This Body is Bullshit

If you follow me on social media, you’ve probably noticed that I’ve shared a few things recently about Fred Lorenzen and some pretty significant news that came out about him.

Fred Lorenzen was a NASCAR champion, a Hall of Famer and, as we recently learned, the first known NASCAR driver to be diagnosed with chronic traumatic encephalopathy, or CTE, following his death. CTE is something we’re more accustomed to hearing about in football and hockey players. NASCAR? Not so much.

But the reason this story is so significant to me has very little to do with NASCAR. Fred Lorenzen was one of my dad’s very best friends. And his daughter Amanda one of mine.

Our families go way, way back. My dad and Fred were friends for decades. My mom was friends with Fred’s former wife, Nancy, and I grew up with their kids, Amanda and Christopher. Amanda and I were so close when we were little that we used to tell people we were cousins. And honestly, some of my favorite childhood memories involve the Lorenzen family.

They lived in Oak Brook in this beautiful house in what I thought was the coolest neighborhood ever. I spent plenty of nights sleeping over, and I remember they had a pet rabbit, which I thought was just about the greatest thing in the world. We’d ride our bikes around the neighborhood, sneak into Chris’s room to play with his Star Wars toys, and do all the things little girls did before cell phones and social media existed.

Although I have to say, our childhood entertainment was probably a little more dangerous than what today’s parents would approve of. Fred used to strap Amanda and me into a hammock with belts and spin us all the way around. I’m talking a full 360 degrees. Yes. Belts. A hammock. What could possibly go wrong?

We also spent a lot of time at Oak Brook Bath & Tennis Club. I remember the high dive, the pond, and this awesome little snack shack. To a kid, that place was paradise.

And then there was their basement. I remember listening to Madonna’s “Holiday” on vinyl, playing Ms. Pac-Man on their arcade machine, and spending hours down there. And yes, there was the famous trophy room.

In one of the recent articles about Fred, Amanda mentions that room, and I immediately remembered it. It was FULL of trophies. I mean, full full. Trophies everywhere. Now, you’d think that as a kid I would have been completely fascinated by all those trophies. Nope. I was much more interested in the pool table and this enormous stuffed shark Fred had mounted on the wall. Apparently, he’d caught it himself.

Of course, as I got older, I began to understand just how extraordinary Fred’s accomplishments really were. But back then, he wasn’t some famous race car driver to me. He was Amanda and Chris’s dad. And my dad’s friend.

As we got older, Amanda and I naturally drifted into our own lives, but she’s one of those people who will always be my friend. You know the kind. Life gets busy. Years pass. You don’t talk nearly as often as you should. But when you do reconnect, it’s like no time has passed at all. Although, to be fair, Amanda has always been much better about keeping in touch than I have. Sorry, Amanda. Love you!

I even remember being excited when Lyons Township played York in high school because it meant I might get to see her. If I’m remembering correctly, I was playing freshman basketball, and Amanda, who’s younger than me, was already playing varsity. Tall, gorgeous blonde. Athletic. The kind of girl who could have been a supermodel. And now she lives in California, where she is basically the epitome of a California girl. She married a great guy, and because the Chicago suburbs are actually one very large small town, Matt’s sister happens to be friends with his sister. And I think one of my friends may have briefly dated him in high school. Six degrees of separation? More like two.

But here’s where this story starts to come full circle. When we made my dad’s dementia diagnosis public, Amanda regularly reached out to check on me. She understood. Not because she’d read about dementia or knew someone who knew someone. Because she’d been living it with her own dad for years. And I knew that. Because even as Fred’s health declined, my dad continued visiting him.

I’ve mentioned in an earlier blog entry how my dad would regularly visit his friend in the nursing home, often bringing his dog, Loot, along. It was Fred. Fred had been struggling with dementia for many years and although he didn’t always remember everything or everyone, there was something that meant the world to my dad. Fred always knew it was Russell when he walked into the room.

My dad would tell me that with such happiness. And I can understand why. When you’ve known someone for decades, when you’ve shared adventures, laughs, probably a fair amount of trouble and watched each other’s children grow up, there’s something incredibly powerful about knowing that somewhere inside, your friend is still there. Still knows you. Still remembers Russell. I think about that a lot now. Especially knowing what I know about my own dad’s decline. And especially knowing what we now know about Fred.

My dad had a million stories. And some of my favorites involved Fred. Now, I can’t promise every detail is completely accurate because these stories were told by my father who never let a little thing like accuracy get in the way of a good story. But I can tell you they were entertaining.

One thing my dad always said about Fred was that he never bragged about being a NASCAR champion. In fact, according to Dad, Fred rarely even mentioned it. My dad, on the other hand? Oh, he was more than happy to tell anyone who would listen. Fred probably didn’t always appreciate my dad announcing to complete strangers that his buddy was a NASCAR champion. But that’s just who my dad was. He was proud of his friend, and whether Fred liked it or not, people were going to know who he was. I love that about both of them. Fred didn’t need anyone to know he was famous. And my dad couldn’t understand why everyone didn’t already know.

My dad and Fred used to frequent the bars around Rush Street and Division in Chicago. And based on what I know about both of them, I have absolutely no doubt they were quite the ladies’ men. I can only imagine the trouble those two got into.

Apparently, after a night out, they’d occasionally find themselves driving home on one of Chicago’s expressways. The Stevenson. The Eisenhower. The Kennedy. Take your pick. And naturally, because one of them was a professional NASCAR driver and the other was my father, they would race. Yes. Race. On the expressway. After being out on Rush Street. It was a different time, people. Anyway, my dad loved telling the story about the night he thought he’d finally beaten Fred. He was flying down the expressway, looked in his rearview mirror, and couldn’t see Fred anywhere. Not a headlight in sight. He was thrilled. He’d done it! Jim Russell had outrun Fred Lorenzen! Except… he hadn’t. Fred was so close behind him that my dad couldn’t even see his headlights. He was practically attached to his bumper. That’s a NASCAR driver for you.

And then there was the boat. At some point, Fred apparently had some kind of ridiculously powerful speedboat. If I remember the story correctly, he’d put Corvette engines in it, or something equally insane. And one day, he took my dad out on the water. According to Dad, they were going so fast he wasn’t even sure the boat was touching the water anymore. And that, ladies and gentlemen, was one of the very few times I ever heard my father admit to being scared. Which tells you everything you need to know about that boat. And probably a little something about Fred Lorenzen.

My dad was there for some of Fred’s NASCAR victories, and I believe Fred may have even joined him on one of those chartered trips to the Bahamas. And when Fred was inducted into the NASCAR Hall of Fame in Charlotte, North Carolina, in 2015, my dad and Kathy traveled there with Fred and his family to celebrate. I love that they were there for such an incredible moment in his life. Especially knowing how much my dad loved telling everyone about his famous friend, whether Fred appreciated the attention or not. I can only imagine how proud Dad was that day.

They had a lifetime of memories together. Two guys who loved adventure, speed, a good time, and apparently pushing the limits of what was considered a reasonable way to stay alive. But they also had the kind of friendship that lasted through the years, through life’s biggest celebrations, and eventually through some of its hardest moments.

Fred passed away in December 2024. My dad was asked to be a pallbearer at his funeral. Unfortunately, the timing coincided with Grace graduating with her master’s degree from Arizona State University, so Kathy and I were out of town and unable to attend. Dad went on his own. And he got lost. I remember how stressful that night became, trying to figure out where he was and what was happening. Looking back, I think that was one of the moments when we began to realize just how much things were changing with my dad.

He’d spent his life going everywhere, doing everything, and figuring things out along the way. And now something as simple as getting to his best friend’s funeral had become a problem. It was heartbreaking. And in many ways, I think it marked the beginning of the end for him. At the time, we were still trying to understand what was happening to Dad. We didn’t yet have all the answers. But I knew something wasn’t right. And now, less than two years later, my dad is gone, too.

When the news came out about Fred’s CTE diagnosis, I immediately thought about Amanda. And Chris. And Nancy. And all the years their family spent watching someone they loved slowly change. Because I know a little something about that now. My dad had frontotemporal dementia. Fred’s diagnosis was CTE. They’re different conditions, but both can cause devastating changes in a person’s behavior, thinking, and ability to function. And both can leave families grieving someone who’s still physically sitting right in front of them. That’s something Amanda understood long before I did. And something I wish neither of us had ever needed to understand.

But what Amanda and Chris are doing now is extraordinary. They’ve announced a $1 million donation to support CTE research and establish the Fred Lorenzen Memorial HelpLine, helping families who are struggling with suspected CTE and the lasting effects of traumatic brain injuries. I can’t imagine a more meaningful way to honor their dad.

Because Fred Lorenzen was so much more than a NASCAR champion. He was a husband, a father, a friend. He was the guy who strapped two little girls into a hammock and spun them upside down. The guy who had a basement full of trophies and a giant shark on the wall. The guy who could scare the hell out of Jim Russell in a speedboat. And the guy who, even after dementia had taken so much from him, still recognized his old friend when he came to visit. He still knew Russell.

And for some reason, that means even more to me now than it did when my dad first told me. Because dementia may have changed both of these men, but it doesn’t get to erase who they were, the lives they lived, the friendships they shared, or the memories we have of them.

Matt is home! His two weeks in North Carolina finally came to an end last Friday, and the poor guy was terribly homesick. The job didn’t quite pan out the way we expected, and there’s still a chance he’ll have to go back. He is digging his feet in about not. But for now, he’s home, and I think he’s pretty happy about that.

I had all these grand ideas about what I was going to accomplish while he was gone. A lot of it didn’t get done, but I did get a pretty big chunk of stuff accomplished, so that feels satisfying. I also thought I was going to have all this glorious time alone, and I think I actually had maybe two days to myself. Otherwise, I’ve been constantly on the run.

Kathy got home from New Jersey the same day. She’d been helping Kevin with the kids while Crissy was away on a job, and they all managed to be together for Mae’s birthday before Kathy headed home. So that was nice.

Saturday, Matt and I spent most of the day being lazy, catching up and enjoying having him home. I figured he’d be perfectly content to sit on the couch and do absolutely nothing all weekend. Then Kathy stopped by, and the two of them decided Bloody Marys sounded like a great idea. Then Matt suggested we take Kathy to Blume and Ferris Public House, our new favorite little find. Well, okay then! I jumped in the shower, Kathy ran home to get ready, and off we went. We had a great time. I certainly wasn’t expecting Matt to want to go out after being away for two weeks, but I’m glad he did.

Sunday, Kathy and I ran some errands in the morning, and then we relaxed at home and finished watching the Bears game. A pretty great weekend, actually.

Before I get into the rest of this week, I do want to mention something about this blog.

This is my therapy. It’s where I dump all the crazy thoughts running around in my head and try to get them from my brain onto paper. Sometimes they come out a little wonky. Sometimes they probably don’t make much sense to anyone but me. But I never write with the intention of getting anyone in trouble, invading anyone’s privacy or hurting anyone’s feelings.

However, my biggest blog fan apparently misconstrued something I wrote in my last entry and tried to get my beloved UB in trouble! Which was actually the complete opposite of what I meant. But I guess that’s the problem with writing sometimes. People interpret things differently, especially in text messages, where you can’t hear someone’s tone or understand exactly what they’re trying to say.

Anyway, Aunt Susie made dinner for me while Matt was gone and dropped it off at the house. It was one of my grandma’s old recipes, and it was absolutely delicious. I ate it for dinner that night, then lunch and dinner the next day. So she’s officially forgiven for trying to get UB in trouble.

Ken also came down for a few days while Matt was away to help me with the dogs, since I had George staying with us while Kathy was gone. That was really nice.

