Mom

My mom insisted on living independently. She wanted to live in the two-story house she and my dad built in the 70s, despite the fact that dad has been gone since 2016 and that house is far too much for her. Her care providers all kept telling us she was competent and there was nothing wrong with her making her own choices, despite our lifetime of knowledge of our mother, our love for her, and our desire that she be safe. 

So...she chose. 

She chose to be independent through her recovery from triple bypass surgery...independent while caring for diabetic wounds that wouldn't heal...independent while recovering from leg amputation...independent dealing with all the everyday activities that get harder and harder for us all as we age. She chose not to have professional in-home care. She wanted to be alone. People applauded this "independence" despite any concerns to the contrary. "She's tough...stubborn," they said, as if it was something that would protect her in her physically fragile state. 

And then she had a stroke and fell on the bathroom floor (or fell and had a stroke...we do not know the order of things). 

"She's so strong...she's so independent!" became "She was all alone!? Where were you children!?" Suddenly those very same independent choices people applauded became a condemnation of us...the people who literally begged her to choose otherwise (I want to physically fight everyone who says, "I'm so sad about your mom.") 

And mom...

She literally can't see...or remember. 

And there are no more real choices to be had. 

Because she laid on the bathroom floor alone for too long. Because she didn't get help soon enough. She is here...but not really. Now she really is alone...even when we are in the same room. 

From her hospital bed, she said to me, "I never thought this would happen to me." And I smile all the while I want to scream at her. WE knew. WE tried to get her to see this very possibility. But we were left with NO choice because she was beyond reason and made foolish...selfish...choices. 

I'm SO SO SO SO ANGRY about it. I'm SO SO SO SO ANGRY at her. And I'm SO SO SO SO SAD. I feel like she stole from us all. The pleasure of her company. The warmth of her heart. Her killer sense of humor. The light in her eyes. What remains is a fraction of what she could have had. 

And once again I come to this space (that I know she hasn't read in a very long time...that I know she CAN'T read now) to put "it" somewhere safe. To once again mourn what might have been...to let go of a life that only existed in my dreams. 

Later I'll go visit and she'll tell me the same stories two or three times...and I'll force a smile. And tomorrow we'll celebrate Mother's Day in the best way we can figure out how to do in this new normal. 

Because it is what it is and, as I've already learned all to well, there is no turning back time. 

But if anyone reads this...if you take nothing else from here, please take this advice...

Do not do this to your family...to the people that love you. Listen to them and respect them enough to really hear their concerns. You don't have to live in fear...you don't have to give up your independence entirely. But at least be realistic and put some plans in place to at least give yourself a fighting chance that your golden years will be golden...rather than filled with pain and sadness.

Holiday breakup

I read somewhere that watching sons grow up is like the longest slowest breakup you'll ever go through. And it's true. 

Sam has informed me that "steak and sparklers" is a boring holiday...and my heart is breaking.

It's always just been me...trying my best to keep my head above water and appreciate what we have...trying to make the most of this imperfect life. 

But I know I could've done better. I know I could have made better choices and not wasted so much precious time.

And I know he'll never understand. 

I'm glad for that. 

But the way he said "steak and sparklers"...with such derision in his voice...💔

Just an underachieving Gen X blogger with stories to tell

My children have baby books that have only a handful of entries. I haven't written them letters every year on their birthday like I planned. I don't know why that's relevant, but it feels like it is.

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I tried a handwritten journal. I made it through half the year. My purple pen ran out of ink and that was my excuse to stop.

I picked up a gratitude journal this year and have been doing pretty good remembering to fill it in. I used a blue pen so I wouldn't have an excuse to stop.

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Before instagram and twitter and tik tok and clicks and likes and monetization, I started this blog as a means to talk about the fun in my life. Then life took me down a very dark and twisty road and this blog became a sort of therapy...allowing me to type out all the dark and twisty thoughts...giving them a place to go so they wouldn't rattle around in my brain and steal my joy completely. But then Lisa died. And Jill died. And friends drifted away for a variety of reasons. And I just couldn't continue here. 

Through the years, I keep coming back here randomly. But then something stops me from posting. This isn't the place for clicks and likes and monetization. And it feels almost dishonorable to take this place back to the everyday nonsense. I'm fairly certain I have no fan base clamoring for me to add my voice to the internet cacophony. 

