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. ❤
This year, my Memorial Day weekend was bracketed by funerals. It began with a service for the 56-year-old sister of my dear friend. The funeral home was packed and there were beautiful speeches and stories, laughter and sobbing. I held the hand of another dear friend as we listened to our “soul sister” speak through her tears, telling the room about her big sister. Her death was a shock to all of us, since her illness was so brief.
The weekend ended with the funeral of my hospice friend. I had been visiting him and his wife at their home nearly every week for 2 1/2 years, and although he was 80 and had been ill for some time, his death still felt very much unexpected. His wife had invited me to his funeral and to their home afterwards. The service was led by the hospice chaplain and it was filled with Bible quotes, a few songs, and both his wife and daughter stood up to briefly speak. It was a small affair.
As I drove to my hospice friend’s home, I stopped to get a coffee and cry in my car. I wasn’t feeling bereft for my hospice friend, but for his wife. Watching her through this entire process–the entire 2 1/2 years–has always made me look at my relationship with my husband and his illness.
When your spouse is chronically ill, you do have a relationship with the sickness itself. It’s not a great one. Mostly I hate it. And yet there have been times that I was grateful, but more from spite. The anger I have at my husband for his unhealthy habits throughout our marriage (and beforehand) has burst through over the past four years. That’s the part of me that was happy he was sick–a justification for what I had been saying over the years, or when I begged him to take his insulin and he didn’t, or asked him to go for a walk with me and he refused.
But now? Now I just hate it. My husband is always fatigued, often in pain, can do very little. He’s currently in a depressive episode, too, which makes everything so much worse. Over the weekend, in between the funerals I attended, we had a conversation about our son and what his future might hold. “Senator Chapin,” I said, grinning. My husband nodded and replied, “President Chapin has a great ring to it. But I’ll be long gone before that could ever happen.”
I was stunned momentarily because the look on his face was this mix of sorrow and regret and I immediately just fought back with, “Well, I could be dead, too!”
The rest of that day I had a nugget of guilt in my stomach. Why didn’t I just acknowledge that yes, he will probably die much sooner than later? Because although I freely talk about his likely death, talking with him is much more difficult. He typically doesn’t acknowledge how sick he really is, so when he finally did, I just batted it away.
That night I apologized to him. He said it didn’t bother him, but he also didn’t really want to talk more about it. I missed my chance to have an open conversation that night. Hopefully I won’t squander that again.
After arriving at my hospice friend’s home, I got to know their friends and family a bit better and we had lovely conversations about my friend and how they knew him. There were also two other widows in attendance, besides my friend’s wife, and they were talking about how they had been coping over the past few months. One woman has been a widow for two years and has been navigating this new world the longest of the three women, and was giving out advice left and right. I wanted to tell her to be quiet and let my friend’s wife find her way. I kept thinking, “He’s been dead for 10 days. Let the woman catch her breath and just be there for her. Stop telling her to join book groups and grief groups, for fuck’s sake.”
I know their heart was in the right place, but I could feel my own anxiety ratcheting up. Will this be my life? Will I have to take time off from work, take care of my husband for several years while watching him become more feeble, then after his death I’ll have people telling me not to make any big decisions, but encouraging me to get out and meet people and not be alone?
I had to take a few breaths and calm myself and just continue to listen to everyone talk. My friend’s wife is a tremendously strong woman and I know that she’ll be ok. She does have a good support system and I may be part of that.
When I got up to leave, my friend’s wife took me aside. She and I have grown close over the past few years. She knows my husband has congestive heart failure and Type II diabetes and understands that he will not live to be 80 like her husband. She held my arms and looked me in the eye. She told me she knows how hard it is dealing with my husband’s illness, his depression, his what seems to be apathy about his own healthcare. “But he’s still here, Holly. You can pinch him. You can talk with one another. He’s still here.”
My eyes were welling up as she spoke to me. I hugged her before I left.
