This Body is Bullshit

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.

Taking care of my dad has me thinking about my mom. Not in a nostalgic way. In a guilty way. In a what-did-I-do-and-what-didn’t-I-do way.

Watching how present I am with my dad, I find myself thinking about her end of life and how different I was then. How much less present. And it sits with me in a way that’s uncomfortable. But to be honest, at the time I thought I was showing tough love. I thought I was trying not to enable her. I certainly wasn’t trying to hurt her. I justify some of it, and the justification is real: her decline was long. More than twenty years of watching her light slowly dim.

She went from this outspoken, funny, big personality, the kind of person who filled a room, to someone who was practically a recluse. Antisocial. Withdrawn. Hard to reach. And I was mad about that for a long time. I resented her for it. I didn’t understand it. As a mother myself, I still don’t understand how you don’t fight through anything to be there for your child or grandchild.

I know that mental illness was a huge part of it, and the more I understand mental illness, the more I understand that it wasn’t her choice. It wasn’t her fault. She was sick in a way nobody really named or treated properly or wanted to acknowledge, and that sickness stole her from us slowly and quietly over a very long time. By the time she was physically dying, I had already been grieving her for years. That’s a particular kind of grief and exhaustion that’s hard to explain to someone who hasn’t lived it.

I also had a different relationship with her than I have with my dad. I’ve always been a daddy’s girl. He was on a pedestal for most of my life. My mom and I were complicated. Frustrating. Sometimes hurtful on both sides. I loved her. I know she loved me. God, she loved Grace and me more than anything, probably to the point where it made her a little crazy with worry. But it was hard. And I think that complicated love made it easier to stay a little more at arm’s length when things got bad.

There’s one thing that says it all, really. When I was diagnosed with breast cancer at the end of 2020, I didn’t tell my mom until two or three days before my mastectomy in March 2021. Because I knew she couldn’t handle it. I knew the news would devastate her in a way that would make everything harder, not easier. So I protected her from it or maybe protected myself from managing her reaction on top of everything else and waited until the last minute. She couldn’t come down to be with me. She couldn’t help me afterward. And that was sad. Not angry-sad. Just genuinely sad. The kind of sad that comes from loving someone and knowing their limitations at the same time. The kind that comes from needing your mom and knowing she wasn’t able to be that for you in that moment. But that’s the illness. I don’t say that to be cruel to her memory. I say it because it’s true and because it was part of what made our relationship what it was. Love and limitation existing in the same space at the same time.

And then at the end, I was there. Visiting on the weekend for the last month or 2. Fully there her last week. Bedside. She went from conscious and saying hilarious things, because even at the end she was funny, that never fully left her, to unconscious and slipping away. I sat with her and whispered that I loved her. That I was there. That it was okay to go. I told her Grace and I were going to be okay because I knew that’s what she needed to hear. I got Grace on the phone and held it to my mom’s ear so she could say whatever last words she wanted to say to her grandmother. My mom left us later that day. I was there.

And then the messages started coming in.

People reminded me of who she was, the person I had forgotten she was, the person I had been grieving for so long that I’d lost the full picture of her. The good old days. The big laughs she brought. The sharp sense of humor. All the things that had dimmed so slowly that I hadn’t realized how much I missed them until old friends and people from her past started describing her back to me.

By the time we gathered for her celebration of life, we’d already been missing her for a long time. But it wasn’t all sadness. Because honestly, have you met us?

Here’s the part that still haunts me about that day. I didn’t prepare a eulogy. I didn’t know how to start one. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t feel ready. So I went up there and winged it. It was all over the place. I misspoke. I didn’t like how it came out. I walked away feeling like I hadn’t done her justice.

But one of my favorite pictures from that entire day is Grace taking a selfie with my mom’s urn. Grace may or may not have been stoned out of her mind. I cannot confirm or deny. There she is, smiling away, posing with Grandma. And somehow it’s one of the best pictures ever taken. Maybe we’re weird. Maybe we’re slightly deranged. Not maybe. We’re depraved. Whatever. I love it. Because grief in our family was never going to look like everyone dressed in black, sitting solemnly in a room and quietly talking about how sad we all were. We loved my mom. We missed my mom. And we were still us. Laughing at inappropriate things. Taking ridiculous pictures. Telling stories. Probably saying things we shouldn’t say. Pookie would have understood.

When my mom died, I posted a line from Elton John’s “Candle in the Wind”. The part about someone’s candle burning out while their legend lived on. Nothing captured her better. Because her light really did dim long before her life ended. That’s the part I understand differently now. For years I thought about how much she’d changed. How small her world had become. How far away she seemed from the Pookie everyone remembered. But her legend didn’t disappear with that light.

