YOU have goals and dreams you hope to achieve this year. I’d love to hear about them. Really! It might be weird, but typically I am that person who celebrates when someone wins the lottery and it’s not even someone I know. It’s exciting! So if you have that trip to Europe planned or you’re finally getting that pet you’ve always wanted or you are going to work on your living will this year, then I’d love to hear about all of it. And I’m happy to help you with that last one. 😉

Hugs to you all, friends.

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Death, Dying, and Remembrance Week

I took this past week off from work and did a deep dive into death work and what that might mean for me. I start an end of life doula course next month through the University of Vermont and my hope is that I’ll be able to retire from librarianship in 8 years and have a small business of helping people arrange for their death.

What does that mean? I’m not entirely sure. I have many ideas, including having a small home on my property where people can come to die. (Although we have the Death with Dignity law now in Maine–a person is allowed to receive a medical aid in dying, many folks who live in any kind of long-term care facility are not being allowed to die this way. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to provide a space folks can rent so they can die the way they wish?) I would like to be able to show people the options they have for funerals or burials. I’d love to sit with folks as they fill out their advance healthcare directives or living wills and answer questions they might have. I want to be able to show people that if they have a terminal illness, they can die the way they want to. Usually. And maybe even blend bibliotherapy with end of life care or grief or both.

So how do I begin? Well, I, of course, read. I’m already facilitating a “Grieving Through Reading” group at my workplace and for that group I’m always reading new memoirs or books on how to die well or novels about grief. I’ve honestly been doing this since before my brother died in 2017. Ten years ago, with the help of my then boss, Lyn, I wrote a grant to start a five-month library program with book discussions and presentations about the end of life. After Phil and my parents died, I started a new library program called “Death and Donuts” where we had speakers on a variety of topics including hospice, spirituality, grief and advance healthcare directives. I was really doing it more for me…or maybe for the me I was before they died. I wish I had known so much more before they died.

But now I want to DO more.

Many people think talking about death is morbid. But why? It’s the one thing every single person on this planet has in common. We will all die. If you talk about your own death or write a will, this does not mean you’re manifesting death. You get that, right? If you think more about the fact that there is an END to your life, then doesn’t that make you want to live more fully or live your best life, whatever that might mean to you?

I know that most folks find death frightening because it’s the unknown. My father, who believed in God and heaven, was very scared the day before he died. He had really turned his life around during the last 30 years of his life. He made amends for all the shit he had done while drinking (and not drinking). He had been an avid churchgoer and a true believer, but seeing him scared also scared me. Thankfully, on the day he died, Dad saw some of his loved ones–people that had already died–and seemed to find some peace and joy in that. I can only hope that they helped him get to where he needed to be.

Is it scary to think about my own death? Absolutely. Yet I think I’m more scared for my son. I want him to grow older with as much support as I can give him, whether that be emotional or financial support. And losing your mom at any age is a mind fuck. So I’d rather that not happen for a while, but I also know that he’s going to be such a fantastic man, even if I’m not around. Hell, he already is.

Funny enough, the day my week off began, my little family and I had to have a chat about how my son wanted to be notified when his father dies. This discussion began with me calling my son on a Friday evening. He was at his boyfriend’s house and I had a question for him. After we got off the phone, he texted me to say he legitimately thought I was calling to say his father was dead.

Well, shit.

Later, our family sat down and talked about how our son wanted to be notified if he’s away at college and his father dies. “Text me,” he said. Of course, I was appalled. He went on to say that he wants to be texted then immediately called, because then he’d be able to see on his screen that text before we say anything to one another. He’d rather read it then hear it?

I’m…mulling this over. What would I say then? “Pop is dead” or “I have some bad news” or a skull emoji?

But the best part of that conversation was my husband saying, “Boy, how many families have talks like this?” Our son said it was probably more than we thought, but I said, “I wish every family would have conversations like this.”

For the rest of my week off, I listened to death doula podcasts, co-facilitated my first bereavement group, visited my hospice patient/friend, gathered more titles of both novels and non-fiction books related to end of life, attended a regular meeting of the Funeral Consumer Alliance board I’m a member of, and visited the Rest in Peace Museum in Island Falls.

The day I visited this museum was the 8th anniversary of my brother’s death. Typically this is not a good day for me. But I started the day in a really good mood. I was driving 90 minutes to experience something new, which is what I try to do every July 23rd. My brother is no longer able to experience life on this plane, so I try to live it for him. And I know he’d love the Rest in Peace Museum with its tuberculosis caskets, real skeletons and the wide variety of embalming tools from the early 20th century.