When I got home, my husband was resting. He got up then and we talked in the kitchen while he worked on dinner. (He’s still trying to make dinner a few times a week.) I told him a bit about the service, then I went over to him and pinched his arm. “Ow! What the heck was that for?” I laughed and hugged him and told him what my friend’s widow said to me. He nodded then with a sad smile.
I am trying hard to appreciate the time I have with Wal. I get very frustrated by a myriad of things, as anyone married I’m sure can attest to, but the widow’s words are reminiscent of what someone said to me before my parents died. That day I was feeling a bit frustrated that my weekend was filled with visiting my mom in the nursing home and then taking care of my dad for a bit the next day. It honestly sounds so shitty to say that out loud now, but I was being honest. And a colleague said to me then, “I get that, but man, I wish my parents were still here for me to take care of them.”
I never once complained about that again. My weekends were often filled visiting my parents (and still parenting my own kiddo) and I felt pretty stretched, but I did start to appreciate it more. So I’m going to try and do the same now.
But I’m also pretty confident you haven’t heard the last from me on this topic. 😉
Hugs to you all, my friends, and as always, thanks for listening. ❤
Oh! And if you’re wondering what my husband’s “Forever Chair” looks like, I’ve updated the post with pics.
Grief is loss. Pure and simple. You grieve a dead loved one but you can also grieve a job loss, a friend moving away, or even what you thought your life would be and now is impossible. This past week was filled with tiny losses and combined with anticipatory grief I’m feeling, I’m finding myself unable to take a deep breath.
Last Saturday, my husband and I went furniture shopping. We were looking for his “forever chair” (trademark pending). He needs a recliner where he can sleep when breathing is difficult or nap during the day when all of those meds kick in and it’s hard to stay awake. He wanted something where he could lay down but with a headrest that could elevate his head. When we found all of the electric recliners together, my husband started trying out a few chairs as we chatted with the salesperson. We explained to this 27-year-old woman that Walter was no longer able to do what he used to and he wanted to purchase what would be his last chair. She said she hoped it wouldn’t be his last, then went on to explain how she understands about body changes. Before I had a chance to roll my eyes, she talked about how she used to do gymnastics and after 13 years she stopped and now her body doesn’t respond or look like what it used to.
Ok. I could give her some grace there. A little.
After just three chairs, Wal found his “forever chair” that reclines, can elevate his head, has a back warmer and can lift him to standing position for the future (or those particularly bad pain and unsteady days now). We ordered a different color then what they had on the floor, then went out to eat to celebrate this purchase. I drank a flight of margaritas (I can’t believe I never knew that was a thing!) and went to one more furniture store so I could look at sofas. Before Wal was granted disability, we would talk about what we needed or wanted for the house. Having a recliner like what we bought was exactly what Wal talked about. It was as close to a hover chair from the Wall-E movie that he could get. (He’s been talking about those damn things since 2008.) And I wanted a new couch so we could get rid of the saggy, smelly, broken brown couch we currently have. I wanted something in a lighter color with a chaise lounge.
Bean loves the old couch, but I’m sure he’ll love the new one, too.
We walked into the furniture store next door to the restaurant, me feeling a little buzzed, and we tried out chairs and couches and felt different fabrics. We had been having a lovely day and we were relaxed and Wal’s pain was nearly non-existent. I wasn’t really planning on buying anything there until I saw the couch…with bookshelves built into the sides. The adorable salesman must have heard my gasp from across the showroom, because he appeared in seconds. The couch wasn’t quite what I envisioned, but then he led me to the sofa I had described PLUS the bookshelves, hidden storage, AND pulls out into a small bed.
Wal was immediately like, “Oh we’re getting this!” I could see my delight reflected in his face. So we sat on the sofa, both tried out the lounge, and we snuggled in for a few minutes. This was the one.