But I feel like this is my story. And I don't want someone who stumbles on this place to think the dark and twisty place was the end. It's true I've written posts here while sobbing. It's also true I've written posts while laughing hysterically. More importantly, I've felt a special kind of peaceful magic when I connect with kind people here. 

I won't try to tell you that time heals all wounds. I won't have words of wisdom or direction for anyone. I myself marvel at how I've made it to 49 years old...with two amazing living children...and a husband who still puts up with my brand of crazy. 

There are so many stories to share. And I feel like I might want to share them. 

So maybe it's time to reclaim this place...

No clicks...no likes...no monetization.

Just me.

I did my job

I had a toddler at home...and I did my job.

I welcomed foster animals and sent them to adoptive homes...and I did my job.

I lost grandparents...and I did my job.

My husband contemplated a job in Atlanta...and I did my job.

I grieve for three babies...and I do my job.

I adopted horses...and I did my job.

I gave birth to a living baby...and I did my job.

I lost my dad...and I did my job.

I lost pets...and I did my job.

I opened (and closed) a photo studio...and I did my job.

I have adapted to four different management styles over the last 18 years...and I did/do my job.

I'm not perfect...But I do what I can.

I dare you to come at me about my job performance.

Last chance

For his entire life, I have given Sam "one more chance." I have helped him as much as I could to succeed. Maybe that's why he didn't believe me when I told him that if he lied to me again he would no longer be welcome in my house.

He lied...again. He had NO response...no explanation...no remorse.

He was given 30 minutes to leave my house and he left without so much as a word.

I am broken.

It's always the mother's fault, right?

Everything is most certainly NOT under control

I feel like it's all slipping away. The harder I try to maintain control, the worse it gets.

Quarantine #1 due to the 7th grade basketball team.

My mother is aging and slipping into her own world where we cannot reach her.

My "adult" son failed out of his first semester at college.

There's a global pandemic and my social 13-year-old son isn't handling isolation well.

My job is in jeopardy because I don't have the right political affiliation.

My husband is a saint who takes care of so much...and yet I can't stop finding fault (only a very small portion of which is actually deserved).

Quarantine #2 due to 18-year-old's poor decision making skills.

Christmas is postponed for, at best, 14 days. At worst...forever.

That feeling of death stalking me is back. The fear is back.

I'd like to say I'm at peace no matter what happens. But that would be a lie. 

If something bad happens to my family (again) I don't know what I will do. 

The worst feeling is that I could've tried harder...done better...been kinder...seen more...worried less...

COVID emotions

Myles has been asked by the Middle School to quarantine due to possible covid exposure from an adult at his school. He will be in quarantine through his 13th birthday next Friday. By extension, I will be in quarantine because that\"s the safest thing to do. I can\"t help but feel all the feelings...

~I want to rant. Wear the damn mask. It doesn\"t take anything from you and it\"s such a small ask.

~I want to thank the contact who DID wear a mask. If we don\"t get sick it will be because s/he wore a mask and followed health protocols. I hope s/he has mild symptoms and recovers quickly.

~I want to cry because Sam can\"t come home from college for the weekend and Myles will miss his first basketball games (and any sort of birthday celebration). It\"s nothing in the grand scheme...I know...so many have lost so much...it all makes me so sad.

~I want to acknowledge my privilege. I currently have a job that allows me the flexibility to work from home so that I can do my part to stop this damn pandemic. (Thanks

Cecilia

) I also have resources and friends I can call on to help with the things that need done as the world keeps moving without us for two weeks.

~This isn\"t the worst thing to ever happen to me...so I want to recognize that with a grateful heart.

~I want to draft my will...because there is that fear.

~I want to talk about veterans...and how our society doesn\"t take care of them...and how shameful that is. See Faces of Covid on Twitter for profiles of veterans who\"ve been lost to the pandemic. See

Stop Soldier Suicide

and

National Coalition for Homeless Veterans

on Facebook. It\"s nice...the photos and the "thank you\"s"...but we can and should do better.

