Minnesota-Nice

The rarest of events occurred this week. My baby (yes, he is of the age of majority and is poised to vote in next week’s election, but my baby will always be my baby) and I hit the road to the Twin Cities this week. It’s spring break week here, and by “spring” break what I mean is temps in the high teens-low 20s and about a foot and a half of snow. Super. Everyone I know spent their spring break chasing the sun and tropical temperatures, but no, not me. Nope, what do I do? I head north.

Happily north, I might add.

It was just me and the boys this week. Seeing as our dog is on his last legs here, I insist that he not be left in the care of neighbors or a kennel. It would be cruel to him and a real shit thing to leave with our dog-sitting neighbors, whom I like and respect a lot. I’m not leaving “is today the day my dog dies?” for my neighbors to manage, so for a change, I got the road trip this time.

I got to spend eleven hours in the car and two hotel overnights with just my younger son and big chunks of time with him and his big brother both. It has been a very long time since I have had them both in my captive audience. My little one hates long drives but likes music, so we passed time me singing/him whistling alternating with periods of companionable silence punctuated occasionally with some very deep thoughts.

I’m keeping the deepest of deep thoughts close to my heart, but will share a few of the lighter, sillier observations made after a few days with young adult men with you here.

1. Little One and I share a bunch of the same Taylor Swift skip songs. Yes, I said it–skip songs.
2. Little One and I share a bunch of the same Barenaked Ladies faves. Friends, I could not have predicted the number of BNL tunes on his iPhone shuffle. I do feel that sense of unearned parental pride in having musically mentored him well though.
3. I don’t know who I thought I was fooling in packing a yoga mat. Planning Wendy is an entirely different person than Actually Getting off Your Ass and Doing Wendy is. In my defense, I walked about 8-9 miles per day. The campus is home to 54,000 students, so navigating from Point A to Point B takes a minute. I wasn’t exactly idle.
4. It comes as a bit of a surprise to realize you know enough Taylor Swift songs off the top of your head to do your first names in song titles (Wildest Dreams, Enchanted, No Body No Crime, Delicate, You’re On Your Own Kid). We had eleven hours in the car, so there was time to think about such things.
5. High school kids actively work on creating “couple names” for themselves and their friends (think “Brangelina,” “Bennifer,” or of course, the more recently minted “Tayvis”).
6. I don’t believe all three Spencers locations at the Mall of America are necessary.
7. “Molten cheese” is a real thing and servers at Matt’s Bar do provide advance warning that the Juicy Lucy you’re about to dispatch will scald your face off if you don’t give it a minute before digging in. I feel like I’ve earned some MPLS cred having eaten at the home of the original Juicy Lucy (or so they say anyway, and who am I to doubt their authenticity when at least one US president has dined there?).
8. NEVER, under any circumstance whatsoever, EVER trust my gut for decision-making. If there is a wrong turn to be made, wrong line to join, wrong freaking Wordle letter to guess, wrong anything, know that I will make that and every wrong choice. The number of times I chose poorly during these few days alone could populate an entire blog post. Hell, my bad calls could be their own how not-to book.
9. I truly love his university campus atmosphere and maroon and gold has actually grown on me. If there was a thing I’d go back in time for, it would be to have the opportunity to have lived in a dorm and then in university-adjacent off-campus housing for college.
10. I do not love the amount of graffiti on Minneapolis’ freeway overpasses. How do people get up and out there anyway? And how do they hang on while spray painting?
11. The Jenny Holzer-engraved benches lined up along a stretch of the sculpture garden can rip your conscience wide open.
12. You can, in fact, overuse “Bro” and/or “Bruh.” Bro!
13. When he tells me he wants to hike, I will hike anywhere and for as long a distance as Big Kid wants. However, I will not approach a late night hike including a snow-covered staircase under cover of darkness with that same level of enthusiasm.
14. I enjoy the complimentary hotel breakfast buffet way more than I probably should.
15. I wouldn’t have ever expected to pass a few hours in an art museum with my Little One, but I was delighted to have done just that.
16. Hearing your child say “This is the spot that makes me know that I belong here, that as I look out over the city, I know I am meant to be right here” is simultaneously the most comforting and heart-wrenching sentiment I’ve ever heard.
17. Big Kid is never coming back to live in this zip code again.
18. I will cry my way through asking “Are you going to miss your mommy?” every time I leave Minneapolis. . .
19. . . . until I move to Minneapolis myself. We need a change of scenery and I think maybe Minnesota-Nice would be nice. Cold, but nice.