The snuggling was what won me over (and the bookshelves). See, my husband has been tremendously claustrophobic since a snow cave collapsed on him when he was 10 years old. After he was on a ventilator in 2020, this anxiety about being closed in or not being able to breathe has increased tenfold. So snuggling in bed while lying down? That hasn’t happened since 2020. Our couch is too low and saggy for him to sit on and be able to get up from, so no snuggling there. But now, with this new sofa, we can finally have that one little piece of our life back.
As we sat there in the store, Wal turned to me and said, “I want you to enjoy the hell out of this couch when I’m gone.” His eyes were sad, but he said it with a smile. I squeezed him tight and said I would.
The rest of that day was so joyful. No arguing, no grumpiness, no sadness really. It was a great day.
But you can only live in the afterglow of days like that for so long. The next day I was filled with so much sadness and what I now realize is anticipatory grief, that I couldn’t function. I took a walk, hoping I’d feel better afterwards, but that didn’t help. I listened to an audiobook, read a little, tried to write, drank wine—nothing made me feel better. And I couldn’t “do” anything, you know? I wanted to vacuum, plan meals for the week and clean my bathroom but none of that happened. Hell, I thought I’d take a bath instead and shave these long gams of mine, but that felt like A LOT of work. I ended up eating too much, drinking too much and finally just going to bed.
The rest of this week has been filled with little losses and some larger ones for my friends. I submitted written testimony for a bunch of anti-trans bills many Republicans in the Maine legislature wants to put through and although I was happy to do it, it made me so angry and sad and frustrated. My dear friend lost her sister unexpectedly due to cancer and it shocked me to the damn core. Some of my colleagues in the Maine library community had their last day at work this past week due to federal funding cuts. Their last day happened to be the second anniversary of my first day at the Bangor Library, but I couldn’t celebrate because it all felt so wrong.
Thinking about that work anniversary made me think about my first work anniversary as a library director. One of my dear patrons, Jan, had wanted to have a day-long celebration at the library with coffee or donuts for everyone, but my husband was in a coma at the time. We didn’t know if he’d live yet or if he had brain damage. So there wasn’t any kind of celebration. Those little things we don’t feel like we can celebrate is another form of loss. It’s like the people I know who have their birthdays on 9/11. It’s frowned upon to have a party on that day even though you want to celebrate your own life and absolutely should.
I know that not having those little celebrations isn’t really a big deal, but I kept feeling like those little losses were piling up on me. After the weird week, my husband and son were going to take me for an early Mother’s Day lunch today, but they both got sick. Then I had slightly uncomfortable conversation with a friend regarding politics and an email exchange with a co-worker that filled me with self-doubt. I then went to my mom’s grave wanting to talk to her but the lawn was being mowed at the cemetery and they were in her section. So I brushed off her gravestone, told her I loved her, kissed my hand and touched her name, then left more bereft than before.
I got home, started to talk to my husband about how I was feeling and I kept my arms across my chest holding myself. I know my voice was shaky and our son heard it. He came out to the kitchen where I stood, and enveloped me into his giant embrace. When your son is 6’8′ and a big guy, it’s the most comforting feeling to be hugged by him. I ended up sobbing because I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I was feeling so…weird. I can’t stop thinking about my friend losing her sister and I know that is leading to more thoughts about my husband’s health (her sister and my husband are the same age) and I just wanted to talk to my mom.
But a hug from my son was almost as good.
Wal came over and hugged us both. I dried my tears, put my feelings into a box and went on with the day.
The day is nearly over now. I just got back from a long walk while listening to All There Is, a podcast with Anderson Cooper that deals with grief. I listened to other people talk about their grief and cried along with them. Some people think I’m bananas because I often read about death and dying and grief or listen to podcasts like this or watch films about it. But I have to tell you that listening to others share their grief typically brings me comfort. I no longer feel alone in my own grief. Listening to others’ stories helps me keep living.
And telling you my story helps me find joy in living. Writing helps me find those breaths that seem nearly unattainable under the weight of grief and rage I feel some days.
So thank you for reading. Thank you for helping me to breathe again.
Tight hugs to you all.