I had him bring my mom’s urn because I was going to the funeral home to get the little keepsake urns for Grace and me with Dad’s ashes. I figured I’d ask if they could do the same with Mom’s ashes, even though she hadn’t been cremated through their funeral home. Thankfully, they were happy to help. Because God forbid I attempt that myself again. I know I’ve written about the time I somehow managed to get my mom’s ashes in my hair. At least I hope I have, because it’s definitely a story worth telling.

Anyway, Ken headed home, and I had to laugh when I realized I needed to call him while he was on the road.

“Hey, you forgot Mom.”

So she’s still here with me.

I’ve been thinking a lot about death and what happens afterward. I’ve never been a religious person. I honestly don’t know what I believe, but I do believe, or at least really want to believe, that there could be a heaven. Somewhere I get to see everyone again. I see people lean into their faith during grief, and it genuinely seems to bring them comfort. I wish I had that. I wish I could believe so strongly in something that it would make all of this easier.

But then I think about people like Kirby and Wes. Why do such terrible things happen to good people? Why would any God allow people to suffer through catastrophic illnesses? I don’t know how to make sense of that. I don’t know what this enormous universe is made of or how people find that kind of faith.

I just know I’ve been carrying around this empty, tight feeling in my chest, and I really want it to go away.

My friend Tricia’s mom passed away, and I went to her wake last week. Her mom suffered from dementia for many, many years. After experiencing even the relatively short period of my dad’s decline, I cannot imagine what her family went through. That long, slow goodbye, watching someone you love disappear over so many years. And they lost her brother less than fifteen years ago too. Just so much heartache for one family.

Being in a funeral home certainly didn’t help my mood.

I also finished Theo of Golden, and it was wonderful. I absolutely loved it. Except for Chapter 58. If you’ve read it, you understand.

There was always this melancholy undertone to the book, even with all the beauty in it. And I’ve been thinking that I seem to have a melancholy undertone myself lately. Which is very unfamiliar territory for me.

I haven’t been feeling particularly well either, which certainly doesn’t help. My right arm has really been bothering me, and I probably need to go in for that lymphedema evaluation. But I also have a bad shoulder on that side, so who knows? Torn rotator cuff? Frozen shoulder? Old age? At this point, your guess is as good as mine. I just know it hurts, and I’m tired of trying to figure out which part of my body is responsible for making me miserable.

It’s just annoying. And exhausting. The constant aches and pains. Wondering whether I’m doing my body a favor by working out or actually making things worse. Some days I really don’t feel well, and it’s frustrating because I want to be active. I want to feel good.

And then Monday happened.

I woke up with what I thought was a sinus headache. Matt wasn’t working, so he was home that morning. By the time I got out of the shower, the headache had gotten pretty intense. My vision was blurry, and my hands and feet were tingling, almost like they were falling asleep. Well, that’s a little concerning. Of course, the thought of a stroke crossed my mind, although the fact that it was happening in all four extremities made me wonder what the hell was going on but probably not a stroke. When I mentioned it to Matt, he immediately thought stroke and insisted we go to the emergency room.

And there went Monday. Blood work, an EKG, a CAT scan, and hours of sitting around waiting for answers. I ended up missing the entire workday and didn’t get out of there until about 3:30. The conclusion? Possibly a migraine. Okay…

There were a few things in my test results that caught my attention. I wouldn’t necessarily call them red flags, but maybe yellow flags. Nothing that seemed to alarm the emergency room staff, but enough that I’m following up with my GP and oncologist. Depending on what they think, I may also be visiting an endocrinologist, neurologist or ENT. Because why have one doctor when you can collect the entire set?

One interesting little tidbit from my CT scan that actually made me chuckle is that apparently my pituitary gland is a little deflated. Deflated! I mean, have you ever heard of such a thing? Apparently, even my glands are exhausted.

And from what little I know about the pituitary gland and its role in regulating hormones and metabolism, I can’t help but wonder whether this could have something to do with my struggles with weight. Maybe it means absolutely nothing, but it’s certainly something I’m curious about and will be asking my doctors. Because, seriously, a deflated pituitary gland? What the fuck is next?

I’ve felt like shit all week. The headache hasn’t completely gone away, and that makes me a little nervous. I’ve also been having tingling in my hands and feet for a while, along with this ongoing problem with my right arm. I don’t know if any of it is connected, but clearly there are a few things I need to get checked out. I don’t want to make a big deal out of something that may turn out to be nothing, especially since nobody at the hospital seemed particularly concerned. But I also know my body, and something just hasn’t felt right.

And of course, when I don’t feel well, that little thought creeps in.

What if there’s cancer somewhere? I don’t think I was ever really afraid of dying from cancer, though. What scared me was the sepsis. Because I actually felt my body shutting down. I felt like I was dying.

I’ve been thinking about that experience again lately, especially now that Dad is gone.

It was during COVID, and the hospital only allowed two designated visitors. They actually had their names documented, and those were the only two people allowed in. Mine were Matt and my dad. Grace was away at ISU at the time. Dad and Kathy were supposed to go to Florida, and of course, I didn’t want anyone worrying about me or putting their lives on hold. I knew Kathy really wanted to get away, so I insisted that Dad go on their trip. But I was really sick. And I remember feeling guilty because I didn’t know if I was going to make it. What if I died while he was in Florida? What would that have done to him, knowing I had insisted he leave? I am so glad he went, though. At the same time, I ended up fighting with the hospital administration because I needed to take Dad off my visitor list and replace him with Grace. Matt had called her and told her she needed to come home because he didn’t know what was going to happen to me. And that still gets me when I think about it. My husband having to make that phone call to our daughter.

Thankfully, after about 48 hours of not knowing what was going to happen, that horrible feeling of my body shutting down started to pass, and I began getting better. I don’t think I ever really feared the cancer itself the way I feared that infection. I just don’t want any more surgeries, infections or complications. I don’t want to feel any more like shit than I already do sometimes. I’m tired of my body being such a pain in the ass.

And I think that’s part of what’s frustrating about this melancholy feeling. I’m generally a pretty happy person. I’m a glass-half-full kind of chick. Sometimes I actually want to stay crabby. I want to be depressed and crotchety and feel sorry for myself for a while. But then I get around other people, and I can’t seem to stay that way. I start talking and laughing, and suddenly the blah feeling lifts.

Which is probably why, despite feeling lousy, I still managed to get out and have dinner with Nancy on Tuesday night. And yesterday, I went to dinner with Drew, just the two of us. We had the best time. He got wine drunk, and we laughed so hard. It was one of those nights when you just can’t stop laughing, which felt especially good after the week I’d had.

But yesterday was also the anniversary of Kirby’s death. And here’s the interesting part. Drew has Kirby’s van, and yesterday, of all days, I was driving it. On the anniversary of Kirby’s death. I don’t know. There’s something kind of serendipitous about that. Of all the days to be driving around in Kirby’s van, it happened to be that one.

I think that’s part of why I love spending time with people. I can be feeling absolutely miserable, but get me around someone I enjoy, and suddenly I’m laughing and having a good time. I’ve known so many people, including my mom, who carried around enormous amounts of stress and worry. And I really believe that kind of negativity takes a toll on you. Maybe not in some magical way where every bad thought makes you sick, but I can’t imagine carrying all that stress around all the time is good for anybody. I don’t want to live like that. I don’t want to spend my life worrying about things I can’t control or being so consumed by everything that could go wrong that I forget to enjoy what’s actually happening. But I also can’t seem to shake this feeling lately. This strange, unfamiliar melancholy.

Anyway, it’s Friday. Thank God.

Wednesday was Maggie’s birthday, and we’ll get to celebrate her tomorrow at Wilson’s annual pumpkin carving. I cannot wait to see what UB comes up with this year. His creations are always something to look forward to.

We’ve also got Charlie, our crazy granddog, staying with us this weekend because Grace is off to a bachelorette party in Iowa. So once again, our house has gone to the dogs. Grace has also finished all her specialist appointments, and now it’s a matter of waiting for results and seeing what referrals come next. I’m happy she’s getting things checked out and hopefully getting closer to some answers. All good things for her, too.

Next week is Halloween, and then it’s Palm Springs!

Crissy sent out the itinerary, and I have to say, I really like her style. I’m totally down with having everything planned out. I like knowing what’s happening, where we’re going and what we’re doing. More people should be like that! I’m so excited for this trip.

But first, let’s see what the weekend brings.

First of all, I have a correction to make from my last entry, and apparently I have official proof that I am losing my fucking mind.

I mentioned that Crissy recommended Theo of Golden and Calamity Club. I could have sworn I remembered her telling me about these books while she was eating her gigantic plate of nachos. I can practically picture the entire conversation! Well, after reading my last entry, Crissy informed me that she’s never even read Theo of Golden.

What the fuck?!

Apparently, Crissy DID recommend Calamity Club, and Natalie recommended Theo of Golden. Somehow my brain combined the two, and I have this incredibly vivid memory of a conversation that never happened. I get more and more concerned about myself all the time. My brain is absolute mush.

Anyway, I’m loving the book and would absolutely recommend it. Natalie officially gets the credit for continuing to introduce me to normal books that don’t involve serial killers and murder.

Speaking of Natalie, today is her birthday, and I really wish I were there celebrating with her. She’s treating herself to a fancy sushi dinner before heading to a school board meeting. What an exciting way to celebrate 51! I had so much fun putting together a photo montage for her birthday. Looking back through all those pictures and remembering the things we’ve done together made me so happy. Memories I hadn’t thought about in a while. That’s why I love pictures. I’ve always been the picture taker and I love having all those memories to look back on.

Anyway, it’s Wednesday. Hump day. And it’s been a weird one.

Camping last weekend was absolutely amazing. Everything I had hoped it would be. We had a beautiful hike through nature, enjoyed the fresh air, sat around talking and laughing, and spent one night looking at the stars. We didn’t really see any wildlife, but it was just so nice to get away. The RV was amazing. And hilarious. Matt bought an inflatable mattress to put on top of the platform bed, which left approximately ten inches between our faces and the ceiling. You can try to envision that one. But we had such a great time. It was exactly what I needed.

We came home Sunday, and Monday morning I drove Matt to the airport. He’s in North Carolina for work for at least two weeks, and we’re really not sure what that’s going to look like beyond that. He was pretty upset and nervous about going. I’m thankful we had such a fun weekend together before he left because dropping him off Monday morning was emotional. But I really think this could be a great opportunity for him.

He says the city is pretty great. We found him a VRBO in a nice building in what sounds like a popular, up-and-coming area. Apparently, it’s a younger crowd in the building, so I’m sure they’re all going to love the old man who goes to bed at 7:30. The best part is that he can walk to and from work, which I think will be really good for him. A little fresh air and time to decompress every day. I’m hoping he settles in and actually enjoys himself a little.

I also spent some time with Kathy this week before she left for New Jersey. Monday night, I brought the dogs over, and she made bison burgers. Tuesday, she brought a slab of ribs over, we threw them on the grill, and she and George had dinner at our house. She mentioned that she’d recently read my blog and knew I was worried about her. She told me she was going to be okay, and then proceeded to say it through tears. And I know she is. She’s absolutely going to be okay. I don’t question that for a second. I’m just sad that she’s sad. I’m sad that she’s lonely, and I hate that she has to figure out what life looks like without Dad. We’re both trying to figure that out, just in very different ways.

Kathy headed to New Jersey today, and I know the kids are super excited to see her. I picked up George this afternoon, so he’s staying with us while she’s gone.

Which brings me back to my weird Wednesday. I didn’t go to work today. Not secretly as far as work is concerned, but I didn’t exactly announce it to anyone else. I just couldn’t bring myself to get in the shower this morning. I don’t even know why. I just couldn’t. So I piddled around the house, eventually got myself moving and ran some errands.

And then the grief showed up again.