Living through a pandemic is an emotional roller coaster, that is for sure. Thanks for listening. I\"ll try to keep the belly-aching to a minimum this next week or so. [Posted on Facebook on Veteran\"s Day 2020]

Blog add:

~I want to complain about the election in which an incredibly qualified attorney did not get enough votes to retain her seat. I want to scream about how the person who did get the votes called and expected that she would be trained by the current officeholder! But I can\"t, because friends of friends...you know how that goes...the grapevine in a rural community is a nasty mess. And I need my job for the time being.

~I want to talk about being 48 years old and not wanting my career anymore. About being disillusioned with public service and my fellow public servants. I want to dream about possibilities that are far away from here...that make me smile instead of giving me migraine headaches.

~I want to talk about how it feels to have death constantly stalking you. Waiting for you to forget a mask or miss a streetlight or eat chicken that isn\"t fully cooked. I\"m exhausted. A teeny tiny virus/bacteria/germ killed my babies. I know the power of a teeny tiny virus. I keep trying to avoid the thoughts...but they always find me. Paranoia. Fear. Grief. Sadness. They won\"t leave me alone!

~I want to collapse somewhere and have someone take care of me without having to worry that they are just covering their insecurities too...knowing that they can handle it...and it WILL be ok.

Healthy and happy

"I just want my kids to be healthy and happy."

And then your teenage tells you he want to be an engineer who designs weapons.

You spend countless hours sifting through your memories and wondering where the missteps were.

Suddenly you realize that you've been lying all this time.

You don't want him to be happy if his idea of happiness will bring more pain into this world.

You have to admit that you really just want him to be someone you can be proud of.

You have to recognize your failure...because he doesn't give a shit about making you proud.

So you're a failure and a fraud.

Who am I? How did I get here?

When I was a kid, I collected unicorn collectibles.

I have no real idea why.

I think it started when someone gave me one as a gift and I said I loved it...to be polite.

Two days ago my mom (currently in rehab following foot surgery) told me she was feeling sick...and my mind immediately went to a very dark place (thank you coronavirus).

Yesterday I had to tell my 12-year-old that a sleepover with three of his friends wasn't worth the coronavirus exposure risk and he has to stay home.

Today I have to consider whether to take legal action to stop a local festival from creating a coronovirus exposure risk for the public by opening this weekend.

Tomorrow I get to watch my 18-year-old asthmatic son don a surgical mask and head off to his minimum wage job at Dollar Tree...where he will undoubtedly be verbally abused by strangers...and potentially exposed to coronavirus.

Later this summer we get to discuss whether on-campus college life is worth the coronavirus exposure risk.

Nothing makes sense anymore...and I'm tired of being polite.

I've always really hated unicorns.

Wear a mask if you must go out.

But better yet...

DON'T GO OUT IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO!

War weary

I remember when I stumbled upon my grandfather's war photo collection.

I remember him waking up screaming.

I remember him pacing the floors of their old house because he couldn't sleep.

I remember sitting on the sofa in the common area on the first floor of Darrow Hall at BGSU and watching Operation Desert Storm begin on the television.

I remember sitting in the court administrator's office on 9/11 watching the second tower fall on a tiny black and white television.

I remember the meeting to determine to close the Home and Garden show in our county in the earliest days of the coronavirus pandemic in Ohio.

I remember working from home while my children's school was closed for months.

I remember answering impossible questions like, "Do we allow the COVID positive patient back in the nursing home? If not, where does he go?"

But all of these things are not equal in my mind.

Framing the coronavirus pandemic using war terms makes me very uneasy.

• Platooning
• Frontline
• Invaded
• Fight/Battle/War
• Hero/Enemy

These words simply aren't appropriate for what we're facing. Not every scary challenge requires militarization. It serves no purpose but to create conflict where there is none.

I was in the room that first week...

• Were we overreacting?
• Were we underreacting?
• How does this virus spread?
• How lethal is it?
• What should we do?

I can tell you that there was no use of force that would fix it. No military...no political party...no God...had the answers. It was just a group of average people who wanted to do something to help the people in our communities.

It still is.

I wonder what my grandpa would think.

I am damn sure he wouldn't make a stupid war analogy.