UPDATE 5/25/25:
Here’s Wal, trying to relax in his “Forever Chair” with Wonder Woman looking on. Well…there are two of us looking on. 😉
And here’s my “Island of Peace” as my friend, Diane, calls it. As you can see, I’ve made myself at home–a basket of books, water and a margarita, the two books I’m currently reading, and my kitty blanket (thanks, Mo!).
I’ve been thinking about my career lately, and what do I want to do with it for my last decade of work. (Or what I hope is the last decade of work. I really, REALLY do not want to work full time until I’m 70.) I’ve been a librarian for over 27 years. I’ve worked in an academic library as a cataloger in a tenure track position, a circulation librarian at a public library, helped form an all volunteer library in my town, was an Assistant Director and Director of public libraries (both positions included cataloging, teen services, programming, collection development and more), and now head of a department in a large (for Maine) library. I’ve been on the executive board of my state professional library organization in different capacities over the years, am on the New England professional organization board, have been on committees throughout my state where I’ve had the great fortune of working with school librarians, public librarians of all sorts, teachers and academic librarians. I’ve worked with community members and town government officials and have had the immense privilege to receive the Maine Library Advocate of the Year award a few years ago.
As my term on my state’s professional library organization board comes to an end next month, I had decided to throw my hat in the ring for a different position on the New England board. But after rolling it around in my brain for a few days, I withdrew my nomination with the caveat that at least two people were already running. (It’s good to have choices, no?) My work life has been so stressful these past few months. My library is part of a new consortium and we’ve been migrating to a new automated library system. Not only are we all learning something new, but there are bugs and weirdness and training the patrons to use the new catalog. Oh, and the bugs. Did I mention those? Weekly meetings to try and fix some of the weird things happening in the system and agreeing with other libraries on rules and procedures and language. It’s…fun, honestly. But also headache-inducing. So besides the meetings for the system, there are internal meetings to make sure we know what we’re doing and supervising staff and dealing with patrons and the many, many difficulties some of our patrons are facing in their daily lives. And of course, now that Trump has frozen federal funding, the stress and tension is even worse. That’s my daily work load, but add the professional organization meetings on top of it, and the state committee I’m on, then you start to feel like it’s…a lot.
When I won the Library Advocate of the Year Award, I remember sitting with my friend, Jon, and saying, “Shit. Is this the end?” He is incredibly kind and said I would definitely be up at the podium again one day, but I’m not so sure and I think I’m ok with that. Obviously, librarians do not become librarians to gain attention or kudos. Usually attention is the last thing we want, but gratitude is always appreciated and often we get it on a daily basis from grateful library users. I mean, we need that since typically our paychecks do not reflect how important we seem to be to so many people.
I digress!
I think for my last decade of librarianship, I’d like to stay connected to these professional organizations, maybe be on a committee or two. I’d love to go to a few conferences I’ve never been to, meet new people in my field, learn something new. But I also want to see that next generation of librarian warriors come into the field. I’d love to mentor them if they need me, but also be able to watch them grow and open any doors for them if I’m able. It’s not easy for me to step back. I do love being in the throng of things, knowing so many people in my field, constantly being in awe of them. But I can still admire folks from afar and cheer from the sidelines, right?
Now that my son is going off to college soon, I want to think about my own future that is apart from my career. Hopefully I can take a death doula course this fall. I’d love to take a few workshops on memoir writing. My letters and phone calls to both my local representatives in the Maine House and Senate and my Senators and Rep to the Congress will also continue with the occasional protest of our current administration’s policies. My volunteer work with hospice will most definitely continue. I just started training to walk/jog a marathon. I’m also leaning into what my husband needs and wants for the last years of his life. If I have a decent work/life balance, caregiving might not seem so difficult. Maybe.