It’s so strange how something completely ordinary can catch me off guard, and suddenly I’m filled with that sadness and anger about missing my dad. Matt had taken Dad’s signature red-and-black coat and green-and-black flannel, and I had dropped them off at the dry cleaners. I had completely forgotten about them, so when I went in and they told me I had something to pick up, I wasn’t expecting it.

And then there were my dad’s signature clothes.

It just caught me off guard. Seeing those familiar things that belonged to him, knowing he isn’t here to wear them anymore. I wasn’t prepared for that.

We had gone through Dad’s things pretty early. Matt took some of his clothes, and I kept a couple of his Bears sweatshirts. Matt also got the tools he wanted from the garage, and a few other people have taken things. Uncle Brad apparently had a field day. Kathy said he took an entire carload and then came back for another! Which actually makes me so happy. I love knowing that Uncle Brad has some of Dad’s things, especially his tools, and that they’ll continue to be used.

Maybe there are some hurt feelings over one of the saws. Patrick, one of Dad’s best friends, was supposed to come over and take whatever he wanted, but we haven’t heard from him. Patrick is the Irishman, an incredible master woodworker and someone who meant a lot to Dad. He’s had a really tough year with his own health, and now his mom is sick back in Ireland. He’s always been wonderful about helping Kathy with things around the house, and he was actually the one who arranged for a priest to come see Dad toward the end. We had also asked him to make Dad’s urn, but lately he’s been MIA. I don’t know what’s going on with him, and I hope he’s okay. I certainly don’t want him to feel hurt or left out.

Meanwhile, Matt is a little nervous about Uncle Brad having that saw, but I think UB is going to get a lot of use out of it. In fact, he’s already helping Kathy with a few things in the new bathroom. There were some things that needed fine-tuning, and rather than putting more on Patrick, Uncle Brad offered to help. He’s a really good woodworker himself. I just love that Dad’s tools are finding their way into the hands of people who knew him and loved him. And Uncle Brad is wasting absolutely no time putting them to work.

When I picked up George, I also picked up Dad’s ashes. I had ordered small keepsake urns for Grace and me, and they’ve arrived at the funeral home, so I’m going there tomorrow to take care of that. It’s still so bizarre to me that these are things I’m doing now. Picking up my dad’s clothes from the dry cleaners. Picking up his ashes. Going to the funeral home to divide them into little keepsake urns. I know it’s part of everything that comes after someone dies, but sometimes I still can’t believe it.

Grace and I are also in an interesting place right now. I’ve always been okay for her. That’s just what I do. I’m Mom. I’m the strong one. But I’ve been struggling with losing my dad, and she’s noticed. She’s been checking on me, asking how I’m doing and showing me a different kind of empathy because we’re both grieving him. It’s hard for me to let her see that I’m not okay. I know she knows it’s okay not to be okay, and I certainly know that too, but knowing it and actually allowing myself to be vulnerable with my daughter are two different things. I still have this instinct to be the strong one for her.

But there’s something really sweet happening between us. She’s an adult now, and our dynamic is changing. She’s concerned about me in a way that feels different. Not that she hasn’t always cared about me, of course, but this feels like we’re meeting each other in a new place, as two adults who loved the same man and are trying to figure out how to live without him. It’s warming my heart a little. I love that girl.

Tomorrow will be a better day.

I’m also feeling anxious about a message I need to send to my friend who’s struggling with her mental health and getting treatment. The situation has become so complicated, and I’m having a hard time figuring out where I stand in all of it. I’ve tried to listen and be supportive, but I’m starting to feel like I’ve been placating her. I don’t want to stand by and watch her burn bridges with people who genuinely love her, and I also can’t ignore it when other people are being hurt or made uncomfortable.

But she’s struggling, and I know that. That’s what makes this so difficult. I’m trying to figure out how to be an honest friend without making things worse. I reached out to her husband because I care about both of them, and I know this is incredibly hard on their entire family. So that’s a work in progress.

I’ve talked before about how weird this age is. It seems like everyone is going through something, and it’s interesting to see how we’ve all changed and evolved over the years. Friendships change too, and sometimes it’s hard to know what’s going on with people. I have to say, I was worried about Donna for a while. She kind of disappeared on us for a bit, and I missed her. But she’s back, and I feel like we’re back to joking around with Mark and being the Three Musketeers again. It just makes me happy to see her happy. With all the tough stuff everyone has been dealing with, it’s nice to have those bright spots too.

Ken is coming down tomorrow for a few days to help me with the dogs while Matt is gone. Between our two and George, we’ve got quite the kennel going on over here. George is not used to being home alone all day.

I also asked Ken to bring my mom’s ashes down because I ordered two additional keepsake urns for her. Hopefully, this doesn’t turn into another ridiculous episode involving me getting ashes in my hair. Yes, that happened. I’m pretty sure I’ve written about that little adventure before. Apparently, handling cremated remains is not one of my natural talents.

I’m also trying to make a point of spending time with people I feel like I neglect. Next week, I’m hoping to catch up with my old friend Dina and have dinner with Drew. I’m looking forward to both.

And then it’s work, work, work until Palm Springs. I still can’t believe I’m going! I feel so special and bougie getting to tag along with Crissy, Kathy and the kids. I’m so excited to spend time with Cal and Mae. They’re so fun, animated and cool, and I’m going to do my absolute best to be the coolest aunt.

We’re also going to Joshua Tree, which I’m ridiculously excited about. I’ve been trying to figure out whether this will actually be my first national park. I’ve been to Mount Rushmore and Devils Tower, but I’m not sure those count as national parks. Either way, I’m pumped. Natalie had wanted to come hike Joshua Tree with us, which would have been so much fun, but we’re only going to be there during the week, so unfortunately that isn’t going to work out. Huge bummer.

But Palm Springs! The kids! Exploring! Joshua Tree! Sunshine! I can’t wait to soak it all in, hang out with everyone and have some fun.

Seriously, how lucky am I?

I’ve been working. I’ve been functioning. I’ve been getting up, getting dressed, going places and doing the things I’m supposed to do. I can only describe myself as unnaturally okay. But that’s kind of my thing. I’m always fine. I don’t know if that’s one of my better qualities, a serious character flaw or a trauma response, but even my dad dying hasn’t changed it.

I’ve cried, of course. I’ve had moments. But I haven’t had that giant breakdown where I collapse into a puddle and sob uncontrollably. Part of me keeps waiting for it. Mostly I’m just wandering around trying to figure out what life looks like without my dad, and I haven’t even come close to figuring that out. The ache in my chest that I talked about before is still there. That empty feeling. Sometimes I’m sad, but lately I think I’m actually more angry.

I’m angry about what happened to him. I’m angry about his decline and how fucking unfair it was. I’m angry that I don’t have my dad in my life anymore, regardless of what the last couple of years looked like. I wanted him to die at the end. I can say that without feeling guilty because I know why I wanted it. I didn’t want him living that way anymore, and I know he wouldn’t have wanted it either.

But there was something so sweet about him at the end too. He was always saying, “Love you” and “Thank you.” Even with everything that had been taken from him, there were still pieces of my dad there, and I feel incredibly honored that I was able to help Kathy care for him those last few months. I don’t think there was ever a time when he didn’t know who we were, which was something I had been so scared of.

He had been such a huge presence my entire life that I don’t even know how to explain who he was, how he was, what he was to me. Everything reminds me of him now. Sometimes it makes me smile. Sometimes it gives me that pain in my chest. We’ll go somewhere or I’ll be doing something completely normal and there he is again.

We don’t even want to acknowledge Thanksgiving this year. It’s going to be so bizarre without him. I know there are going to be all these firsts without Dad, but I don’t particularly want to think about them yet.

Thankfully, everyone has mostly been leaving me alone, which I appreciate more than they probably know. I don’t really know what I’m doing or what I need.

A little over a week ago, I went up to Wisconsin to help Ken after his prostate surgery and make sure he could pee again, which is probably TMI and some sort of HIPAA violation. I’m really glad I went. He needed the help, and honestly, I think I needed the distraction.

Ken is an incredibly nervous, overthinking, neurotic patient. He had to have a catheter, and from the way he was moving around, you would have thought one wrong step would cause every organ in his body to fall directly onto the floor. Everything actually went extraordinarily well. I stayed two nights, he got the catheter out, and I made sure the man successfully peed a couple of times before I headed home.

Because we were supposed to go camping that weekend.

And for some reason, when camping got canceled because of the rain, that was the thing that completely gutted me. I think I had made it the light at the end of the tunnel without realizing it. Dad died, then everything that comes with someone dying, then I basically went straight into taking care of Ken. In my head, camping was where I was going to run away. The woods. Matt. Heather and Rusty. Laughing, drinking, sitting around the fire and not dealing with any of this shit for a couple of days.

So when it fell apart, I felt really fucking sorry for myself.

I dumped on Matt. It turned into a thing because he thought I was upset with him for not wanting to sit in an RV all weekend while it rained. I wasn’t. I completely understood why he didn’t want to do that. I was just fucking sad.

I didn’t need him to explain why camping didn’t make sense. I needed my husband to say, I know, babe. This fucking sucks. I know how much you needed this. And maybe even, Fuck it. Let’s figure out something else fun to do.

I wasn’t trying to fight with him. I was trying to tell him I was sad and I needed him. Sometimes I need to be allowed to feel sorry for myself without it becoming something that needs to be defended or solved.

Anyway, Ken was peeing when I left Thursday afternoon, which seemed like a solid place to end my shift. I drove home in the rain and went to bed early because I was depressed about Dad or camping or life or whatever combination of all three was happening in my head.

And of course, the next day Ken couldn’t pee.

By then I had decided to go back to work instead of taking the vacation day I had planned, and suddenly I’m thinking, Oh my God, am I going to have to drive two hours back up there? Of course I would help him. I love him. But this is also where I get frustrated.

For five years, since my mom died, I’ve been trying to get Ken to move closer to us. There is always a reason he can’t or shouldn’t or isn’t ready. Maybe part of it is that he doesn’t want to leave the last place he shared with my mom. I can understand that.

But I also just watched what happened with my dad. I was able to be there. I could help Kathy. I could be part of those last months because Dad was close enough for me to actually do it. I can’t do that for Ken from two hours away.

And being up there with him made me realize how lonely it is. I made him dinner those two nights and sat there wondering what his days look like when I’m not there, which is obviously most of the time.

Then my brain immediately went to Kathy.

Because now she’s alone too.

She and I are struggling with different versions of the same question: What the hell does life look like without my dad?

Kathy has kept herself incredibly busy, before Dad died and after. There was always something that needed to be done. But eventually you sit down. Eventually it gets quiet. And then everything comes flooding in.

She’s sad. I worry about her. I don’t want her to be lonely, and I don’t want to look at her life and see what I see when I look at Ken’s.

I don’t know. Grief is fucking weird.

Life without my dad is even weirder.

And life has decided there will be absolutely no shortage of other people I love going through their own shit while I figure mine out.

One of my friends has been struggling terribly with her mental health and is getting help, which I’m incredibly proud of her for doing. It’s been heartbreaking to watch, and it’s also made me think a lot about friendship, empathy and boundaries.

I’ve spent the last year or two trying to get better at having boundaries. Now I’m trying to figure out where those boundaries end when somebody you love genuinely isn’t well. Because mental illness deserves compassion. Absolutely. But the people who love you still have jobs and kids and spouses and parents and illnesses and grief and their own shit happening too.

Sometimes the hour or two someone has available is them showing up for you. Sometimes saying no to something they aren’t comfortable doing isn’t a rejection of you.

That’s where I struggle. I want to have compassion without completely abandoning the boundaries I’ve worked so hard to build.

And the truth is, we can’t fix this for her anyway. We’re her friends. We can love her, listen to her, show up when we can and remind her that she matters. But some things are bigger than what a group of girlfriends can fix by loving someone hard enough.

She needs real help, and thankfully she’s getting it.