My Obituary (Rough Draft)

My brother-in-law John died December 29. John was my husband’s closest friend and co-conspirator from the moment Tom drew his first breath. John passed away unexpectedly due to heart complications, present and medically/surgically managed since he drew his first breath. He was only a month older than me and nothing grabs your attention like the sudden loss of family, particularly when he was one of your age peers. 

His wife, my sister-in-law Amy, was charged with the most challenging of tasks a grieving young widow must undertake: writing his obituary. I, offering absolutely nothing in the way of comfort or real, practical help, told Amy I’d help with his obituary if she wanted an outside eye to look it over. She agreed, I think more out of sympathy for me or a feeling of it being easier to say yes to something, than her need for actual assistance. She penned a beautiful, moving tribute to him. His funeral saw mourners lined up outside around the block of their church. As they filed through the receiving line, mourners paused to smile at the hundreds of photos displayed so artfully by my sisters-in-law.

I told my children that were I to meet an untimely end, the world would mistake Barenaked Ladies for my immediate family. I have more photos of me with my favorite band than I do with my family–pretty sure that’s not even me exaggerating for dramatic effect. My sons, from an early age, fussed about having their photos taken, and after a while, I gave up even trying. I regret it now knowing there are periods of their young lives I remember only fuzzily and I’ll regret capitulating to that resignation for the rest of my days, of which I hope there will be many.

But. . .

If the remains of my days are few, I would like to be remembered as generously and lovingly as Amy wrote about John in his obituary. I said I would like to be remembered favorably, but I know that’s no slam dunk. Since no one ever really listens to me anyway, I’m going to lay out some bullet points for you all to help my husband and sons get it right when the time comes.

First off and not exactly befitting an obit, good music is a must. You all know my favorite, favorite song and I’d also like BNL’s Thanks, That Was Fun specifically to be played. I came of age in the late ’80s, so Bon Jovi and some of my fave hair bands had better be well represented. I’ve always had a mad girl crush on Shania Twain, whose Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under? is my one and only shot at karaoke (not that I remember it), so that would be a fun one too for laughs. Throw in Debussy, Tchaikovsky, Miles Davis, a bunch of Broadway show-stopping numbers (please include For Good from Wicked), and a couple bangers representing my Taylor Swift Era and call it a play list. Honestly, the diversity of my iPod shuffle would make for quite a sociological dissertation, so I bequeath that in the name of science (also not obit-related, but I’ve never been one to strictly adhere to theme, you know).

OK, one more thing before we get to the written word here–I don’t want to be there. I mean, no I don’t want to be there, obviously, but I also don’t want you to have to have me there. No casket allowed in the room. No one could possibly get my hair right and my lips have a really weird shape that no amount of cosmetology acumen could replicate, so I’m out. That’s probably redundant, my being out, that is.

I hope my obituary would say that despite my anger at the world and glass-half empty outlook these last five or so years, I laughed a lot–loudly–that I was amused by clever, highbrow wit as often as I lost it laughing at fart jokes and stupid memes. That I loved making people laugh more than almost anything in the world and that I was really good at landing a well-timed, sassy comeback. I’m hilarious! Just ask me. No really, I am.

I hope it would say that my coworkers knew how much it mattered to me that though I failed more often than succeeded, I did everything I possibly could to make good things happen for my colleagues and the thousands of kids we served as speech-language pathologists. I loved being in front of an audience, microphone in hand, presenting professional development or leading a small group meeting with commitment to the development of relevant, meaningful content with enough tone to keep things real. I tried to lead during a time when blind compliance was valued and leadership quashed and OHHHHHH I had my fair share of haters, but that a good fight is worth it. I got to work with the most intelligent, talented, inspiring SLPs during my career and I’m ever-grateful to have served them. I hope people remember me as having been committed and helpful at work.