It was sitting right there in that room that day. In Aunt Jean and the Mennas, and all those memories of growing up in Indian Head Park and Acacia. In the Joneses and generations of friendship that basically made us family. In Karin and the Hinsdale Dental years. In the stories about the parties at Mort’s house that, I’m probably better off not knowing all the details about. It was in every person who walked into that luncheon carrying a different version of my mother with them. It was in Grace taking a possibly chemically enhanced selfie with her grandmother’s urn. And it was in me. I wish I’d been able to stand up that day and articulate all of this. Because sometimes you have to lose someone, miss them, be angry with them, forgive them, become a caregiver yourself, get older yourself, and live a little more life before you can really see them. I was seeing her differently and wish I had done a better job. But maybe this is what this is. This is her eulogy. And now I forgive more. I appreciate more. I remember more.

And when I picture her now, I don’t want to picture the woman whose world became so small. I picture Pookie. Young. Beautiful. Funny. Caring. Generous. Probably with a glass of wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other, surrounded by people and making somebody laugh.

Her candle may have gone out, but her legend never will.

Long live Pookie. Long live my mom. Love you. Miss you.

It’s been a while. I’ve made attempts to get back here. I have these profound, important thoughts on the drive to work or on the way to my dad’s, things I wish I wrote down, and then the second I actually sit down, they’re completely gone. Every single one. Vanished. Just me staring at a blank screen wondering what I was so sure I needed to say.

I know and you know it was brilliant, of course. So here’s what I’ve got instead.

I’ve been burning the candle at both ends and then some. Not just work, work and then my dad’s most nights, which means I’ve also been quietly neglecting my friends. And I feel guilty about that because this has been a hard year for a lot of people I love. Physically, emotionally, marriages, health, money, just life. Everyone seems to be carrying something heavy right now. They need me and I’m stretched so thin I don’t always know how to show up the way they want me to.

For a while I was going to my dad’s in the mornings too, getting there before work to help Kathy with his first change of the day. That worked for a little bit. And then gradually, honestly, I faded on that one. Getting up and out the door has never been my strong suit and I’m not going to pretend otherwise.

Sorry, Kathy.

I do try to get there most evenings though. Which is its own thing, because I’m showing up at night right around the time I used to be getting into bed. Remember when I went to bed ridiculously early Those were good times. My whole sleep schedule is a disaster now. I am tired in a way that goes bone deep.

I’ve also been trying to lift weights regularly, which I actually like. I like feeling strong. I just don’t give it enough time or consistency to do much good yet. And my joint pain is not impressed with my effort level.

My dad is different every single day. Some days he’s alert and we have something that almost resembles a conversation. He can’t really finish thoughts or sentences anymore, words disappear somewhere between his brain and his mouth but he’s present. He’s trying. Sometimes he even makes a joke. He always makes faces. Other days he’s angry and defiant. Other days he’s so far away that I look at him and think, oh gosh, and then just brace myself because this could be the end. And then I go back the next day and he lights up when he sees me and wants a hug and tells me he loves me and I think, okay. We’re okay. Today we’re okay.

It’s a mindfuck. I don’t know how else to describe it. I am constantly trying to prepare myself for something I have absolutely no way to prepare for.

The other night he was pretty out of it. Not really talking, not really tracking. Kept trying to take my glasses off my face. Then he started trying to remove my nose. Like, actually remove it. Just casually attempting to unscrew my nose from my face. He was completely serious about it too. He wasn’t hurting me. I thought it was one of the funniest things that has happened and also one of the saddest, and I sat there while he worked very diligently on my nose situation. Apparently the nose had to go.

That’s caregiving. It’s sad and exhausting and scary and sometimes so fucking ridiculous that all you can do is laugh.

The Florida trip fell through. Donna, Terry, and I are not going. Which is a huge bummer.

So I immediately texted Natalie to channel all that disappointment into Mexico excitement because right now that’s the only real getaway I have on the horizon. One hundred and ninety-two days. There’s something strange about counting down to something I desperately want while simultaneously wishing I could slow time down.

I want February. I want Mexico and Natalie and sunshine and the ocean and cocktails and to feel like myself for a little while.

But I also want tomorrow with my dad. Even if he doesn’t know what day it is. Even if we can’t have a real conversation. Even if he’s angry or asleep or spends twenty minutes trying to remove a facial feature.

So that’s where I am right now.

Trying to be a good daughter, wife, friend, employee, dog mom, and somewhere in there, myself.

Tired as hell. A little behind on everything. Probably forgetting something important.