And my friends. Oh, man, my friends. Look, I have a very small family now. The family I created along with my sister, niece, great nephews, great niece, stepmom and the few cousins I like, are people whom I love and love having in my life. But my friends? Those people inject so much happiness into me by just being with them! I’d love to have more time with many of them, but our lives are busy and I know that’s not always possible. I hope to carve out a little more time for my lovely, wide variety of friends, too. Although we could go to protests together and that would combine a few of my passions into one delicious day. 🙂 Or travel together! Hell, I want travel to a larger protest with a caravan of my friends!
Everything I mentioned is how I want my life to be. Having some kind of balance between my work and passions and friends and family is a good life, it’s a way to “live well.” (I just read “The Art of Dying Well” by Katy Butler and part of dying well is really living well, too.)
So tell me, what are your plans for the future? Are you in a place in your career where you’re ready to dive deeper or step back? If you’re no longer working, what do you want to do with the rest of your life? What does living well mean to you?
I’d love to hear more about what you want from your life, friends. It’s a tremendously crazy world we are currently in, and our future may not be what we intend (no matter who is President). But I still want to hear what you hope for. I really do.
I rarely write about good things happening in my life. It’s not that they don’t happen, but they are typically what some would call “small.” For instance, I go to the gym and I consider it successful if I’m able to not only use all the machines I want to, but to slightly increase the weight or reps I do. Or I have a productive day at work with little drama AND I reach 10,000 steps on the same day. Or I get to spend quality time with my little family and it doesn’t end in anyone arguing.
Those are my “good things.” But as of this past week, I feel like my bucket runneth over! After over a year of not working and having both mental and physical tests conducted and paperwork filled out by the truckload, my husband was granted disability by the Social Security Administration due to his declining health. It’s a weird thing to get “congratulations” from people about it, yet it was the perfect thing to say! I might not need to sell my blood plasma anymore. Wal might not need to go to the food bank each week. I say “might” because bills still need to be paid and budgets worked out, but all in all we’ll be in a better place than we’ve been. Well…financially it’ll be a better place. And honestly, mentally my husband is in a MUCH better place. He’s feeling like he’s contributing to the family and not being a burden. It’s not that he was a burden but…it’s hard. There are days I come home and I just want to burn it down because there are dishes in the sink, poop in the cat box, mail in the mailbox and nothing for dinner. I’m tired and sometimes cranky, but I try to shut it down and just putter around the house and clean up the messes. Typically I know that if that’s what I’m looking at when I come home, then Wal had a bad day—either a lot of pain due to diabetes and neuropathy, or little energy because his heart is not pumping the way it should, or he’s horribly depressed because of his health situation. So I dig deep to find that empathy inside me and tend to whatever he might need.
As I said in my last post, my son will be attending a local university, the University of Maine in Orono. We made his confirmation and housing deposit on the day we found out about Wally’s disability. It’s time to get the kid ready to fly the coop and get his parents ready to live in an empty nest.
With two of our major life-changing events finally beginning, I feel like I am able work on me again. I really, really want to run or walk a marathon. I don’t think running one is really in the cards for me, so I’m starting to research both the walk/run method, and the power walking method. I want a physical goal to train for again. I want to feel particularly strong and proud of myself again. I mean…I’d love to lose 10 pounds in there, too, but Jesus, that also doesn’t seem to be in the cards! Being physically fit and healthy is what the goal should really be, right?
Sure. Yup. Right.
Anywho! I went out today and took a 4-mile walk with one little bout of running—only because it was snowing so hard into my face that it was painful. Although it was snowing, then blowing, then raining and finally ending with sleeting, I managed to mostly enjoy my walk. No dogs came out to try and attack me (that was two weeks ago), very few cars, just me and a bunch of birds that sounded particularly pissed off about the snow. I might be projecting, but they really did sound angry.
I got home, my hair partially frozen, my coat, hat, mittens and hoodie all soaked. And I felt…fantastic. Proud. Happy.
I’m enjoying days like this since they seem to be few and far between. Who knows, maybe there’ll be more days like this in the future.