I don’t have a bucket list, but I hope that my obit is published after I see the Northern Lights and live somewhere other than Milwaukee. I never got around to writing a song on the guitar (or playing the guitar, so yeah. . .) so hopefully there’s enough time for that before this goes to press.

You can say I loved reading and writing and could edit the shit out of anything! (Except my own blog because I write like I talk in extensive run-on sentence fashion and don’t have to follow APA style here if I don’t want to and also I just read online today that you can totally end a sentence with a preposition if you like because that rule was made up to mimic Latin but turns out it was more a style preference that in practice just never translated exactly, so. . .).

I hope it’s said that I was a dedicated friend and that I absolutely knew that the wonderful people in my extraordinarily large circle of friends are each an exceptional gift. Your support and grace when I needed support and possessed too little grace meant the world.

You can say that I loved my family more than those three males could ever even begin to understand. That is the one truest thing I could write. I sacrificed myself and did the best I could for them even when I was at my worst. Say that I tried. So hard. Say that I’d have taken every second of pain or anguish they had to suffer as my own so they wouldn’t have to have known it. That I worried about their safety and happiness every second of their lives and that I wish them an eternity abundant in happiness and joy. That I hope my example of hard work and commitment to doing good and what was right in service of others served as a model worth emulating.

Say that I wish I’d realized much earlier in my life that what I looked like didn’t matter–that someone’s disgust at my being fat didn’t mean shit. That brains and heart outweigh any number that goddamn scale represented. Know that seeking attention and validation from the outside because your insides feel beat-down (because of your less-than outside) is maybe fun in the short term, but cuts deeply as a long-term solution. Maybe edit out the cuss words. Eh. Maybe not.

Tell the guy who ran over my husband that I know he didn’t do it on purpose, so there’s nothing to forgive, but I’ll just never, ever get over what he did to divide my life into a before and after. Actually, don’t include this.

It should be noted that I’ve been humbled by your support of the Muscular Dystrophy Association. I asked and you answered and I’ll never, ever get over that either, but in a good way. Your generosity is unmatched.

There’ll be no passage from classic literature or quote from a theologian or historical figure of note to close out the obit. Just leave it with laughter, music, love–it’s greater than gravity.

In addition to an all-star cast of characters connected by blood or by choice, I’m survived by this creative writing outlet, my periodic sanity saver and source of expression of both joy and pain. You’ve been my companion for nine years. Publishing helped saved my sometimes tenuous grip on this life and the hundreds of draft posts I didn’t publish maybe saved me even more.

Now go hit the post-funeral snacky buffet! There better be cake with buttercream frosting of the highest, super lardiest-sugariest order. If I find out there’s that whipped cream bullshit pastel frosting, I swear I will return to haunt you all of your days. Enjoy a giant grocery store chocolate chip cookie along with one of those super gooey brownies–all center pieces of course–with caramel and (what else?) chocolate buttercream and/or ganache frosting. Heap some restaurant pancakes–god I love restaurant pancakes–with not-real maple sugar on your plate, won’t you? Grab a bowl of pasta with vodka sauce (oh so much yum). Raise a margarita or two in my name, knowing that 1.25 margaritas is my personal ideal margarita allotment, ’cause things start to get a little fuzzy and loud at 1.5 margaritas. I’m not the boss of you and I won’t be there anyway so designate a driver and you enjoy as many margaritas as you like. Cheers!

Nine & 1/366 Years

Yesterday was an unhappy anniversary, January 21. What’s changed in the nine years and one day since my son’s MD diagnosis? Everything and nothing.

There’s an old saw, “little kids-little problems, big kids-big problems” and there’s a reason the maxim has stood the test of time. When he was younger, my worries, I think, were more generalized—would he still be able to walk when he graduates high school? Could he go to college? Could he live independently? For how long will it be possible for him to live independently? These read like quite specific questions now, yes, but he was eleven at diagnosis and adulthood seemed an impossibility.

He walked across that stage, diploma in hand. He was accepted at five universities. He enrolled at his faraway and far away favorite of the five and currently lives in an off-campus apartment. My wildest dreams for him at age eleven coming true, check.