Once I left the museum, however, my mood started to decline. The closer I got to home, the worse I felt. I had a good plan for the day, which included sushi with my husband and son and then “family time” due to my son’s request. He wanted us to watch a movie together or play a game and just make sure we spent the entire evening together. This all sounded great and honestly, it was. I just had a few hours where I was feeling how big that hole in my soul or psyche is. The loss of my brother will always leave shadows throughout my life until I, too, leave this planet.

But until that day is here, I will celebrate and talk about my big brother, Phil. This week I was fortunate enough to introduce my son to one of Phil’s best friends, Pat, who shared more stories about my brother that I didn’t know or had forgotten. It was such a gift to all of us.

So, my friends, get out that glass and toast your family and friends that have died. Say their names, tell their stories and then make a plan for your own death. Don’t let your family try to figure out what you want after you’re already dead. And if you’re not sure where to start, shoot me a message.

Hugs to you all. ❤

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Show some compassion, Asshole

When someone says “libraries,” what’s the first thing you think of?

Books? Women wearing glasses with their hair in a bun? Computers? If you’ve visited one lately, you might think about children’s story times or author talks or programs on cooking or even writing your obituary.

What about bottled water for people experiencing homelessness? Maybe even a snack? Resources for local shelters and food banks?

Yup. A lot of libraries have all of the above now. We serve everyone in ways we never thought we would or needed to. But if there aren’t enough government resources for people in our community, then what do we do?

We do what we can.

However, this will take a toll on library workers. Rather, it IS taking a toll on us.

Here’s the thing. This is rough not just because of the budget cuts or lack of funding everywhere. It’s not hard just because there are some people who think folks that are unhoused “should not be allowed into the library.” Working in libraries right now can be difficult, and not just because we were NEVER trained to be social workers or to cater to everyone’s needs. You know what makes working in public libraries not so great?

For me, it’s because each and every day I see people that are mentally ill or addicted to substances or people who are living in shelters or their cars or on the streets–and they have nowhere to go. Sometimes the tiny bit of kindness each of us shows them is the absolute highlight of their day. I can’t begin to tell you how many times a day I hear, “I appreciate you.” And yet there are days when I’m not sure I can stand to watch these folks experience such hardships and pain anymore.

I am trained to recommend book titles and resources to library users. I am trained to assign call numbers and subjects to those same titles and resources. I am trained in multiple library computer systems, budgeting, supervising, customer service and creating library programs and events. But in more recent years, I also became trained in how to use fire extinguishers, an AED (Automated External Defibrillator) and how to administer Narcan. More and more librarians are taking social work classes, and if library science Master’s programs are not offering them, they shouldn’t bother teaching at all.

Because you know what? This is how libraries will be from now on. Do you see how the landscape of this country is changing? Do you really think there will be more funding to help people with housing or substance use disorder? No. Libraries are open to all and we’re proud of that fact. But we are not nurses, doctors, EMTs or therapists. We can provide a place for folks to be and some libraries are working with local organizations to provide resource fairs and snacks and even a time to see a medical professional.

But we are librarians.

Sure, people view us as superheroes (no capes!), but we are just humans and again, we are not trained to help those we are now tasked to help.

I have witnessed several overdoses in the past few years, thankfully no deaths, but that’s because of the heroic measures my colleagues took administrating Narcan. I have listened to young men cry on the phone because they didn’t have a place to stay the night and they were desperately calling shelters and people they knew. I’ve dug through my purse to try and find a granola bar for someone whom I knew really needed the calories, but to find nothing (which has not happened since because I won’t let it). Like probably any other librarian or public facing worker, I’ve been yelled at and called some horrific names. I’ve listened to some folks tell me stories that I hoped were not true, and others I just couldn’t understand because their words didn’t make sense but might have made sense to them. And I’ve stood at the front desk while someone used the phone, and I could feel whatever horrible trauma she faced coming off of her in waves. I wanted to run from her, even though she wasn’t doing anything wrong. I forced myself to stay still, treat her with kindness, although if I could have bolted I would have.

Like most people working in these situation, I try to shed everything I encounter before I get home at night. I take walks every day, I read and listen to audio books for a few hours daily, I try to eat well and lift weights a few days a week. I go to therapy every other week. But…I go home to a husband who is slowly dying from congestive heart failure. I go home sometimes to find he’s barely moved all day. I go home and wonder if this will be the day he doesn’t wake up, but hope that if it is that day, that I’M the one that finds him and not our son.