And maybe that’s why all those profound thoughts I have in the car disappear by the time I sit down to write them.

My brain is full. My life is full. There isn’t a lot of room left up there.

But my life is full in other ways too.

There are people I love who need me. People I need. There are friends I want to make more time for. Trips to plan. Weights I’m going to keep lifting. Dogs who need something every five minutes. A husband I should probably spend some time with.

And there are evenings with my dad that break my heart and evenings where he makes me laugh. Sometimes those are the same evening. I don’t know how much time I have left with this version of my dad. I don’t know who he’ll be tomorrow.

I do know I can’t be everywhere. I can’t take care of everyone. I can’t fix many of the things that are hurting the people I love. And I definitely can’t slow any of this down. But I can keep showing up where I can. I can keep laughing at completely inappropriate times. And I can keep having something to look forward to.

One hundred and ninety-two days until Mexico. But tomorrow first.

When Kathy left for Paris to meet up with Crissy and fam, I packed a bag and moved in with my dad for six days.

A year ago I probably would have gone into that week bracing for disaster. Instead I got something more complicated than that.

I got time with my dad.

Right before Kathy left, he’d been officially approved for hospice. While she was away we spent a lot of time getting everything set up so things would be ready when she got home. Thankfully it all came together. Hospice has been in place for a few weeks now.

I already knew hospice wasn’t giving up — I learned that years ago with my mom. But this still feels different to say out loud. This isn’t about saying goodbye today. It’s about keeping him comfortable and giving Kathy the support she desperately needs and honestly deserves. They manage his medications now. There is more, and there is morphine. There’s a hospital bed in the house, he is just about no longer mobile. An aide comes twice a week to help bathe him. Michael is there three days a week.

The disease is progressing. There’s no pretending otherwise.

But life keeps happening anyway.

Most evenings that week were filled with confusion — repetitive questions, conversations that started somewhere and ended nowhere, stories that looped back on themselves. I stopped trying to make sense of it. I just went along with wherever he was.

And then every once in a while he’d become completely present. Clear. Sweet. Almost childlike. I’d catch myself thinking he’d become my little boy, which I know is completely backwards. But that’s what it feels like sometimes.

Most of the week was actually good though. We watched TV. Ate meals together. Sat outside. Just existed together. I’ll take every one of those ordinary moments for as long as I can have them.

Then there were the nights.

One night he fell in the bathroom and I couldn’t get him up. He was angry and combative and wanted nothing to do with my help. I eventually called Matt. By the time Matt got there I was basically wrestling my eighty four year old father trying to convince him to go upstairs to bed.

My dad wanted to fight me.

At one point he kept trying to bite me.

And I thought it was hilarious. I could not stop laughing. My tiny dad was absolutely convinced he was going to win this thing.

Matt did not find it funny. For him it brought up painful memories of watching his own father decline and I could see it all over his face. Two completely different experiences happening in the same stairwell at the same time.

Sometimes caregiving is heartbreaking. Sometimes it’s absurd. Sometimes it’s both simultaneously and you just have to pick a lane.

The other memorable night involved what can only be described as a complete and total shit storm. Literally. I’ll spare you the details. Just know there was poop everywhere — and at that exact same moment I was pretty sure I’d caught whatever stomach bug has been going around.

Timing really is everything.

Now that Kathy is home we’ve settled into a routine. I go over Tuesday through Friday evenings to help her get my dad ready for bed.

Last week he hurt his wrist and we were convinced it was broken because he was in so much pain. Seeing him hurt absolutely broke me. He has morphine now so they were able to keep him comfortable and it seems to have improved. But that’s the thing I’ve figured out about myself through all of this — I can handle the exhaustion. I can handle the confusion. I can handle the middle of the night chaos. Apparently I can even handle being bitten.

What I cannot handle is seeing him in pain. That gets me every single time.

In the middle of all of this I got my MRI results.

The MRI itself looked good but the original concern wasn’t actually my breast — it was something in the chest wall. My oncologist took my images to their breast conference so everyone could weigh in together. The consensus was that what they were seeing is most likely a surgical suture.

I don’t entirely know what that means.

I don’t really care.

It’s not cancer. We move on.

My carotid ultrasound also came back completely normal. One more thing off the list.

Matt and I worked through our disagreement. We’re okay.

Frank is doing well and back to being fully and completely Frank, which is all I ever ask of him.

Natalie came to visit and I already miss her. I’d been hoping to fly out to Hermosa Beach to help take care of her after her surgery but her mom is going to be there instead. I’m disappointed — I don’t know when I’ll see her next. Hopefully before February. I cannot wait to get back to Puerto Vallarta and Sayulita together.