Assistant Prosecutor, Civil Division

For 16 years and five months my job was generally the least exciting job of anyone in my office. Sure, there were occasional moments of great satisfaction that made it worth the seemingly endless string of nonsense "legal questions" I was expected to answer. The time I played a part in assisting the elderly woman who was trapped alone in her bed while her "guardian" checked on her twice a day...the time I played a part in rehabilitating the neighborhood so that raw sewage no longer flowed into the creek...the time I assisted the township to build a new garage and town hall...and a few others...

But normally the bulk of my job has consisted of administrative enforcement of regulations that a lot of people don't understand the need for (unless/until they need it to protect their own interests)...and answering questions about how local government is to operate. Who buries the indigent? can a township transfer money from one fund to another? is this or that subject to open meetings/public records laws? can a township sell excavated ditch dirt for profit? It is, most definitely, not headline grabbing material.

And then came the COVID-19 global pandemic. GLOBAL. The problems affecting us are affecting everyone. And people look to me for answers. ME! hahahahahaha! (ok...sorry for that mini breakdown there)

Public health regulations aren't new...and they affect just about every aspect of your life without you usually noticing. Your neighbor can't dump his/her sewage onto your property. Why? Public health regulation. Your water company has to provide you with potable water. Why? Public health regulation. The guy making your cheeseburger has to wear a hair net over his hair and/or beard. Why? Public health regulation. The guy giving you a tattoo has to use clean needles. Why? Yep...you guessed it...public health regulation.

And public health orders during times of contagious illness outbreak? Yeah...those have been in our laws for decades (centuries in some regards). In Ohio, the authority is found in Title 37 of the Revised Code. Chapters 3707 and 3709 are like old friends at this point. These are mechanisms by which public health identifies and corrects threats to the general population. At the risk of delivering a lecture on the appropriate uses of governmental authority, let's just say that the control of infectious disease is considered a legitimate public interest.

90,000 Americans are dead. 26 of them from my county.

And people don't seem to care.

I'm at a loss how to keep doing my job after this.

What's the point?

If people die and nobody cares...the rest seems like a waste of time.

Welcome to my mid-life crisis.

Senior Year Cancelled

Our first son came into this world as we were mourning September 11, 2001. Life had changed in ways we never imagined.

I remember this overwhelming feeling looking at him in the hospital bassinet. How would I do this? How would I love him and protect him and make his childhood a happy one? How would I teach him to be a good person? How would I show him how to find happiness in this life? In that moment, it occurred that there might be worse things during his childhood. But it was still so unreal to me...we'd surely met our limit of bad things that could happen during a person's lifetime...the awful couldn't touch this beautiful baby boy again...I would see to it.

Then there was so much more loss and grief...so personal...so awful...that consumed our little family for what seemed like an eternity. And our boy learned to adapt...to things never imagined.

Things are out of our control...yet again. COVID-19...Novel Coronavirus...Global Pandemic...Quarantine...Schools Closed...Senior Year Over.

Not a damn thing I can do about it.

You'd think I'd be a pro at this by now. I should be able to acknowledge my lack of control and move on. Nobody (that we know) has died. There are people suffering with so much worse things during this mess.

And yet, there is still a part of my brain trying to find a way to "make it right" somehow. Like I can't let go of the idea that I can fix this. It's frustrating and infuriating and making me very sad...again.

Seriously? A worldwide health pandemic now?

One day I'm going to write a book that nobody will believe could possibly be the truth.

Oh no Thomas Rhett

Ain't it funny how life changes
You wake up, ain't nothing the same and life changes
You can't stop it, just hop on the train and
You never know what's gonna happen
You make your plans and you hear god laughing
Life changes, and I wouldn't change it for the world, the world, oh no
And I wouldn't change it for the world, the world, oh no***

***there's always going to be that asterisk

I hope they forgive me

I hope my husband will forgive me for not being able to give him his dream of six kids.
I hope my son will forgive me for not being the mother he needed.
I hope they will forgive me for not making our home the place they wish it was.
I hope my mother will forgive me for keeping score.
I hope my father forgives me for missing who I wanted him to be...and not who he was.
I hope my friends forgive me for not knowing how to bridge the gap.
I hope my co-workers understand how I was...before.
I hope they will all forgive me for my unrelenting anxiety and the effect it has had on our lives.

File this in the unanticipated landmine category...

At Sam's senior portrait session (I KNOW...I can't believe it either)...