I imagine nine years hence I’ll have arrived at my new set of answers following the evolution in worry-fueled questions waiting to unfold between now and then. I’ll probably view today’s 20-year-old concerns as naive, “little kid-little problems” problems. I’ve never stopped worrying about him and I know I never will.

I’ll never stop hoping his disease progresses slowly or that my wildest dreams for him keep coming true. On this anniversary and each of every other of the 365 days this leap year, I love you, Big Kid.

This Is Not A Christmas Card

I once believed I’d return to the tradition of sending Christmas cards, providing an annual fun family update. Turns out, that belief has gone the way of the dinosaur. I haven’t sent cards since my kid’s MD diagnosis and I can no longer find excuse nor reason (except not having have much fun to share). No one’s quality of life has been significantly diminished in the absence of my holiday greeting. Well, mine probably has. I used to anticipate and enjoy the tradition. 

Instead, this–a different tradition: my second annual year in pictures. Keep expectations low–this is not a best-of photography spread, nothing like that. Just a bunch of pictures that stood out for reasons having nothing to do with the birth of Christ. You’ll see.

January

My big kid sent me two photos he’d taken whilst midnight prowling his first night back in Minneapolis after winter break. He and his good high school buddy Zeno happened to be at the bus station at the same time, a sweet, serendipitous departure from Milwaukee back to their respective college homes. After his lengthy bus ride and subsequent drop of his bags back in the dorm, big kid texted that he’d taken a late, late, late night walk around the campus in the city he’d come to love so much. I felt pretty sure I’d lost him to the Twin Cities already in January and that became fact in October.

February

Winter can be isolating. February, 2023 not only brought isolation due to the snow and cold, but also a new form of alienation and isolation due to the hell my husband’s employer began to rain down upon our family. We needed to get out of the house, and the Hank Aaron Trail with Mother Nature smiling alongside, provided a breath of fresh winter air, its route lit by candles and warmed by fire pits.

March

The spring university semester seemed to cruise by much more quickly than the fall. My big kid came home more routinely as a function of the university’s closures during spring break, a long Easter weekend, and an early final exam schedule. After his spring break, I snapped this photo of my kid heading back into the train station from the car. Though his visits home occurred more frequently, my eyes teared up and over each and every time we dropped him at the train station. He hasn’t actually said the words, but I think he prefers to avoid the “his mom crying in public” scene inside the depot so I sniffle my goodbye curbside. The goodbye really doesn’t ever get easier.

April

My younger son got beaned in the head with a baseball the evening this photo was taken. A major unstable springtime air system rolled into Kenosha, halting the game with only two, maybe three innings in the books and sending us visiting Huskies SPRINTING back to our cars! I can honestly say that was one of the two scariest storms I’d ever navigated behind the wheel. I was so grateful that I was at that game though because I wouldn’t have wanted my son driving through the heaviest downpour I’ve experienced. As turbulent spring storms do, this storm dissipated not long after it commenced. The incomplete game couldn’t be counted in the W-L column, but the double rainbow we were gifted for our 20 minute stretch straight north home was a W.

May

I LOVE this photo, taken by one of my son’s teammate’s fathers. This doubleheader occurred on that first perfect sunny, crystal-clear, but not *quite* warm enough Saturday in May. The baseball outing was extra-special with, surprise, kid!!–my parents in attendance. I think he looks so solid, determined and focused at the plate here.

June

Not a great photo actually, but what a moment at Soldier Field: The Eras Tour. I was taking video of the countdown clock screen til Taylor Swift took the stage (if you know you know), panning over to catch my kid’s face just as the clock hit Midnights. Technically this is a “pause” from a video and not a picture. After months and months of ticket-buying frenzy, frustration, and tears (mine, not his), we got to The Eras Tour and I needed to capture it. He is shy and introverted and doesn’t visibly express a great deal of emotions, but I got the grin here!

My baby played his final baseball game of the season the evening before the show and was supposed to begin football conditioning workouts with his team the following morning. As the baseball guys were closing out their season, bidding their final goodbyes, slowly disbanding and moving out to catch their individuals rides, the assistant baseball/head football coach stopped me and said, “I understand he won’t be at the gym for workouts tomorrow because he’s going to Chicago to see Taylor Swift??“ Apparently he didn’t know my kid was a Swiftie. Aaaand then he did. And then everyone on the football team knew and his football nickname became, you guessed it: Swiftie. (I love this more than I probably should!)