I talked to Grace, who is all “degreed-up” in psychology, and she reassured me that there is help for this. Nobody is denying the pain or trauma underneath any of it. I just want my friend to find her way back to herself.

Maybe all of this is why I’ve been thinking so much about women lately.

Today is October 1, the beginning of Breast Cancer Awareness Month, which is always a little weird for me now. I’m all for wearing pink. I’ve actually really gotten into pink, which is funny considering I spent most of my life happiest wearing black.

Usually I like getting together with my fellow breast cancer warriors sometime during October. I plan a dinner or something, although I’m not particularly good at planning anything right now. But this year I think I want it to be about more than breast cancer.

I want to celebrate the women in my life.

Because holy shit, this age is a lot.

Our bodies are changing. Our minds are changing. There are health scares and surgeries and diagnoses. We’re losing parents. Some are losing spouses. Our kids are growing up and leaving the nest. We’re becoming caregivers for the people who once took care of us. Some of us have had cancer. Some are dealing with mental health. Some are figuring out how to be single again or how to live alone.

And somehow we’re all still moving along.

I don’t even necessarily want to celebrate how “strong” we all are, because sometimes I think women get stuck having to be strong because everybody expects us to handle everything. I want to celebrate all of it. The strong women. The struggling women. The women who have survived some shit. The ones currently in the middle of it. The ones who need people around them right now.

I’m especially thinking about the single women and widows in my life differently. They need company. They need girlfriends. They need dinner invitations and people to do things with. Being independent doesn’t mean you always want to be alone. Maybe watching Kathy suddenly have to figure out a completely different life has made me more aware of that.

And then there’s Natalie.

I’m super bummed I won’t be with her for her birthday again this year. Last year she was actually excited about spending her birthday by herself. She had this whole idea that she was going to enjoy her own company and have this lovely independent birthday.

Turns out, not so much.

We ended up crying together on the phone.

So I swore this year I was going to surprise her. I actually started trying to arrange flying out next Wednesday, taking her to dinner and flying home the next morning.

Then I looked at airfare.

Jesus Christ.

And I feel shitty even complaining about the cost because Natalie is so incredibly generous to me, especially with Mexico. But it was ridiculous.

Kathy is also heading to New Jersey a few days early, and I want to help her with George so she can get away. That’s important to me too. Natalie will be here in a couple of weeks, so I’ll figure out something special to celebrate her when she gets here.

Matt and I did manage to have a really nice night out last week. His cousin gave us Sox tickets, which he was excited about, and I’m giving Matt credit because he asked me to go and we drove downtown on a Friday. Then afterward he went with me to a restaurant I’ve wanted to try for years, which was completely out of character for him.

So he’s trying.

I think I hurt him when I said I’m always taking care of everyone else and right now I need him to take care of me. Maybe that sounded like a much bigger assignment than I meant it to.

He can’t fix this either.

I don’t even know exactly what “take care of me” means right now. Sometimes it probably just means recognizing that I’m sad without trying to fix it. Sometimes it means suggesting we do something fun. Sometimes it means going to the restaurant I’ve wanted to try for years. And sometimes it means understanding that I’m going to sit outside staring at the dogs while he cleans the house because my brain has temporarily stopped participating in normal life.

He is trying.

And I’m trying too.

I’ve also been reading a lot, which has become this unexpected little thing in my life. Crissy recommended Theo of Golden, and I’m barely into it and already obsessed. I can tell I’m going to fall completely in love with this old man.

There’s something about the way he moves through life that is really getting to me right now. He has time to literally stop and smell the flowers. He drinks his coffee. He’s curious. He looks around. He notices things.

I keep thinking, I want some of that.

Maybe it’s Dad. Maybe it’s the last few years being one crisis or responsibility after another. Maybe I’m just 50 and fucking tired. But I like the idea of slowing down enough to actually notice my own life.

Crissy also gets credit for getting me out of my usual literary comfort zone of serial killers and murder. Natalie started doing that to me last year with Remarkably Bright Creatures and The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo. Kathy just started Evelyn Hugo too, and Remarkably Bright Creatures may honestly be one of my favorite books.

Who knew I could read nice stories?

The last time I was in New Jersey, I heard Kevin and their friend Mona talking about Into the Woods. I tried that one and could never get through it, so they can’t all be winners.

I also recently listened to Barack Obama’s book podcast and realized I hadn’t read any of the books they talked about, so I’d like my reading list to continue to grow. But his list—Gilead, The Fire Next Time, Song of Solomon, All the Pretty Horses, All the King’s Men, and Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy—seems a little tough for me.

Have you read these?

I do want to be like him when I grow up.

It has been raining for three days, which has done absolutely nothing for my already questionable mood. But it’s supposed to clear up tomorrow morning, and we are officially on for this weekend.

I’m ridiculously excited.

It’s going to be chilly, but honestly that sounds perfect. Being cozy around the fire with Matt, Heather and Rusty, getting a good workout in walking through the woods, drinking some beers, laughing and getting away from everything for a couple of days sounds exactly like what I need.

So everyone please pray to whatever God, universe or weather system you believe in.

No fucking rain.

My dad has been gone for five days.

I’m probably going completely overboard talking about him. I’ve posted pictures and dedications and remembrances and stories. People are probably getting sick of hearing about Jim Russell. I don’t blame you. You also don’t have to read it.

Apparently this is what I need to do right now, so I’m going to keep doing it.

My brain is mush. It’s actually concerning at times. I’m doing stupid things. I lose things. I forget what I’m doing while I’m doing it. I can’t focus. I know this is grief and exhaustion and being overwhelmed and probably a little Xanax thrown into the mix, but mostly I feel like I’m walking around in the fucking Twilight Zone.

And while I’m wandering around in there, I keep remembering things about my dad. Somehow, after everything I’ve already written about him, I realized I forgot to mention something incredibly important. My dad was a huge Chicago Bears fan.

Which, as any Bears fan knows, means he spent a significant portion of his life disappointed. In the winter, you could pretty much count on seeing him in a Bears hat, Bears sweatshirt or sweater several times a week. I don’t know how I left that out when I was writing about him, but apparently there are going to be a lot of things like that.

Mostly, though, I’ve been thinking about my childhood with him. My dad was truly a great dad.

That doesn’t mean everything surrounding my childhood was perfect. My parents were divorced. There were problems between my mom and Ken and my dad and the Kathy everyone knows and loves now. There was adult shit happening that I obviously understand differently looking back at it now. Remarkably, after Grace was born, everyone seemed to figure out how to get along. But when I strip away all of the complications in their relationships and think about my relationship with my dad, what I keep coming back to is how much effort he made to be my dad.

When my parents got divorced, my Aunt June had recently gotten divorced too and moved to Memphis with my cousin Jennifer, so my mom and I ended up moving there to live with them. I was really young. I don’t even remember exactly how old I was, but I remember my dad dropping me off. I remember standing behind that storm door crying and watching him leave, wanting him to come back.

And the thing is, he did. He always came back.

At the time he was living in Carbondale, and he would come to Memphis to visit me. He would pick me up and take me places. No matter where life ended up taking my mom and me, my dad figured out how to remain my dad.

There’s one story he used to tell that always tugged at my friends’ hearts when they heard it.

I must have been little and still in Memphis. Dad was driving either some kind of pickup truck or maybe an El Camino, which probably helps date the story. This was also clearly before anyone gave a shit about car seats because I was standing in the back between the two front seats next to him while he drove. Dad had his arm resting on the center console when he suddenly felt something dripping onto his hand and forearm. It was me. I was crying.

He asked me why I was crying, and apparently I told him I was scared that if something happened to Mom, or if I got lost where we lived, I wouldn’t know how to find him once we crossed the Mississippi River. My dad pulled over and drew me a map showing me how to get to him if I ever needed to. God, that story hits differently today.

Life moved my mom and me around. Memphis. Countryside. Milwaukee. Eventually Indian Head Park. Dad kept coming.

By the time I was growing up in Indian Head Park with my mom and Ken, Dad was living in Bloomington. Every other weekend he would drive up from Bloomington on Friday, pick me up, turn around and drive all the way back down there so I could spend the weekend with him. Then on Sunday, he would drive me all the way home and turn around again. Every other weekend.

As a kid, I never thought about what that actually required. He was my dad. It was his weekend. That was just what we did. As an adult, I understand it very differently.

I had longer stretches with him during the summers too, and I always spent Christmas Eve with Dad and Christmas Day with Mom.

One Christmas Eve I was really sick, probably strep throat because that was my childhood specialty. We lived in one of those condo complexes that frowned upon children and definitely did not allow dogs. Dad showed up on Christmas Eve with Muffin. He walked that dog right into the condo to see me. I can only imagine the old ladies gasping in horror as this wild looking man with the eyebrows and mustache walked an unauthorized dog through the building on Christmas Eve. I’m sure if anyone said anything, he politely wished them a Merry Christmas and told them to mind their own fucking business. Or something close to that.

Bloomington is where so many of my memories of Dad live. He lived in a family home that his Uncle Leo and Aunt Lucy shared, and that’s where I really perfected being the tomboy he was raising me to be. I came home with scrapes all over my legs from falling out of trees. I broke my arm roller-skating. I rode dirt bikes. I shot BB guns. I came home with stories that horrified my mother.

And then there was the snowman. One winter weekend in Bloomington, Dad and I built the most incredible snowman in the front yard. This thing was at least as tall as my dad, and Dad even built a top hat out of snow on it. I remember being so proud of it.

Then sometime in the middle of the night we heard all this commotion outside. Some teenage kids had stopped their car, gotten out and knocked the head off my snowman. They chose the wrong snowman. Dad went charging out of the house after them, grabbing whatever happened to be near the door, which, for reasons I cannot explain, was a sledgehammer. So now we have Jim Russell, in the middle of a snowstorm, chasing a car full of teenagers down the street on foot with a sledgehammer because they decapitated his little girl’s snowman. Fortunately for Dad, they were having trouble getting traction in the snow. Eventually they started pulling away from him. So he threw the sledgehammer. Right through their rear window. I’m sorry. That story is fucking amazing. I realize violence and throwing sledgehammers through automobile windows are generally frowned upon, and I apologize if you take it any other way. I was his little girl. They knocked the head off my snowman. Dad handled it.

Looking back now, I completely understand why my mother occasionally had concerns about what happened during weekends with Dad.

Dad and I loved going to the movies together. He was always good for a cool pair of gym shoes, a hockey jersey, a baseball glove or something else I thought was awesome at the time. He bought me a Bulls Starter jacket, which was a very big deal back then. For reasons I still cannot explain, I was also a St. Louis Rams fan as a kid. I have absolutely no idea where that came from.

Dad and I goofed around constantly. He loved giving me a hard time, and one of my favorite things was fucking around with him right back. Even when he was annoying and embarrassing, and believe me, he was frequently both, I could usually get a chuckle out of him.

Dad could also have a temper. I’ve already mentioned the Home Depot incident, and I’m sure there were other encounters in parking lots, on streets and wherever else somebody made the unfortunate decision to fuck around with Russell.

Disrespecting Kathy was an especially poor life choice. One of my favorites happened at a local restaurant they used to hang out at. Some guy told Kathy to shut up. The next thing he knew, Dad had him up against the wall with his feet no longer touching the floor. I know violence is never the answer. But I would be lying if I said that kind of shit doesn’t make me a little proud of my dad. He adored Kathy. That was his wife, his person, and there were certain lessons in manners Russell preferred to teach hands-on.

Then I had Grace, and suddenly I got to watch my dad become Papa. Watching him with her made me understand my mother on an entirely new level. Grace and Papa absolutely adored each other, and he scared the shit out of me with approximately half of the things he did with her. I now recognize this as some very well-deserved karma.