...AFTER the small-talk, "So how many kids do you have?" (That I managed to navigate without crying..."Just the two boys.")

G (photographer's husband/assistant): "Oh...you have horses...do you ride?"

Me: "No...we just never finished the training."

G: "How long have you had them?"

Me: "16 years."

G: "OMG...that's hilarious!"

Me: "Well life happened..."

G: "I thought it was like a year or two...max (laughing hysterically)."

Me: (laughing along and suddenly falling down that familiar spiral...thinking...well I was pregnant or recovering from one dead baby delivery or another for several of those years...and then I was so iron-deficient I could barely breathe...but nobody gave a fuck because they just chalked it up to my being depressed and fat...so...)

"Hey Sam...smile!"

Another October

It's over. October. Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness month.

Granted societal permission to air the thoughts I'm supposed to keep to myself for the other eleven months of the year.

I can't do it. I won't do it. I'm not interested.

I remember the first day I cried so hard I thought I wouldn't survive. Do you?

I cried so many times like that...

...in the car...in my office...in the shower...in my bed...on the kitchen floor.

Where were you then?

I remember the last day I cried like that...when I finally thought, "This is it...I cannot grieve anymore like this."

It was in October...and I was alone.

So you'll forgive me if I'm not going to crack wide open for you during this...or any other...month that you deem acceptable.

You'll have to understand if I'm not interested in your pretty graphic logos and inspirational messages.

I won't be walking with other "parents who understand."

November 1st doesn't hold any magical power to make me miss them any less.

And since I'm used to spending time alone with my grief...I'm going to keep it that way during October too.

Anxiety

So here's the thing that happened after my father-in-law, my babies, and my dad all died suddenly (without any explanation)...

Anxiety.

I cannot outrun it (I'm not kidding...I've actually started walking/running).

I am terrified I am going to die suddenly (with or without an explanation).

Every little ache or pain is now a harbinger of death (and Dr. Google is not helping).

It's irrational...but I can't NOT think about it.

So I'm starting projects again.

Fake it till ya make it, right?

Not sure this blog will be one of those projects...but I think there is something cathartic about writing out all the garbage that's floating around in my brain.

In the meantime, I just hope I don't die.

Home

Yesterday, the pink walls of my sisters old bedroom whispered to me about the life we had...about what we have...and I was overwhelmed.
Friday night records played on the stereo Dad built himself from a kit.
Mom in the kitchen making hamburgers and fried potatoes.
Roller skating around the pool table.
Dad going golfing every Saturday morning.
Scuffing slippers on the carpet in order to build up static and zap each other.
Sundays with Dad lying on the living room floor watching football or baseball or basketball (and usually falling asleep and snoring).
The long gone swing set put together by Dad and Grandpa, with it's barbershop pole color scheme...white and metallic blue and metallic red.
The purple of the guest bedroom...changed from cheerful yellow after my sister moved into her pink bedroom the basement.
Dad pulling out his guitar and playing a song or two. I only know the refrain of Delta Dawn.
Staying home with a babysitter while Mom and Dad went to bowling league.
The metal roof of the old doghouse in the backyard sitting on top of what remains of the rotten wood structure that seems to have melted into the ground.
Homemade birthday cakes.
Riding bikes up and down the street.
Mom in her bedroom reading a romance novel.
The yellow and white bench at the kitchen table.
The blue of the office...once my brother's room.
Saturday afternoon trips to Kmart and the carton of Whoppers shared during the car ride home...before he was "too tired from golfing."
My husband tightening the wrought iron railing for my mom...who used to tell us, "Don't lean over the railing."
The shelf my Dad built me to hold my ceramic unicorn collection.
The Smuckers box that came from Dad's employer one xmas...filled with little ice cream sundae cups and Smuckers ice cream toppings.
The laughter while writing "Griswold Christmas lights" on the outside of that Smuckers box after the ice cream supplies were unpacked...to store the xmas tree lights.
The xmas party where my sister and I wore matching long blue dresses our mom had made. I got Colorforms from Santa Claus.
The station wagon trips to Indiana (the barf coffee can for the trip home where I had the flu).
The organ I taught myself xmas carols on.
The big soft couch that came from my aunt and was way more comfortable than the one my parents had in the living room...but they put it in the basement.
Sitting on that couch with my only high school boyfriend and watching the little black and white tv while making out.
Coming home from school to an empty house on my 16th birthday...but there was a balloon and a card and a gift on the kitchen table. Mom got me the Timex watch I'd been begging for.
Dad's chair...that nobody but Mom will sit in now.