I hope you’ve enjoyed your day, friends. With everything the world is facing right now, let’s keep putting one foot in front of the other, ok? ❤
Recently, my teenage son suffered a mental health crisis. He’s had a few mental health challenges over the past 3 years, but this one was the scariest. You don’t need to know the details, but I’ll say that I rushed home when his friends texted me to say something was wrong. Once home, I hugged my child, talked with him, held his hand, just threw my love at him because I wasn’t sure what else to do. Once the situation felt like it was under control and in a better place, I immediately deactivated my Facebook account.
It was a weird reaction, but I wanted to create a bubble around my little family right then, and getting away from social media was the only way I knew how. I didn’t want to talk with anyone or listen to anyone else. That evening I didn’t care about your favorite book you wanted everyone to know about, see the sweet photos of your grandchild or even learn how the President had fired more federal workers with no cause. That night, it was all noise to me and I needed to shut it all down. I just wanted to protect my kid.
Two days later, my son was tremendously better, yet my husband and I were left broken. Worrying about your kid’s welfare is par for the course as a parent, but when their mental health appears fragile, you’re continuously walking on eggshells and faking good cheer, all while expecting the worst to happen.
He was late coming home from work that week, and I found myself pacing and just texting him once because I didn’t want to seem too freaked out. (He ended up working late and his text to me wasn’t sent.) Each evening I asked him how his day went and searched his face for any little thing that might show more distress than usual.
And then…the college rejections started to roll in.
My son is a dreamer. He has huge plans and wants to be part of the governing body of this country in the near future. He wanted to attend a “fancy” college to go along with those dreams. Unfortunately, every single one of them has said “no thanks.” On one night, he received two flat out rejections and one waitlist. My boy’s grief and sorrow was so palpable that night. He said he felt “defeated.” And each day after that he’s receivd another rejection. There’s only one dream school left, and we expect that rejection later this week. I’ve been feeling that loss right alongside my boy, but also fear that he’ll slip back into that mental health crisis we just survived.
Yesterday, the boy and I went for a walk and we started to talk about his safety school. Here’s the thing: a safety school is great. You know you’re going to college no matter what. But once my kid was denied from attending those other schools, he realized how much he wanted to go somewhere that was NOT his safety school. We talked about his options and the fact that he has an acceptance at a different school out of state, but again, it’s not a school he really wanted to go to. He started to get angry and frustrated and I knew I needed to just back off. When we got back home, he started researching the shit out of his safety school and what classes he could take. He started asking me questions, “What are semester hours and credit hours? How many credits per class? What’s the gen ed requirement?” He made a document to understand what he needed to take for classes to graduate and what he needed for the general education classes, as well as what the college classes he’s already taken could go towards the requirements. He was on a roll, so my husband and I ran errands while the kid figured things out.
While we were running errands, at one point I said I just wanted to hurry and get back home. “Oh thank God,” my husband replied. We were both feeling anxious being away from our son. Our level of distress has ratcheted up to a whole new level this month.
But when we got home? The kid was pumped! He couldn’t stop talking about the classes he couldn’t wait to take and how he thinks he knows what he wants as a minor and actually planned out all of his classes for the next 4 years. Seriously. The next 4 years.
I was so relieved. I couldn’t keep the smile off my face! Although having my son go to the local university is not what I had hoped for him, I know he’ll still have many opportunities to grow and excel—because that’s who he is.
The private, “fancy” colleges who did not accept my son as a student, will be missing out on one incredible guy. A boy that listens to history and philosophy essays to relax, a young man who wrote a bill about immigration this week for fun, a person that watches Youtube videos about historical events because he wants to learn.
Yesterday, I told my son that although I know he’ll get a good education wherever he goes, I had hoped he wouldn’t be too close to home so he could escape the drama of his father’s ill health. “Mom,” he says. “I could be in California and wouldn’t be able to escape that. It’s just how it is.”
See? He’s such a smart boy. With a big heart.
And maybe I’m a little happy to have him less than an hour away, so when I really, really need to see and hug my son, I can do that.