Last weekend Matt and I had dinner with his Aunt Jean, Aunt Cory, his mom, and his sister. Good food, easy conversation, people you’ve known long enough that you don’t have to perform anything. Karla and Cory came back to our house after and spent the night. We stayed up talking and laughed a lot and had coffee together in the morning.

I’ve been spending a lot of time talking with Megan lately too. Real conversations. The kind that matter.

And I think about Donna a lot. Because she’s carrying so much and most days it feels like she’s down more than she’s up and I wish I knew how to help her find her way back to herself. How to help her find joy. I just want to see her happy.

At least we have something to look forward to. Donna, Terry, and I are headed to Florida at the end of August — I kind of jumped onto a trip they were already planning and thankfully they didn’t mind. And then February, Puerto Vallarta and Sayulita. I am counting the days.

Matt and I have also been decluttering the house. Mostly the garage. It’s astonishing how much stuff accumulates. It’s equally astonishing how sore you can get just trying to get rid of it.

Life still feels heavy most days. My dad has hospice. My body still hurts. There are always appointments and medications and worries waiting around the next corner.

But I’ve stopped believing joy comes after the hard part is over. I don’t think that’s how it works. Not for me anyway.

Joy shows up beside the hard things now.

It shows up in my dad’s face when I walk through the door. In laughing while he tries to bite me. In long conversations with Megan. In missing Natalie because she matters that much. In an ordinary dinner that turned into a sleepover. In Florida at the end of August. In Mexico in February.

The hard things haven’t gone away. They probably won’t.

But we’re still making plans.

We’re still showing up.

And we’re still laughing.

I received this little graphic about the evolution of the blog:

2021–2023 Molly: “How do I survive this?”
2024 Molly: “Why is this happening?”
2025 Molly: “How much more can one person carry?”
2026 Molly: “How do I build a life inside all of this?”

Yeah. That’s it. I didn’t plan any of that — I just kept showing up and that counts as evolving.

Natalie came to town. Her mom Donna took us to a drag brunch. Donna got brought up on stage and danced around the room collecting tips for charity. We laughed and cheered and were completely ridiculous and I enjoyed every single second of it. Happy Pride!

I also did a nursing home tour last week.

I know. The whiplash is very my life.

The tour was depressing. I cannot imagine putting my dad in one. I also don’t have to worry about it because they are so unaffordable it’s almost funny.

Sunday we hosted Father’s Day and Grace’s birthday together. Family from four different branches of the family tree, plus Drew — who IS immediate family — and Michael, the caregiver who helps both Drew and my dad. It was really nice to have Matt, my dad, and Ken all in the same space. Three men who have shown up for Grace and me in completely different ways. All of them matter.

And Grace… She turned 27.

I don’t know why 27 has wrecked me the way it has. I used to laugh at Donna. She cried at every single milestone her kids hit. Birthdays. First day of school. Last day of school. All of it. I thought she was so extra about it. And now here I am completely undone by a birthday, and maybe this is exactly what she felt every time. Maybe it just took me 27 years to get there. Boy, does she have a long way to go!

I don’t know if it’s the weight of looking back at 27 years or the fear of not knowing what’s coming or this quiet terrifying thought of — is this it? Am I done being her mom? I know I’ll always be her mom. But it’s different now. She doesn’t need me the same way. She has built this whole life. Remarkable, independent, kind, out there every day trying to make the world better — and I am so proud I could burst.

And I miss her being small.

Both those things. My baby is 27. I don’t know where the time went.

I called hospice today and scheduled an evaluation for my dad.

I want to say this clearly because I know what that word sounds like: he is not dying. Not soon anyway. I think. But hospice is so much more than end of life now — it’s support, it’s resources, it’s help navigating something that has no manual. We need help. A lot of it.

It was still a hard call to make.

And then there’s Matt. I know, he’s pretty perfect. BUT

I’m disappointed in him right now in a way that feels big. I feel betrayed. I don’t fully know how to process it yet because right now I am so mad and hurt that I feel vengeful and I know myself well enough to know that vengeful Molly making decisions is not going to end well for either of us.

So I’m putting it here. Sitting with it. Trying to get to the other side of the feeling before I do anything with it.

That’s growth I think. Angry, hurt, not-at-all-okay growth. But growth.

2026 Molly: “How do I build a life inside all of this?”

One day at a time. One hard phone call at a time. One birthday, one drag brunch, one nursing home tour, one moment of heartbreak at a time.

Natalie is sleeping over tomorrow and maybe for a few days and we’re doing happy hour on Friday. Then my MRI. Then Kathy leaves for Paris and it’s my dad and me for six days.