Dad and Kathy helped me out a lot by spending significant time with her while I was still figuring out my 20s.. I could count on them. I could count on them with Grace. I could count on them with my dogs. Dad, Kathy, Grace and I would pile into that big-ass truck and go cut down our Christmas tree. There are so many ordinary memories like that, and right now those are the ones that keep popping into my head. I also know how lucky I was to have the father I did. It makes me sad that Grace didn’t get to have that same experience with her own father. I wish she had. But she did get Papa. And she got one hell of a Papa.

Maybe that’s why this ache in my chest feels so enormous. My dad was literally larger than life to me, and he leaves this void that I genuinely cannot imagine ever being filled. And now somehow we are all supposed to figure out what happens next. The last five days are already a blur.

Kathy and I went to the funeral home. At some point, whether it was that day or the next, Kathy, Grace, Matt and I just sat outside on the deck with the dogs. I don’t even know that we talked about much. We were kind of sitting there in awe of what had just happened and wondering where the hell life goes from here.

Then Crissy came, and it was so good to have her here. I know Kathy was trying really hard not to bother anybody or make anyone feel like they needed to come take care of her, but Crissy wanted to be here with her mom. I know it meant the world to Kathy to have her daughter there and just have that comfort of having her close. Honestly, Matt, Grace and I felt the same way. Crissy helped Kathy finish cleaning and organizing the house. Crissy, Kathy, Matt and I actually managed to go out for a casual dinner one night. We went down to Grace’s and spent an afternoon with her too.

I also loved that Matt got some time with Crissy. He loves her and Kevin so much and always loves spending time with them, so I know he was happy to have her here too. It just felt good having all of us together for a few days. Nobody really knew what the hell we were supposed to be doing, but at least we were doing it together.

Crissy left yesterday, and I know that had to be hard for both her and Kathy. Thankfully, Kathy’s friend Melissa came and is staying with her for a couple of days. Tonight we’re all going to Susie and Brad’s for dinner. Dogs included.

People have actually been really respectful about not inundating me with phone calls, and I appreciate that more than they probably know. I think the only people I’ve actually talked to on the phone are Ken, Drew, Grace, Natalie, Megan and Susie. That’s about all I have in me right now.

I talked to Drew shortly after Dad was gone. We were both crying, but of course he still managed to make me laugh. If you knew my dad, there’s a pretty good chance you knew one of his signature moves. He would pretend to blow into his thumb like he was inflating his hand, slowly raising his fingers until, surprise, he was giving you the middle finger. Through tears, Drew told me to remember that Dad could probably see the two of us crying and was most likely blowing up his thumb and giving us the finger for it. And then we were both laughing.

Natalie was another person I knew I needed to call. Not because I suddenly felt like talking on the phone, but because I was worried about her worrying about me. Which pretty much sums up our friendship. She had just had surgery, and I already felt terrible that I couldn’t be there for her. Meanwhile, my dad had just died and she was worried about me. So I’m telling her how bad I feel that I’m not there, and she’s basically like, “Thank God you’re not here.” Then we went back and forth worrying about each other. Are you okay? I’m fine. Are you okay? Neither one of us particularly convincing.

Donna stopped by with flowers and my absolute favorite cupcakes in the world. We sat outside together, and I never felt like I needed to host her or entertain her or even really talk. Sometimes we just sat quietly. She told me what I wanted to hear about what was going on with her and didn’t force me to talk about my feelings or ask me to explain how I was doing. She just needed to lay eyes on me and make sure I was okay. And I know that about her. That’s the kind of company I can handle right now. Someone who knows me well enough to understand that showing up doesn’t mean I need to perform for you. Bring me cupcakes. Sit next to me. Tell me about your shit. Let me sit there quietly.

Megan did the same thing in her own way. She dropped off flowers, keepsakes and dinner on our stoop last night. Maggie stopped by for a hug and I tried to force give her some hand me down Halloween decorations. My HR team sent me a plant. Rusty and Heather sent me a plant. A candle from Jennifer,

There have been so many messages and little reminders that people are thinking about all of us. I feel every bit of that love, even when I don’t have it in me to respond. And because apparently this week wasn’t quite stupid enough already, my phone broke. I had to get a new one yesterday. They guaranteed me everything would transfer over without a problem, and most of it did. Except, of course, all of my text messages with my dad. That devastated me. Out of everything that could have disappeared, it had to be that.

And now I have no idea who I replied to before my old phone died and who I didn’t. So many people have been wonderful enough to reach out, and I can’t remember where I left off with any of them.

So if you’re reading this and you texted me and I haven’t answered you, I’m sorry. I love you. I appreciate you. I feel the love and support around me even when I don’t have the capacity to respond to it. I’m so incredibly grateful.

I know people want to see me too. They want to get me out of the house, take me to dinner, have a drink, distract me, make me laugh. I understand why. That’s what people who love you do when they don’t know what else to do. I just have zero interest right now.

I don’t want to be around a bunch of people. I don’t want to sit somewhere and talk about how I’m doing. Honestly, the thought of sitting through a normal dinner conversation sounds exhausting. Maybe I could sit somewhere and have a beer, except I weirdly don’t even feel like drinking. I’m brain-dead. I’m living in the Twilight Zone. And it is getting better. A little. I’m trying to work the best I can remotely even though I don’t necessarily have to but it’s a good distraction.

Today is also Amy’s birthday, and I never want my own sadness or the heaviness I have always felt around September 11 to take anything away from celebrating her. She deserves to have fun and smile and have a great fucking birthday. I also know she understands where I am right now because I remember how broken she was when she lost her dad a few years ago.

And right now, as I’m writing this, I’m sitting outside with the dogs basically staring into space.

My poor husband just got home from work. Since walking through the door, he has already vacuumed, washed the floor, wiped down the sliding glass door and God only knows what the hell he’s doing in there now while I sit out here contributing absolutely nothing to society.

Meanwhile, I’m probably driving him crazy because I’ve lost the mail. I misplace everything. I walk around looking for things I just had in my hand. I can’t remember who I’ve talked to, what I’ve answered or what I was doing thirty seconds ago. But he’s giving me grace. Everyone knows Matt is the saint in this relationship.

It’s September 11. My dad has been gone five days. My brain doesn’t work. My phone ate my dad’s text messages. I’m sitting outside with the dogs while my husband cleans the house, and I keep remembering things.

For now, I’m going to give myself these last couple of days to relax and reflect and let my brain do whatever the hell it is doing. Then I’m heading to Wisconsin to help Ken with his surgery. Maybe taking care of someone else for a little while will give me some kind of reset.

It has only been five days. I think I’m allowed to be a little fucked up.

I’m going to keep talking about my dad. If you’re sick of hearing about Russell, feel free to scroll. I have about 50 years of Dad to remember. Right now I can’t remember where I put the fucking mail. But I remember my dad.

My dad, James E. Russell, died this morning, September 6, at 9:43 a.m.

I knew this was coming. I wanted it to come because I could no longer stand watching him live in a body and mind that had betrayed him. And yet somehow, when the moment actually comes, knowing doesn’t make you ready. I wanted this to end because I knew my dad. This fiercely independent man would have fucking hated what his life had become. Wanting his suffering to end and wanting my dad to stay are different things.

So I want to tell you about my dad before bvFTD. Because there was a whole lot of Jim Russell before there was ever dementia.

Dad was born January 8, 1942, and grew up in Piper City. You’ve never heard of it? It’s in central Illinois. He was the son of Adelaine, a schoolteacher, and Joseph, a farmer who also served as an Illinois state representative. He was a proud Irish farm boy who grew up working corn, soybeans and cattle.

His dad’s political career occasionally gave him a front-row seat to history, including meeting John F. Kennedy before he became president and driving him to the airport after JFK met with my grandfather. And if Dad ever told you that story, I sincerely hope you had nowhere to be, because Jim Russell never met a short story he couldn’t make long.

He attended Southern Illinois University in Carbondale, where he was a fraternity brother and wrestler, and later Roosevelt University in Chicago. In his younger days he hung out in the bars along Division Street and occasionally worked as a bouncer, which will surprise absolutely no one who knew him.

He also became friends with a future NASCAR champion, and that friendship lasted their entire lives. Years later, when his friend was living in a nursing home, Dad regularly went to visit him. His friendships mattered to him.

My dad lived about nine different lives. He traveled the country selling custom suits for Hart Schaffner & Marx. He was a pilot of smaller planes and sometimes flew charters, often taking him to the Bahamas, which of course only gave him even more stories to tell. He worked in logging and became a builder. He rode Harleys. He fished. He loved history and country music. There was always somewhere to go, somebody to see, something to do and, of course, another story to tell.

He had a very clear sense of right and wrong and absolutely no hesitation about telling you which side he believed you were on. This was a man who participated in a Women’s March, supported a drag show in Key West and once made a citizen’s arrest of an attorney. And yes, he knocked somebody out at Home Depot. Possibly more than once. Funny considering Russell himself spent part of his life carrying around the title of “felon” because of one of these incidents.

We cannot adequately memorialize Jim Russell without discussing Donald Trump. Dad waged his own personal war against the man, whom he considered a lying bigot and a “useless waste of space.” He eventually discovered the internet and would sneak into Republican chat rooms just to rile everybody up. Apparently arguing with strangers online seemed like a perfectly reasonable hobby.

He could also provide a profanity-laced driving critique to a complete stranger on the road without ever being asked. He was completely secure in who he was, and you were rarely left wondering what he thought about something.

But underneath the opinions, profanity, stubbornness and occasional chaos was a man who genuinely wanted to do the right thing. No one was a stranger to my dad. He wanted to meet you. He wanted to talk to you. He wanted to make you laugh.

My God, the jokes. And the stories. Some of them were even true. All of them got longer with every telling.

He was also a dog whisperer. Dad usually had dog cookies in his pocket, and every dog somehow knew it. He loved taking George to the forest preserve, where he talked to absolutely everyone who walked past, including people who very clearly had no intention of stopping. Didn’t matter. Before you got away, you were going to know that George was the nicest dog and that you should give him a pet.

And then there was Kathy. My dad was absolutely, completely in love with that woman. Enamored with her. She was his everything. For more than 35 years, they were partners in all of it. They rode Harleys together, and he was so fucking proud that his woman rode her own Harley. They danced. They went to parties. They traveled. They found little country bars and tiny towns. They went into the city. They had adventures. They had fun. Mostly, they just really loved being together. Their trip to Ireland was especially important. Dad had never been there before, but he was so proud of being Irish, and Kathy was so excited to take him there. She got to give him that experience, and I know how much that meant to both of them. What a life they had together.

And then there was Grace. Papa picked Grace up from preschool and kindergarten almost every day. He took her to McDonald’s, job sites and probably several places where small children had no business being. Watching her grow into the intelligent, educated, articulate woman she is became one of his greatest sources of pride. And my poor daughter is struggling with the loss of her beloved Papa. That hurts my heart too.

Somewhere along the way, Matt became his son-in-law, and I think Matt gave my dad something that mattered to him more than Matt probably even realizes. Dad knew his daughter and granddaughter had someone really special in their lives. Someone who loved us, took care of us and would be there when we needed him. My dad worried about me. Mostly he worried about Grace. I think knowing Matt was there gave him some peace. He knew he didn’t have to worry quite so much about his girls because we had someone who would take care of us. He was so grateful for that. So am I.

And me. I was definitely a daddy’s girl. My dad was on a pedestal for most of my life. He raised me to be a tough tomboy. Independent. Outspoken. Capable of taking care of myself. I suppose he succeeded. People have said “like father, like daughter” about us my entire life. Whether that’s a blessing or a curse remains open for debate.

Dad was hard to miss. Those eyebrows. That mustache. That personality. He was funny and stubborn and generous and opinionated and adventurous and infuriating and loving. He was complicated. He made mistakes. He hit roadblocks. Some of them life put in front of him, and some of them he probably built himself. I don’t need to rewrite his life and make him perfect because he died. He wasn’t perfect. He was Jim Russell. But he loved people. He loved dogs. He loved a good story. He loved an adventure. He loved his family.