There wasn't much connection in that house. Maybe that's why these random things seem to suffocate me when I am there. I have these "nice" memories...but that house is not home. It's not a place I ever felt totally comfortable. "Because I said so," and, "As long as you live in my house," were phrases I heard often. It was like I was a visitor throughout my whole childhood...just stopping by on my way to something else. Not allowed to ask questions. Expected to mind my own business.

And so I did.

So now I go there and there are so many things I don't recognize. Maybe that's why the things I do remember stand in such contrast.

My Dad died

Thanksgiving was lovely.

 

And then my Dad died. 

 

It still doesn't seem real...so maybe that's why I keep hearing my own voice in my head saying, "My Dad died." It's not my mom's voice telling me...like what actually happened. It's my own voice...repeating.

 

My Dad died.

 

It's like I need to remind myself that things have changed. That he's not here anymore.

 

My Dad died.

 

It's so different from losing the babies. It's definitely filled with more regret, anger, and...I don't know...unresolved feelings. I mean, my dad has always been there. He wasn't my most vocal cheerleader. He wasn't anyone's cheerleader. He didn't really use supportive words much. He wasn't warm and cuddly. In fact, I can count on one hand the number of times I can remember him saying "I love you." He wasn't open with his stories or life experiences. In fact, I think he subscribed to the belief that children should be seen and not heard. But he was always there. And now...there are just the words in my head...

 

My Dad died.

 

Dad was diagnosed with prostate cancer in May of 2015. He did everything he could. He followed the doctors' advice. He was doing well. His numbers were good. Thanksgiving was lovely. It was all so normal. And then he got sick overnight with flulike symptoms. And then he went to the hospital. And then Saturday morning his heart stopped. And that was that.

 

My Dad died.

 

As a child, every night before bed, I would kiss him on the cheek and say, "Love you, Dad." And he would respond with "Uh-huh" or "goodnight" or "shape up." Now, with my own children, I am certain to say "I love you" first. I never want them to wonder, like I sometimes still do.

 

My Dad died.

 

I should have visited him more this summer. I was busy and he was grumpy. And he had a new dog to keep him busy. I don't think I sent a Father's Day card this year. But we saw Fourth of July fireworks together. And we went for lunch at the beginning of July to celebrate both Father's Day and Mom's birthday, like we did every year. But I can't remember...what were my last words to him? Did I kiss him goodbye? I should have gone to see him in the hospital that last day. Instead, I went out for cheesecake and a strawberry daiquiri. I went and looked at art. And when I did go to the hospital I didn't go to his room because I didn't want him to be annoyed with me. I should have risked his annoyance. But I just thought he was sick.

 

I didn't think he was going to die.

 

Was he scared? Did he know he was dying? Why did he wait to go to the hospital? There aren't any answers, I know. He's just gone. And we have to figure out how we all fit together as a family without him being there. I don't know how to reconcile my own roles of mother and child so that they make sense in this. Christmas Eve was awful. Everyone smiled and did the best they could. But his recliner sat empty (nobody sat in it all day). Christmas day was awful. I couldn't bring myself to prepare his favorites...because he wasn't there.

 

My Dad died.

 

Notoriously hard to buy Christmas presents for, my Dad was the only one I had completed my shopping for by Thanksgiving. His beloved Cubs had won the World Series and I had the best gifts for him. I was ready. He would have loved them.

 

My Dad died.

 

And now my mom is alone. And I don't know what she needs. And the thought of her alone makes me sad. With the babies, I mourned for what could have been. But there weren't 45 years of memories to remind me of what I had lost...what I would never experience again. I think it makes me sadder. And angrier. The two of them did such a good job of building their own adventure together without me and my family...that I don't know how we fit...how we are supposed to fit. It feels like there is a piece missing.

 

My Dad died.

 

There have been quite a few pop culture icons to die this year. And people my age say they feel like their childhoods are disappearing. And I want to scream...

 

MY DAD DIED!