July

I’ve written about my annual college friends trip earlier. But if I’m sharing photos representing each segment of this year, I’d be remiss not to mention them again. Check out that cloud burst behind us! I’m the least photogenic member of our little club–look at these luminaries!

I’ve also written about my other July road trip adventure and shared photos of my favorite musicians and me with my favorite musicians’ best, kindest, brightest fans–my friends. I asked Chantal to take a picture of me from this perspective, literally on the stage! I look a lot further away from the center than I actually am, and if I never get to see Barenaked Ladies again, I’ll always have this picture to remember being on stage with them at Pine Knob. (*not actually on stage, I KNOW!)

August

The day before this photo below, we’d gotten the terrible news that Caleb, our insane, lovable mutt has an aggressive cancer. Our vet gave him a six-month window and to date, though the tumor has grown and his energy level has diminished a bit, Caleb is as sweet and in-your-face as he’s always been. He rarely “smiles” for the camera because I usually take photos of him when he’s doing something cute (read: naughty or embarrassing), so he naturally associates cameras with being scolded. Pavlov was so right about conditioning. How damn cute is this dog? I can’t even stand it. 

If you follow me on social media, you know I was obsessed with my little four-foot-square flower garden this summer. From our new insurance agent, I received a packet of flower seeds for “helping her business grow.” We threw them on the soil with no expectations. I could not have been more pleased with the zinnias that bloomed for months. I was challenged each day to choose which color flower was my favorite du jour. It seems the bees, drunk on pollen, faced a similar challenge.

September

September meant senior pictures for my baby. This is his favorite photo, the one he submitted to the yearbook to remembered by Ronald Reagan alumni for all time. I can’t quite decide which picture is my favorite–with this face, who could pick?? My handsome guy is off to university in the fall of 2024, just not sure yet which lucky university gets to have this one in its ranks. 

October

October was catharsis month when I chopped off about six inches of dead weight. I don’t like many photos of myself, but I felt like I was having a pretty good hair day and with Snapchat filters, I positively glow (for reals, who thought, “You know what we need here? we need to blur the blotches and major wrinkles in the face to the point where the contours of one’s nose are essentially eliminated then add a bunch of aurora”). It was a good hair day though and I still looked pretty blonde, the way nature intended. I’m phasing out the blonde because it’s expensive to maintain though. Sad, sad, sad.

November

A true November highlight for me was the second annual “Dude, we’re getting the band back together” to watch the Minnesota-Wisconsin football game at our house. My friend Diane is the ONLY person alive for whom my son will smile for the camera–no fussing, no eye rolling, no sighing–and I love this pic she staged of me with my big kid and “the guys,” his high school buddies. More food than was humanly necessary was consumed and more hollering than my dog is used to hearing boomed from the basement. The only downside was Minnesota’s loss and the Paul Bunyan Axe heading back to Madison for the year.

December

I can almost forget my rage and how much I want to escape this godforsaken city at Christmastime. My traditions were born and live here, and my desire to flee is at odds with my sense of place, my home. 

Merry Christmas from your favorite nihilist! Just kidding–I’m not really a nihilist. I don’t believe life and everything in it is meaningless (though my life does feel chaotic). It’s not that I believe in nothing; I guess maybe it’s that my sense of stability in everything feels shaken from its foundation and I don’t know what I believe in this year. I don’t believe 2024 is gonna be my year though, nope. That unshakable belief is held deep in my bones, telling me that patience is a long, long game. I hope it’s yours though.

I do believe this, that I have incredible people in this life. Thank you for being one of them.

Five Cents, Please

This blog was born in the hours following my older son’s MD diagnosis. As he’s moved into adulthood, I’ve come to think it would be a violation of his right to privacy to discuss his health with the big, wide world here. When I talk about him now, it’s from my maternal driver’s seat, the wider view of being a parent of a college student, not the anguished ramblings regarding my child newly diagnosed with a progressive, disabling disease.