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. ❤
“So long as you write what you wish to write, that is all that matters; and whether it matters for ages or only for hours, nobody can say.” ― Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own
I love to write. I love to write what I want to write. This might be poetry, letters, even the occasional library report can bring me joy. And I most certainly love to blog, to share my life, my running, and my adventures or lack of, with you. It helps me align my feelings, my thoughts, and my mental health in a way that allows me to keep functioning. I’ve always called it my therapy, but it’s really more than that. I tell my therapist many more intimate details of my life than I could ever share here, but I hope that in some ways I can help with this little blog–help myself, assist you with whatever is troubling you (often my brutal honesty allows you to tell me things you wouldn’t tell others), and for you to help me.
In my last post, I discussed trying to find ways to feel contentment and to explore new ways to enjoy this life of mine. I applied for my passport like I said I would, and I’ve started to create a space of my own in my basement. I want room to not only do my volunteer work, but I really, really want a place to write. In all honesty, I want a space where I won’t be asked questions or see the dirty dishes waiting for me or hear the hum of the refrigerator calling me and convincing me I need a snack. I just want to be present, with my laptop and my words and my thoughts.
Sometimes, though, I just want to be by myself and maybe a podcast or an audiobook. I don’t always need to write down my own thoughts but listening to others can be just as therapeutic. I also want and need to move my body and sweat and feel the sun on my face. (I’ve been told that I’m a bit cranky when I don’t exercise.) Running still isn’t in the cards for me, but walking is still a relief. Being outside also can feel like “a room of one’s own.”
Apple trees my grandfather planted decades ago.Beautiful scenery I captured on my walk.
I walked over 5 miles this morning, and as I looked around me, I couldn’t help but smile and take deep breaths and just be in awe of the beauty of where I live. Although this isn’t truly my own space, it can feel like it and it allows me to be in the presence of greatness.
Then there are times like tonight, when all I want is to be with my thoughts and my laptop. That’s when I escape to the basement. The space I’ve created is…odd. I’m using a borrowed table (which I really need to return), a borrowed office chair (which hurts my back after a bit), a small bookcase, a lamp, and a heater for later in the year. My son says it’s homey, with my rocking chair and grandmother’s knitted afghan off to the side. I have two candles in large stands and a few throw rugs under the table and in front of the rocking chair. On the wall is a bunch of Trevor Project info and this:
A friend made this poster for me for my birthday. It was first said in a text, but then I asked for it to be in a larger form because it was something I didn’t want to forget. It’s poetic and beautiful and not something I’ve ever thought about myself. For someone to see this bravery in me that I never recognized, gave me hope. It made me think that I could in fact be the person I’ve always wanted to be: a good human, one with many flaws, but a person that listens and empathizes and cares about others.
I am, most definitely, not always that person. Often, I don’t want to listen to anyone else, I don’t care about anyone else, I just want to go back to my home and crawl into bed. I have many days when it takes all my energy to put a smile on my face, place one foot in front of the other, and get through the day. But I think we all have those days, don’t we?
Although my friend sees bravery in me that’s difficult for me to see, I do want to be brave. I want to stop always doing things I’m expected to do or being who I’m expected to be. I want to take risks, but I’m frightened to do so. I suppose that’s where the bravery should come in. 😉
Is there something or someone you want to be, but don’t think you are? Is there a place you want to be in your life, but not sure how to get there?
Let’s try and figure these things out together. I’m willing to try and figure out who I am or want to be if you are. As my friend Johnny just said to me recently, “Take the leap! You won’t regret it.” Will you join me?
There was a lot of hope for 2021–vaccines, life going back to normal, I was training for a marathon, and my family was just grateful that my husband survived his sickness and came out of a coma in February of 2020.