And he lived. Really fucking lived.

And then bvFTD came along. I don’t need to spend a lot of time explaining what it did. Anyone who has been around us or followed along already knows what we’ve been through. You watched it happen with us. What makes me so angry when I look back at this enormous life is that bvFTD didn’t just take my dad from us. It took Russell from Russell.

This man needed to go places. He needed to talk to people. Tell stories. Argue with strangers. Ride motorcycles. Walk dogs. Make people laugh. Have an opinion about whatever the hell was happening around him and make damn sure you knew what that opinion was. He was such a presence. And bvFTD slowly took that presence away, mostly from him. That fucking sucks.

Still, even toward the end, every once in a while there he was. His eyes would light up when I walked into the room. He’d make one of his ridiculous faces. Sometimes I could still make him laugh. I would get a little flash of my dad, and I held onto every single one of those.

And then this morning, he was gone.

Something I was completely unprepared for was all the fucking waiting that happens after someone dies. You spend all this time waiting for someone you love to die, knowing it’s coming and almost praying for it to happen because you can’t stand watching them suffer anymore. Then it happens, and somehow there is more waiting. We waited for hospice. We waited for the nurse. We waited for the funeral home. Three hours after Dad died, we were still sitting there waiting. The hospice nurse finally came and gave him his final bath. Then Kathy, the nurse and I dressed him in regular clothes. Dressing my dead dad’s body was definitely not on my bingo card. We hadn’t seen him in regular clothes in months. But I was grateful that I was able to do it for him. Kathy and I got to take care of him one last time. His clothes were probably seven sizes too big because he had gotten so incredibly skinny. This big man who had taken up so much space in the world had become so small. But he was not leaving his house looking like a hospice patient. We put him in a Hawaiian shirt, and then we actually debated whether it was too hot to put one of his famous hats on him. It was 85 degrees outside. We put the fucking hat on him. His famous red cap.

There has also been so much love surrounding us through all of this. I already knew how incredible my support circle is. My friends and family show up. They have carried me through some really hard shit, and I know exactly how lucky I am. But one of the really beautiful things I’ve gotten to see is Crissy’s circle showing up for Kathy. Loving her, supporting her, checking on her. And really, that’s just proof of who Kathy is. She takes care of so many people and so many things. She is a mom and a friend to everybody. She shows up for people, and now I’m watching all of those people show up for her. I even get a little sprinkle of love from Crissy’s circle, and I feel pretty lucky about that too. The Mulroys being in New Jersey was hard today. Crying on the phone back and forth when we just really wanted to hug each other.

I was actually almost apprehensive to start telling people my Dad had died because I knew what would happen. The calls and texts would start flooding in. And what an incredibly lucky problem to have. I want the love. I appreciate every single person who loves us enough to reach out. I’m just not ready to talk yet. I’m not ready for visits or socializing, and I don’t want to tell the story of this morning over and over today. Today I just want us. Kathy, Matt, Grace and me. And the dogs. We’re going to quietly reflect, hopefully loudly laugh and hold each other. We’ll talk about Dad when we want to and sit quietly when we don’t. There will be time for everybody else. Right now I’m just trying to wrap my head around the incredible void my dad leaves behind. It feels unimaginable to me.

I don’t know how to picture my life without my dad. Without either of my parents. I know I’ve been losing him for a long time. He hasn’t really been able to communicate with us for a while, and honestly, he hadn’t fully been himself for even longer than that. I have grieved pieces of him over and over. But he was still here. I don’t think I understood how much that mattered until today. I could still go to his house and sit next to him. I could hold his hand and kiss his forehead. Every once in a while, I could still get one of those little flashes of my dad. His eyes would light up when he saw me. He’d make one of his ridiculous faces. Sometimes I could still make him laugh. He was still here. And now he’s gone.

I spent so much time knowing this was coming. I even wanted it to come because I knew my dad would have hated what his life had become and I couldn’t stand watching him suffer anymore. I thought maybe grieving him for so long before he died would somehow make this part easier. I feel so fucking sad. There is no bigger thought behind that today. I just miss my dad.

bvFTD ruined the last part of his life and took such an enormous presence from us, but mostly it took that life from him. It doesn’t get the rest of his story.

My dad was Jim Russell.

His friends knew him as Russell.

Grace knew him as Papa.

Kathy knew him as the love of her life.

And I got to call him Dad.

I love you, Dad.

James E. Russell
January 8, 1942 – September 6, 2026

It’s Monday again. I’ve been coming here and jotting things down for the past week or so, which means this will probably be another ramble. Fair warning.

Dolly Parton died and it’s just so sad. Tributes everywhere and somehow I cannot believe I don’t own a single Dolly Parton T-shirt. How has that happened? Terry and I were actually going to go see the Dolly mural on the north side of Chicago this weekend, but it was a shitty day so we went to breakfast instead. I’m not really a country music person, but I grew up listening to it because of my dad. Dolly Parton, Crystal Gayle, the Oak Ridge Boys, Willie Nelson, and of course Kenny Rogers. Kenny Rogers was my favorite growing up. Anytime I hear him I think of my dad. And Dolly dying immediately brought me back to Islands in the Stream. Such a great song. So naturally all of this has had me thinking about Dad even more than usual.

Dad is getting harder. Maybe easier but definitely sadder. There are still occasional good nights. His eyes open and bright, trying his best to have a conversation even though the words don’t cooperate anymore, making silly faces, making us laugh. The way he rolls his eyes at me when I am being an idiot. On purpose. The nights his face lights up a little when he sees me. Those are the nights I hold onto. But they’re getting fewer. He’s so skinny now. He barely eats. A few mouthfuls of yogurt or applesauce to take his medication, maybe something resembling a meal every couple of days. And now he’s having pain. Kathy and I are on the same page after a conversation with her sister Nancy, that he needs the hospice medications to keep him comfortable. It’s just a hard transition because we know those medications may also mean he sleeps more, and those little sparks of him that we still occasionally get may become even harder to find. And I’m selfish about those sparks. I miss him. He’s right there and I miss him. So when his eyes light up and he makes a face at me or tries to talk to me, I want another one. I don’t want to miss a lucid day because he’s sleeping. But he shouldn’t hurt so that I can have one. He shouldn’t have to stay awake for us. He just shouldn’t be this way!! He would fucking hate this. I know he would. Sometimes I find myself hoping he just doesn’t wake up in the morning. That is still incredibly hard to write, but it’s true. Of course I don’t want my dad to die. I want my dad back. But that isn’t one of the choices. We can help our pets along when their bodies are failing and there’s nothing left but suffering. We make that horrible decision because we love them. Why can we help our pets along, but we can’t help our humans along? I’m really struggling with that right now.

I finally asked Kathy something I’d been worrying about. Her entire life has changed. My dad used to talk constantly. Always wanted to go somewhere, walk the dog, go out, get drinks, run to Home Depot for the third time that day, talk to everyone everywhere he went. Now there’s so much silence. I had been wondering if she was lonely or bored or stir-crazy, so I finally just asked her. She insists she’s okay. She said yes, she has some of those feelings, but overall she feels like she’s adjusted pretty well. That made me happy. I hope it’s true. I still think she should sit down and relax once in a while, but that’s a completely separate issue.

And apparently while contemplating death and dying and the ethics of human existence, I am still expected to drive places. Which brings me to another pressing matter.

WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE IN THE LEFT LANE.

How do grown adults still not understand this? If you don’t know how to use the left lane or you don’t know how to merge, I don’t think you should be allowed on the highways and byways. There should be another test. I’ll administer it.

Frank was hacking and moving around the bed one night last week and barely let me sleep. I hate when Frank is sick because I immediately become hyperaware of every sound and movement he makes. Thankfully he seems to be getting better. Just another few hundred bucks later.

Naturally Fiona has now decided it’s her turn. Her allergies are coming back because she just finished her Apoquel regimen. I hate that she has to keep going back on that shit all the time, but apparently we are just rotating patients around here.

One night after my dad’s I came home and decided I wanted a bowl of ice cream at 9:30, which isn’t even usually my thing. I ate it in the chair and became so tired I literally could not make myself get up. The thought of going upstairs, taking my medicine, putting pajamas on and getting into bed was just too much effort. So I laid down in all my clothes. Slept on the couch. I could not fathom moving an inch! Fuck it.

This weekend I managed to get a lot done outside. Cleaned things up, cut stuff back for fall, everything looks so much better. But my zinnias are still going strong. I am obsessed with those zinnias. Aunt Susie planted them for me this year, and I’m really hoping this is now a tradition and she’ll be planting my zinnias every year. They’re still flourishing while everything else is starting to look like summer is packing up and leaving.

My cousin Scott texted me from Louisiana that his daughter Lola, who I have such a soft spot for, wrote her name on the whiteboard at school as Lil Pookie. I love that kid. Pookie lives on. Now in Louisiana, in miniature form. God help Scott. She is going to be a character just like my mom.

And almost at the same time, Melanie was texting me some funny things Will has been doing and said she thought both my mom and dad would think he was hilarious. Honestly, I was mostly just happy to hear he was making Mel smile.

Now can we talk about my skin? Because the crepey skin is a real problem. My neck. Under my chin. My thighs. A little under my arms. This soft, very fine, wrinkly skin that I fucking hate. I drink collagen. I take collagen pills. I moisturize with firming cream and hyaluronic acid and peptides and whatever else the internet has told middle-aged women we’re supposed to be doing. Nothing. And I’m too scared of Botox or putting any more shit into my body. Obviously I’m not having any more surgeries. So, this is my neck now? My face? My thighs? I know there are reasons. Medication. Menopause. Losing thirty pounds. Being fifty. Whatever. I don’t care. It’s ugly and I hate it. Not everything needs to turn into a lesson about loving my changing body. Sometimes I just want to complain about my neck.

And while we’re on the subject of bodies, can somebody explain thongs to me? Seriously. Who wears thongs? I guess the point is no panty lines, but then people wear some crazy-colored thong you can see through their pants, so what exactly have we accomplished? Or is it supposed to be sexy? Obviously I am not the target demographic. Maybe it’s for people with those really tight asses, like Zoe on Lioness, who frankly should not be allowed to wear pants. But I cannot imagine willingly putting something in my butt crack all day. My butt hole is already frequently sore and swollen and bleeding, if you really wanted to know. Now you know. I used to love going commando. No underwear. Fantastic. Those days are apparently over because now I appreciate the extra layer of protection in case I tinkle a little. There is absolutely no shame in my game. Also, what exactly is wrong with panty lines? Oh no, somebody might look at my ass and discover that UNDER MY PANTS I AM WEARING UNDERWEAR. Scandalous.

Matt and I have actually been getting out a little more lately. I feel like he’s making an effort to take me somewhere or do something once a week and I really appreciate it. This weekend we tried a new brewery in Glen Ellyn that I found online because next month they’re having a pug fest. Obviously that got my attention and we will absolutely be going back for that. The brewery was great. Good food, beer flights, my kind of place.