I’d always found solace in song, so writing under Greater Than Gravity, a lyric from my favorite song, boosted me over and through an airplane hangar’s worth of emotional baggage. I wrote with my happy song in mind because I needed to offload some of the mental freight I carried and this platform perfectly suited that emotional dump. I continued writing because people said nice things about how and what I wrote and that feedback made me feel really good. Writing was my therapy. Writing told me how I felt.

I haven’t written regularly in a long, long time. I haven’t felt really good in a long, long time.

Maybe there’s a nexus I’d be foolish to ignore.

I can’t ignore my history with words having given me wings. So here’s me at my laptop, writing with the renewed hope that words will help me break the surface of this depth of profound sadness I’m swimming in.

To see me in the real world, I don’t think you’d immediately know how broken my brain feels. I still crack wise, I laugh when something’s funny, I do my hair and makeup and get to work every day, I’m eating and drinking too much so I appear hale and robust. Most outward indicators signal a functional adult. I don’t think functional adults are near to tears a good majority of their waking hours each day though. I don’t think functional adults delay responses to texts and phone messages because the effort in formulating a “normal” response can feel demanding to a point of paralysis.

Thus, therapy.

The inimitable Charles Schulz’s Lucy Van Pelt. My generation’s introduction to the world of talking about your problems to a paid service provider.

I’m trying therapy, but I can’t say I have much faith in the therapist I was matched with. The methodology, though research-based, doesn’t feel like the fit I’d hoped to find; it feels more like being poured into a too-tight dress and there’s me standing up tall, sucking in my gut for all I’m worth thinking, well, it doesn’t look that ridiculous (everyone else knowing it looks exactly that ridiculous). At our first appointment, the therapist shared the professional opinion that talk therapy would not work for me. Wait. . . what. . . Talking wouldn’t work?? I’m a speech-language pathologist. . . In whose world do words not lead me toward solutions?

I kept my next few appointments and I kept an open mind. Until I didn’t.

Last week, my therapist forgot my appointment. The therapist was on the phone when I arrived. I’m new at this game, so I backed out of the therapy room and took a seat in the tiny waiting area, belly-rubbing and “good girl”-ing the ever-present therapy dog as I sat. I don’t know what protocol dictates in this type of scenario, but I knew eavesdropping was wrong. My therapist was on speaker phone and it was all I could do to avoid tuning in. I assumed the good doctor was helping a patient manage a crisis situation so I didn’t barge in or announce myself loudly or even clear my throat in that “HELLO????” kind of way. I wasn’t silent as I sat there but I wasn’t raising a stink either. Working as a different type of therapist myself, I wanted to respect everyone’s privacy and right to full attention.

After ten minutes distant college memories surfaced. Do you remember in college, how when a professor was late to class, you and your classmates began to share the class-is-canceled-after-ten-minutes-if-the-prof-no-shows dream? Nevermind that you’re paying top dollar for the professor’s time by way of your tuition, but after ten minutes you felt like you were getting a rare gift and you bolted from the lecture hall at 10:01! That was me last week. How long do I wait? Is there an expectation for the way this is done? What’s the socially accepted contract here?

Google suggested a ten minute cushion was sufficient, but I gave it fifteen before checking out. You might be wondering why I didn’t make more noise or directly interrupt the phone call and the answer is simple: it just felt wrong to do so. I’m not at an acute crisis level, but I’ve experienced mental health crises with others. If the therapist was dealing with someone in crisis, I’d want that individual to get the attention they’ve sought.

I felt good leaving. In fact, I felt a measure of control, knowing I’d done the right thing for me.

Turns out the therapist simply failed to write me into the schedule. I’m not raising holy hell over it; I’m not asking you all to join me in burning an effigy or anything. It was a mistake. But good thing my self-esteem is mostly secure, ’cause a therapist confirming you’re not worth remembering could cut a person pretty deep if one were so inclined. I need help, but not in this area.

The quest for a new, better-matched therapist is underway. I haven’t necessarily balked at the process itself and I recognize that this therapist just wasn’t a match for me. Everyone has their specialty, and it felt like this therapist’s specialty clouded their perception of me. I was the square peg fitted into a round hole. Maybe that round hole fits others beautifully and productively, but I’m not others.