Some of what we hoped for happened–we got the vaccines, life got better. Then the variants came and so many more people have died and so many people refuse vaccines and life will always be different. I was able to fly to a conference in Nevada and to see a dear friend in Kentucky in the fall, but now many flights are canceled around the globe due to COVID and quarantine times. I had a stress fracture and stopped training for a marathon but was able to run again later in the year. My husband had a widow maker of a heart attack on June 15th and has had several surgeries since. Things got better, then worse. Two steps forward and life looked good, then another setback. Like Anne Lamott says in her book Dusk Night Dawn, “It’s like tucking an octopus into bed at night: new arms keep popping out.”
Now a new year is coming. 2022 is nearly here. I honestly haven’t talked to anyone who is hopeful about it. Everyone is exhausted and burnt out and just tries to get through each day without losing their shit.
We have to find something to look forward to. SOMETHING. As I’ve said many times before, I usually love the new year. I like clean slates, fresh starts, new beginnings, and every other cliche you can think of. Sometimes I think of a new year as a New You (or rather new me). I often have resolutions, but they’re really more like goals. I’ll be disappointed if I don’t reach them, but I try. I’ll survive if they don’t come to fruition.
I’m going to try again to train for a marathon, although I can’t say I’m super positive about it. My body has hurt a lot lately and I’m mostly running to maintain some kind of fitness level until I can figure out what’s what. If I can’t train right away, I’ll work on that 15 pounds I want/need to lose (depending on the moment). And keep going to therapy to deal with that incessant want/need to lose the 15 pounds.
These are things, though, that are just part of my current life–running, losing weight, trying to be healthy. My real goal for 2022? I really, really want to do something new each month. I’ve wanted to LEARN something new each month before, but that doesn’t always happen. That can still be included, but I want to DO something I’ve never done every month. Just once a month. Sometimes it may just be making a new dessert because I just don’t have the money or resources to do what I’d like. But other times?
Here’s a short list of activities I’d like to do in 2022 that seem feasible:
Try out a sensory deprivation tank at Float 207.
Watch all the films that are nominated for Best Picture with my son and watch the Oscars on March 27th with him. Make pizza or nachos with him, too. I suppose I want to try and recreate what my brother and I used to do (although I think I only watched every film for the Oscars once).
Zip line
Get a monthly massage (I suppose this isn’t really trying something new yet making time to take care of myself seems new. I’ve had so few massages in my life but when I do, I always think “why don’t I do this more?!?”)
Find something to be grateful for each day. This is a tough one for me. It shouldn’t be but sometimes I am so Eeyore-like that I can’t get out of my own way, you know?
Get my passport!
Visit new places, especially state parks
Run somewhere new. I’d like to run in a new place each month, even just a new trail or a different road. Maybe that can be my running goal for the year if the marathon doesn’t work out.
Ride on a snowmobile
I have other pursuits, but many I might not be able to do. I’d like to work on my writing, come up with a few goals. Maybe write a few poems again. I’m not sure about that yet, but I do know that writing often brings me joy…or sometimes relief, like a deep breath that I didn’t know I needed. I’d also like to organize and digitize my photos. I have so many pictures of my own and from my parents and it seems pretty overwhelming, although I think it’s the emotional piece that is what seems insurmountable. Sometimes I can face grief head on, and other times I just avoid situations that make me remember. Like so many other things in life, it just depends on the day.
My family and I have joked and said “2022 is our year!” Then we immediately roll our eyes and knock on wood and tell each other to not say that anymore since we said that about 2019, 2020 AND 2021 and look how those friggin’ years turned out! Perhaps our resolution or goal for 2022 should just be to survive. It’s something that many were not able to do in 2021.
Maybe surviving and thriving? I don’t know, friends. I just don’t know anymore.
Nonetheless, I will keep shooting for my “new activity” each month and if that starts to feel like too much, I’ll just shoot for reading a new book each month. That one, as long as I’m living, I know I can achieve.
Good luck to all of you. Be safe. I’d love to hear your goals and resolutions and wishes for the future.
Happy New Year and may you feel loved and appreciated in 2022.
See Holly Run 