Our communication remains a work in progress. We had a pretty good conversation over dinner recently and you could physically see Matt squirming in his chair when I pointed out things he doesn’t enjoy having pointed out, which makes me laugh. I’ve been trying to explain that when I say he’s being crabby or withdrawn or short with me, I’m not attacking him. Sometimes I genuinely don’t think he realizes he’s doing it, and I should be able to say so. He does not receive this information well. As part of his rebuttal he thinks I should see a therapist and deal with my trauma. Okay. The problem is I don’t know what I’m supposed to unload. I don’t feel like I’m carrying anything. And this is where I realized I completely contradict myself. In my last entry I was talking about how I feel everything. I notice everything. I worry about everybody. I read rooms before I walk into them. I’m empathetic. And now I’m sitting here saying maybe I don’t have as many feelings as everybody else. Somehow both things feel true. I have feelings. Obviously. I love people deeply. I worry. I get sad. I get pissed. I notice when somebody is off before they even tell me. But I watch other people get completely consumed by things and I just don’t. My brain usually gets to, Okay, this is happening, what are we going to do? pretty quickly. Maybe I feel everything but don’t hold onto everything. Is it resilience? Medication? Emotional intelligence? Some fucked-up trauma response I’ve mistaken for my personality? Genuinely no idea. We also talked about Matt’s stuff. His dad, things he learned growing up, why he responds to things the way he does. We’ll get there. I brought up the invisible rulebook again. He still doesn’t like it. He says the rulebook is money. Which, ok, fair. I understand we cannot just yell IRELAND, sell the house, grab Frank and Fiona and get on a plane tomorrow. But I think we have enough to sometimes say yes. Enough to not automatically assume every idea I have is impossible before we even think about it. We did not solve our childhood trauma, our marriage, our finances, or our future plans over dinner. We did have chicken and broccoli lasagna from Whole Foods and it was genuinely delicious. Highly recommend.

I also have someone I love going through something really difficult right now. It’s not my story to tell so I won’t. I’m just trying to support her quietly. Listen when she needs it, help when I can, not fix everything, not carry everything. She’s struggling but not broken. A lot of people who love her are worried. I think she’s going to be okay. I just feel sad about it and wish things were easier for her.

I also had a dream that Matt was texting all these other women and deleting the messages and hiding conversations in Facebook Messenger. None of this happened. I woke up fucking pissed at him anyway. The funniest part is I genuinely don’t think Matt would ever do something like that. The man barely maintains conversations with ME, let alone secretly cultivating relationships with a bunch of other women. I’m not saying that to be a dick, it’s just how it is. Matt likes golf, Kenny’s, and going out with Tricia and Matt, Rusty and Heather, and Ben. Good thing I love those five people. That’s pretty much his social comfort zone. The idea that this man is secretly juggling a collection of women on Facebook Messenger is hilarious. Dream Matt is apparently an asshole. Actual Matt mostly just likes telling me no. God, that man loves the word no. Want to go somewhere? No. Want to do something? No. Want to restructure our lives and move to another country? Absolutely fucking not.

Also, people need to stop asking me to ask Matt for things. Friends and family do this all the time. Can you ask Matt if he can help with this? Would Matt know how to do that? ASK MATT. Seriously. Your odds are so much better. He actually wants to help people. Most of the time. He fixes things, figures things out, shows up. But if the request comes through me it gets lumped in with all my other suggestions and the automatic response leans toward no. Go directly to the source.

Aunt Susie and Uncle Brad are in France and I saw there had been a tornado there, so of course I texted her. She didn’t reply until the next day when they were flying somewhere else and had turned on Wi-Fi. Everyone was fine, but she also informed me I need to use WhatsApp. No. I recently deleted WhatsApp and I’m not bringing it back. I love you, Aunt Susie, but I cannot have one more fucking place where people can find me. I can barely keep up with the ones I have. She can text me. Or send a carrier pigeon.

And just as I was finishing this up, I got a text from Momma Donna, Natalie’s mom. Natalie is out of surgery, doing well, and the doctor is very pleased and thinks Natalie will be too. Thank you, sweet baby Jesus. I have been worried about her because I am her person and I should be there but this is such a relief and I am so glad her mom could be there to care for her.

I also cannot wait to tell her that I’m headed to Palm Springs with Crissy and the kids in November, and we’re planning to hike Joshua Tree. She may jump on that if she can get out of school. She is the hiking queen and drives out that way when she can.

Good news to start the week while I bury the meeting with hospice on Wednesday.

Thursday morning I went over to my dad and Kathy’s. Kathy was leaving for her Florida fun trip. Matt came with me because he was installing her new dishwasher and working on the bathroom renovation, and I was there to sit with my dad, get him cleaned up and ready for the day before he went back to the respite facility.

I knew this was going to bother me. I hate sending him there even though I know all the reasons it makes sense. Kathy needs a break. I can’t take care of him by myself. He was fine there last time. It’s safe. I know all of this. I still hate it.

The two guys who came in the transport ambulance were these cute young guys, incredibly kind. My dad was actually pretty alert that morning, so I wanted to try to let him know what was happening. I told him he was going to the doctor, that an ambulance was coming to pick him up, that he’d be staying a few nights, and that I’d see him soon. He just nodded and said okay. I’m taking that as a win because if he actually understood what was happening, he would have said absolutely not, you’re out of your fucking mind, and fought all of us.

I hated watching them load him in. I hated watching the door close. I hate those transport ambulances in general. I’ve had to ride in them two or three times myself. Weird that I can’t remember exactly how many, but I absolutely remember the one where I puked all over myself. Some memories earn permanent storage space.

I didn’t cry when they drove away, though. I turned around to go back inside and realized Matt was standing right behind me. He was crying. That got me.

We went inside and he held me and told me how bad he felt about everything I was going through and that he loved me, and then apologized for being a jerk lately, which was incredibly sweet and also made me want to ask: if you KNOW you were being a jerk, why were you being a jerk?

If I notice Matt seems crabby or off and I bring it up, his immediate response is that absolutely nothing is wrong, followed by being annoyed that I suggested something was wrong, which I feel sort of proves my original point. But standing there that morning, none of that really mattered. He was sad for me. He saw what was happening. He was hurting because I was hurting. And sometimes I forget how much all of this affects him too. My dad isn’t his dad, but he loves him. He loves me. He loves Kathy.

I’ve been thinking a lot about people showing up lately. Maybe my dad actually likes the respite facility. That thought occurred to me after I got over my own feelings about it. Maybe there are people around. Maybe someone talks to him. Maybe he gets a little social fix, because one of the really sad parts of all this is that hardly anyone comes to see him. This man used to take George into the woods for two hours because he would stop and talk to every single person who crossed his path. He drove Kathy crazy going out to dinner or drinks because he talked to everybody in the restaurant. The people at Home Depot probably think he died because he used to go there three times a day. He was relentlessly, joyfully social.

Now his world is basically his bedroom. Two of the guys he used to work with, Leo and Jose, have come to see him. Watching them with him was incredibly sweet. They sat next to him, talked to him, held his hand and prayed for him. Patrick asks about him all the time and says his heart is broken, but when he comes by he doesn’t really go into the room and interact with him. I understand. It’s hard. People don’t know what to say or how to act around someone who used to be one person and now seems like someone completely different. And if you loved who they used to be, seeing what a disease has done to them can be brutal.

But sometimes you have to do the hard thing anyway.

It reminds me of Drew after his accident. God-awful. Tragic. There were people who didn’t visit or call because they couldn’t handle seeing him that way. I understood it even then, but I also saw how much it hurt him. He lost friends during the hardest time of his life. Once Drew got to RIC, I took Grace to see him even though she was really young. I wanted to normalize it for her. This was Uncle Drew Drew. He was still Uncle Drew Drew. He just happened to be in a wheelchair. And all these years later, he remains in that chair. He’s been hospitalized so many times for so many reasons, and I’ve made it my mission to be there. I may not see him as much as I’d like in regular life, but put Drew in the hospital and I will be by his side. Seeing what happened to him after his accident taught me something about showing up when things are uncomfortable.

I may have also been slightly dramatic with Kathy’s birthday post on Facebook and on the Instagram page I run for my dad. I really leaned into what she’s carrying as his caregiver and what this disease is doing to both of them. I wanted people to know. Kathy has been surprised that more people haven’t reached out to her, but maybe they didn’t know how bad things had gotten. Maybe they didn’t understand what her day-to-day life actually looks like.

Well. Now they do. Kathy deserves to be seen too. And guess what? People reached out.

I believe that everyone’s pain is their own. Something doesn’t have to be the worst thing that has ever happened to be a big deal to the person living it. You can’t compare pain. I believe that genuinely. And then sometimes someone tells me what they’re devastated about and a small voice in my head says, Are you fucking kidding me right now?

One of the quotes I’ve saved lately is:

“Don’t let your empathy rob people of experiencing the consequences of their actions.”

Because I can understand why someone did something and still be hurt by it. Understanding someone doesn’t mean excusing them. Empathy doesn’t mean carrying everybody else’s stuff. I probably need to work on that one.

Anyway. Back to Matt.

While he was hugging me Thursday, he said he wanted to take me out later. I appreciated the thought and also knew there was a solid chance this wasn’t actually going to happen. I ended up taking the rest of Thursday off, got some things done, picked up George, my dad and Kathy’s counter-surfing dog, who was staying with us while Kathy was gone. When I got home, Matt had clearly worked his ass off all day, so we weren’t going anywhere. Fine. We don’t really go out on school nights. But he said tomorrow night.

Friday was a genuinely good day at work. I love my work family. Drew—the work husband, not to be confused with Drew, my brother from another mother—and I went to lunch. I left the office a little early and announced to the guys that Matt was taking me out that night. Got home. Matt looked exhausted.

He had gone back to my dad and Kathy’s, finished the work there, mowed our lawn and vacuumed the house because he is Matt. He probably did laundry too. I asked if we were going out. He was not really up for it. I was disappointed. Genuinely. But I was also tired, so I let it go. I went upstairs, doomscrolled and put senseless TV on in the background. About twenty minutes later, he came upstairs. “Let’s go out.” I said no because I knew he didn’t want to.

But he said he hadn’t been thinking about Blume and Ferris that I briefly snuck in prior to my disappointment, this great little brewery and Irish pub we’d found the week prior in the next town, and suddenly he did want to go. So we went.

We ordered food, had a couple of half-and-halfs because apparently we don’t call them Black and Tans anymore—noted—and listened to a band playing Mumford & Sons and Fleetwood Mac with an Irish accent. And of course, Galway Girl. They were really good.

Sitting at that brewery, we got into one of my favorite recurring conversations: Matt’s invisible rule book. Why can’t we move to Ireland? No, seriously. Why can’t we sell the house and do van life for a while, and if we hate it, we stop? Why can’t we just go somewhere and try something completely different? Who made these rules?

Matt seems to believe there is a handbook somewhere explaining how adults are supposed to live—house, jobs, plan, follow the plan. Meanwhile, I’m sitting there thinking, but WHY? If it were entirely up to me, Frank and I probably would have gotten in my silly little car a long time ago and taken off like Suleika Jaouad did with her dog. I don’t even know where we’d go. That’s sort of the point.

Maybe I think about this more now because life has made it painfully obvious that none of us knows how much time we have. Dad certainly didn’t plan to spend this part of his life in a bedroom with frontotemporal dementia. So why are we all so committed to following rules nobody actually wrote? We did not solve this at the brewery. We were home before dark, obviously. But we stopped at Dairy Queen on the way.

Saturday Matt went golfing, and I had a few hours alone with the dogs. I listened to my audiobook, laid in the sun and found a monarch caterpillar on my milkweed. A monarch caterpillar! So exciting!

Then I met Jill and Amy at the La Grange sidewalk sale, where we bought matching $10 dresses that Jill hates. Which obviously means we absolutely have to wear them together and document it photographically. Which was the plan the whole time. Then we went to the new truck stop for dinner, ordered a bunch of things, ate picnic-style and laughed the whole time. Find yourself friends you can go to a truck stop with.

After that, I ran to La Grange Park because Ryan was performing at a benefit concert for a friend who died by suicide. I walked up right as he finished. Missed the whole thing. Felt terrible. But he was just happy I came, and that made me feel a little better. I got to talk to Heather’s mom for a while—that woman has more energy than people half her age—hugged Heather and Rusty, and headed home.