Is it any wonder, then, that I finally broke down? That I finally snapped at a colleague and stopped talking all together? That I found I could not physically smile for an entire day? That I’m so angry at the government, voters, my husband, or the asshole that said people that are unhoused shouldn’t be outside the library on a sunny day or inside the library on a cold day? Is it any fucking wonder that I want to burn down the world?

You know what though? Tonight, while taking one of those walks I mentioned, I saw a white-tailed deer hopping and frolicking in a field, on its way to the woods. It made me gasp, stop in my tracks, and smile big and wide.

So…I might not want to burn everything down quite yet.

(Below you’ll see my friend and running partner, Bam-Bam. These photos were from 2021. RIP, my friend.)

Now get out there, get a library card and visit your local library. And no, you probably won’t see someone use drugs or freak out, so don’t get your panties in a bunch, Aunt Eileen. Christ! You might see a person without a home and that sucks—for them. Stop being a dickhead and show some compassion and kindness, alright?

Hugs, y’all.

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A Nearly Perfect Day

Today is not a perfect day, but it’s had some tremendously wonderful moments.

Today has been about running, reading, writing, walking, and treating myself well–hence the drink made of raspberry puree, limoncello and lemon sorbetto. At home, a salad for lunch must be followed by a delicious drink. Pretty sure that’s a rule.

My son is home sick today, which is why it isn’t the perfect day.  Although he isn’t feeling well, it’s still nice to have him home. I won’t have a lot more of those days.

High school graduation, 6/7/25

The weather in central Maine today is my kind of beautiful. It’s sunny but with the occasional cloud to give us Northerners a short reprieve. There’s a decent breeze to keep the bugs away.  It’s just a tiny bit humid, but nothing this breeze can’t fix. While sitting on my porch, sipping my drink, you can hear the distant whirr of a lawn mower and the chittering of the birds in the treetops in my backyard. Perfection.

None of this really seems worthy of writing about. Yet, so many of my days are filled with anxiety or depressive episodes or grief, then why the hell aren’t I shouting to the world about these few good days?

I mean, I’m also thinking about what the future holds for my little family. My husband and I talked a bit last night about what kinds of food we’d want at either of our celebrations of life. “Do I want lots of my own favorite foods or is that just irritating since I can’t be there to eat it?” I asked my husband. He shrugged but said he does want the plate of cold cuts (with his ashes in the middle—this is even in his will) and Dr. Pepper, his favorite drink.

Today we chatted a little about the book I’m reading, “Cold Moon: on life, love and responsibility” by Roger Rosenblatt. This short book of moments Rosenblatt wrote as he approaches “the winter solstice of his life.” When I read that line, my husband nodded his head and raised his hand. “Me, too,” he said clearly and confidently. Walter has had many good days recently and during those times it’s easier for us to talk about his death. We chatted over the weekend about what I would write for his obituary, if he dies before me. The conversation began with my telling him about another book I just read, John Kenney’s novel, “I See You’ve Called In Dead.” It’s about an obituary writer who gets drunk one night, writes his own ridiculous obituary and publishes it. Walter asked me, “What would you write about me?”

Sometimes my husband’s vulnerability still takes me by surprise. The way he asked me this question was just so….sweet and curious and a bit nervous. But I told him I’d tell the world how smart he is. Most people just don’t know. His vocabulary has always been so much better than my own. He doesn’t have a college education but a GED and several computer repair certifications. But he understands how mechanical things work, his knowledge of American history still shocks me and his love for science has propelled him to educate himself regarding space and our solar system.

But also? He unties the knots I always get in my necklaces. He used to let me warm my feet on his legs. And this might seem icky to some, but he warms the toilet seat for me in the wintertime. When your bathroom has no heat, that porcelain seat is like ice and it fucking hurts to sit on it, so he sits on it first. He also hates it when our son works at night. He’s constantly worrying and missing him. Like me, he loves spending time with our child and is starting to feel that anticipatory grief of our boy going to college.

So…yeah. My brain is constantly filled with tasks that we’ll need to do before the time comes. But we’re not going to do those tasks today. Not today.

Today is nearly perfect, after all.

Hugs to all of you, my friends. I hope it’s been a nearly perfect day where you are. ❤