Sunday I went down to Grace’s. We walked the 606, got three miles in, went to brunch, went to Margie’s Candies for the first time, and I rode a Chicago city bus for the first time. I don’t know how I have made it to fifty years old without doing that.

A whole weekend of ordinary things. And it was really nice.

Somewhere in there, I realized how much those ordinary things matter. A beer with my husband. Dairy Queen. A monarch caterpillar. Matching dresses and dinner at a truck stop for photo ops with friends. Walking through Chicago with my daughter. Maybe those are the things keeping me from falling apart. Or maybe I don’t need to be falling apart in the first place. I still haven’t figured that one out.

Which brings me to another quote I saved:

“Life is a constant cycle of losing your spark and finding it again.”

Maybe you don’t permanently find your spark and live happily ever after sparkling like some asshole. Maybe you lose it. Find it. Lose it again. Find a little piece of it somewhere completely unexpected.

I’ve also gotten completely sucked into the audiobook The Fourth Monkey. It’s set in Chicago and it is absolutely insane. I was telling Grace about it Sunday, and she looked it up and found out it’s the first in a series. IT’S THE FIRST BOOK IN A SERIES. I am hooked. When I’m not listening to psychopaths, I’m currently watching Furious, Lucky, and Lioness.

My camera roll remains a combination of people I love, dogs, meaningful quotes and completely inappropriate things.

For example:

“A mastectomy is not a free boob job.”

Correct.

And then there was possibly one of the finest educational songs I have ever encountered:

C is for cunt.
U is for ur a cunt.
N is for not sure if u know this but ur a cunt.
T is for turn around and fuck off mate coz ur a cunt.

I don’t know what to tell you. Sometimes just art finds you.

I still don’t know if my ability to keep going is resilience or medication or a trauma response or denial or emotional intelligence or sheer stubbornness or some combination of all of them. And yet I had a good weekend. I laughed. I went out. I sat in the sun. I found a caterpillar. I spent time with my husband and my friends and my daughter. Maybe the good stuff doesn’t wait politely for the bad stuff to finish. The bad stuff may never completely finish. So I don’t want to wait.

.

I am so fucking tired. Not regular tired. Not “I stayed up too late” tired. My body feels slow and sluggish and heavy. Everything hurts. Everything aches. There are mornings when getting my ass out of bed feels like the first major accomplishment of the day, and the day hasn’t even fucking started yet. I’ve talked before about sitting on the floor of the shower until the water runs cold. I still do that. Not because I’m crying or having some dramatic breakdown. I just sit there because getting up feels like too much effort. I think about staying in bed. A lot.

Lately the fatigue has gotten bad enough that I’ve caught myself almost falling asleep driving. That’s scary. I know that’s beyond just being tired. I don’t know how to get rid of it. I don’t know if it’s my medications, lack of sleep, hormones, stress, my body being put through absolute hell for the last several years, or some fantastic combination of all of the above.

But here’s the weird part. Once I get my ass up and going, I’m up and going. I shower. Get dressed. Go to work. Go to my dad’s. Take care of the dogs. Worry about my friends. Try to do some sort of workout. Make plans. Laugh. Have fun. Handle whatever needs handling. Once I’m moving, I don’t really have time to be sad or mad or dwell on the fact that my body hurts and I’m fucking exhausted. It just becomes background noise. It’s every day.

And maybe that’s what has me thinking about something else lately. How come I always seem to be fine? Sometimes I think I have too much emotional intelligence. My empathy is off the fucking charts. I can usually understand everyone’s side. I can see why people behave the way they do even when they’re behaving like complete assholes. I worry about people. I think about things they’ve told me days later. I want to help. I want to support them. I want to fix things for the people I love.

I love everybody. I just really want to love everybody from my house sometimes. Because I’m also an introvert. A serious one. I can desperately want to be there for someone while simultaneously not wanting to put on pants and leave my house. Apparently wanting to be there for someone and wanting to physically go there are two very different things.

But lately I’ve started wondering where all this empathy and emotional intelligence actually came from. Is some of it a trauma response? Is it a survival mechanism? Did I learn a long time ago how to read a room because I needed to? Did understanding everybody else’s moods and reactions make things easier? Did I get really good at anticipating what people needed and adjusting myself accordingly? Or am I just empathetic? Probably some combination of all of it. Who the fuck knows. But then there’s another part of me that is significantly less enlightened. I am the first person to say that everyone’s problems are their own. If something feels huge in your life, then it’s huge to you. Your head and your heart don’t operate on some universal suffering scale. Someone else having cancer or losing a parent doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to be devastated because your marriage is falling apart or your kid is struggling or you lost your job or whatever is breaking your heart. I genuinely believe that. And then sometimes someone tells me what they’re completely losing their shit over and inside my head I’m thinking: Are you fucking kidding me? You have no idea.

I know. That’s shitty. Apparently I can be empathetic and judgmental at exactly the same time. Another fun little personality feature. There are just days when I’m so tired and my body hurts and I’m worried about my dad and Kathy and my friends and work and family and everything else, and somebody is devastated about something that, from where I’m standing at that particular moment, seems incredibly fucking fixable. My emotionally intelligent self knows pain is pain. My exhausted self thinks, Oh honey. Trade me. Both of those people live inside me.

And maybe that’s why I’ve started wondering if I’ve done myself an injustice by always being okay. Because I watch other people cry. Rage. Completely fall apart. And sometimes I wonder why I didn’t. I’ve been through things that should have knocked me flat. Some of them did for a minute. But then I got back up and did whatever came next. So where is all of it? Did I actually process it? Did I shove it somewhere? Am I just wired differently? Did I learn a long time ago that falling apart wasn’t particularly useful, so I stopped doing it? Is it the Venlafaxine? Is that turning down the volume on everything? Am I emotionally healthy, incredibly resilient, or slightly numb? Am I really good at processing things, or am I just really fucking good at functioning through them? I honestly don’t know.

Maybe that’s why I notice it so much when somebody else completely falls apart. Part of me envies it. Not the pain, obviously. The ability to just fucking lose it. To cry and scream and say I can’t do this and let somebody else figure shit out for a minute. I don’t really do that. I figure shit out. And I don’t say that like it’s some admirable quality. I’m starting to wonder if maybe I’ve made being “fine” such a part of who I am that I don’t always know when I’m not.

Because I’m functioning. I’m laughing. I’m working. I’m going places. I’m making plans. I’m taking care of people. I can have a great day. I can be genuinely happy. I can still find absolutely ridiculous things funny. So I’m fine. But I’m also sitting on the shower floor because standing feels like too much. I’m fine, but my body fucking hurts. I’m fine, but sometimes I desperately want everyone to leave me alone. I’m fine, but I’m so tired that I don’t know what rested even feels like anymore.

Maybe both things can be true. Maybe I’m not secretly falling apart. Maybe there isn’t some giant emotional collapse waiting for me if I finally stop moving. Maybe this really is just how I process life. Or maybe my body is doing some of the screaming for me. I don’t know yet. I just know I’m tired. So fucking tired. And tomorrow I’ll probably get up and do it all again.

Kathy had a birthday. We were able to steal her away for a few hours while Michael stayed with my dad. She still carries everything. Working, updating the house, managing my dad, hospice, caregivers, medications and everything else. I tell her to sit down. Rest. Relax. Do absolutely nothing for a little while. She literally cannot sit still.

Donna is the same way, and sometimes I’m afraid it’s killing her.

Tomorrow Kathy leaves for Florida to spend some time with Melissa and have actual fun. My dad is going back to the respite facility while she’s gone, and I hate it. I know why he’s going. I know it’s the safest option. I know Kathy needs to be able to leave without worrying every second. I know I can’t do it by myself. I know he was fine there last time. I know all of that, and I still hate it. Something about him being there feels like abandonment even though I know it isn’t. Will he think we left him? Will he be scared? He doesn’t understand why he’s there. And maybe part of what bothers me is that every change in his care feels like another acknowledgment that this is progressing whether I like it or not. Lately he’s seemed pretty status quo, whatever the hell status quo means with dementia. I like status quo. I’ll take status quo for as long as I can get it. George, their dog, is coming to stay with us while Kathy is gone. He’s sweet and gentle and big and hairy and takes food off the counter.

Meanwhile, Megan is struggling. Donna is struggling. Completely different circumstances and completely different lives, but I worry about both of them. I wish I could fix things for the people I love. The 50s are turning out to be wonderful and awful. Everyone seems to be dealing with something — health, parents, kids, marriages, money, grief, work, just fucking life. But who ever said life wasn’t hard? It’s awful a lot. And yet somehow I always seem to be fine. How come I always seem to be fine?

Anyway, I’ve gotten back into audiobooks. Dark ones, obviously. Murder, psychopaths, serial killers, horrible people doing horrible things. I get so sucked in while driving that sometimes I reach my destination and don’t want to get out of the car. Currently I’m listening to The Fourth Monkey. I picked it because it’s set in Chicago. I think it’s going to be fucked up. Yes!

But something in the book recently sent my brain in a completely different direction. How did we decide worms were good fishing bait? Seriously. Who was the first person who dug up a worm, looked at it and thought, Fish are going to fucking love this. Let’s put a hook through it. Do fish naturally encounter earthworms in lakes? Do worms fall in? Are there aquatic worms? How was this discovered? I don’t know why this bothered me enough that I needed answers, but it did. These are the important questions occupying my brain between dementia, HR, friends, family and serial killers.

I’ve also become completely obsessed with my zinnias. They’re blooming and I check them constantly. The monarchs are showing up too, and there is something about seeing a monarch land on a flower I grew that makes me ridiculously happy.

I’ve also been saving quotes lately. Some profound, some inspiring, some slightly hostile. Naturally, the slightly hostile ones tend to speak to me.

“Fear doesn’t stop death, it stops life.”

“It’s a luxury to have zero health problems.”

“Life can be a dick. Sometimes it gets hard for no reason.”

Accurate.

And then there’s everyone’s favorite: “It could have been worse.”

No shit. It could have been a lot better too. I don’t know why we’re always supposed to make ourselves feel better by imagining a worse version of our lives. Sometimes something just sucks. We’re allowed to say it sucks without immediately acknowledging that somewhere, someone has it harder.

Speaking of things sucking, I was really bummed when the Florida trip with Donna and Terry fell through. I wanted that escape. I always want Florida. But apparently I’m incapable of going very long without finding something else to look forward to. Next month we’re going camping with Heather and Rusty. They rented a big-ass RV and I already know it’s going to be hilarious. I just love hanging out with them. We’re very compatible travelers. Then Crissy and the kids are taking a trip in November and bringing Kathy, and I’ve been invited to join them. I’m really excited to spend time with them. And then, as I keep saying, February. Mexico. Sunshine, ocean, Natalie, adventure. I cannot fucking wait. It’s not lost on me how lucky I am. I have some pretty fantastic people in my life who plan fun shit and then say, you should come. And somehow I keep getting invited along. I am incredibly grateful for their generosity and that they want me there. I know how fortunate I am.

Maybe that’s really what all of this is. My life doesn’t stay in one emotional lane for more than about seventeen minutes. I’m sad about my dad and excited about a butterfly. I’m worried about my friends and wondering about worms. Hospice has somehow become part of our normal life while I’m making vacation plans. I’m listening to people get murdered in my earbuds while admiring my flowers. I’m worried, grateful, tired, excited, pissed off and happy, sometimes all before lunch.

Maybe that’s just life at this age. There isn’t a clean chapter where all the hard stuff ends and then we get to enjoy everything again. I think for a long time I assumed there would be. Get through this thing, then things will calm down. Get through that thing, then I’ll relax. Get Dad settled. Get through work. Get the house organized. Get everybody I love okay. Except everybody is never going to be okay at the same time. Something is always going to be happening. Someone will need something. Something will hurt. Something will scare me. A plan will fall apart and another one will show up.