It has been one year since my husband’s employer unseated him from his job. After nearly killing him, saying how they’ll always watch out for “their brother” and our family, after being returned to work so damn quickly after the accident and DOING THE JOB capably, they suddenly decided it wasn’t “safe” for him to be at work. Funny, huh? It was safe for him to be at work when his buddy backed up over him–THAT was safe. Yeah. But working indoors, performing a task necessary to help keep the city safe while providing him a safe work environment was a bridge too far.

You cannot imagine the anger, the disgust, the frustration I feel at my husband’s employer for what their cold, calculated cruelty has done to him and to us. You really can’t imagine the rage inside me. I can’t find a way to dial it down to a simmer. I need help. I’ve needed help the whole time, but everything has ramped up (ramped down?) since his employer did the worst thing they could do. And they did a pretty fucking terrible thing in having run over him in the first place.

I’ll close this post with some thoughts well-meaning people have given me this last year. When you see me and are inclined to provide counsel, know that a helpful thing to say falls along the lines of, “I’m sorry this is a difficult time.” People are concerned and kind and that means a great deal, but sharing sentiments like those below may have good intention at their root, but are ultimately unhelpful:

• You should get a lawyer (we’ve retained one)
• At least you’ll be rich when it’s settled (no, we won’t–the notion of monetary “damages” or “pain and suffering” settlements do not exist under workers compensation in my state–we are a one-income family and I work in public education, so yeah. . .)
• Just don’t worry about it (any statement qualified with just implies you think there is a simple solution)
• At least he didn’t die (you just don’t know how dismissive this is
• Can’t he just get another job? (yes and no and there are parameters)
• God will provide (that may work in your belief system and I am glad it does for you but it doesn’t pay my bills)
• Depression isn’t really a thing (OK, sure)
• You’re lucky it’ll probably help with financial aid for college (super lucky, yeah and actually probably not)
• You’re so strong (no argument here)

Off this forum I’m writing about our nightmare experience of 2023, and I hope to be able to engage in some talk therapy about it as well. If writing helped me deal with my son’s diagnosis, maybe it can help with this mess.

Five cents, please.

(Not At All) Humble Brag

I am not gonna be subtle about this whatsoever. I’ll wear my highest heels standing on a soapbox perched atop the tallest mountaintop so that everyone can see me. And I’m gonna shout. I’m going to project as if I were onstage in ancient Greece so that everyone in my imaginary mountaintop theater, even those in the back row of the fourth balcony, could hear me as clearly and distinctly as those seated in the orchestra.

My son is amazing.

I don’t mean amazing like, “Oh, this pumpkin spice latte cookie recipe is amazing!” or “OMG, those boots are amaaaaazing, girl.” I’m talking dictionary definition amazing: causing great surprise or wonder, astonishing, startlingly impressive. That’s the kind of amazing my little one is.

I’ve chronicled my younger son’s athletic career throughout the history of my little blog-as-mental-health-self-care project. He’s experienced some real ups on the baseball diamond, in the weight room, and on the gridiron; he is naturally athletic and has pretty good instincts. Unfortunately, his shoulders weren’t built to match his level of commitment to sport, so there’ve been some real downs too.

After a left shoulder dislocation in the third quarter of the first game of his **drum roll, please** senior season, he sat out two games. If I had a nickel for each time I heard “but it’s his senior year” I’d have earned enough to pay for freshman year of college, I promise you. After an MRI and a visit to his surgeon (because he is the kind of kid with the kind of shoulders necessitating not just “a” surgeon but “his” surgeon), it was decided he could return to play, heavily restricted by the biggest ace bandage wrap I’ve ever seen in my life and on offense only. He’s a defensive guy, so this was tough for him. But to answer the Shakespearean to play or not to play? He played.

Surgery was scheduled for October 27. It was my read that the surgeon’s opinion was something like, well, I’m going in anyway–whether it’s a little fix or a big fix, the shoulder must be repaired, so go have a senior season to the degree you can, kid. Understand this is my take–I sincerely doubt my kid’s surgeon sounded quite so cavalier about patient care. It was made clear that if he dislocated again he was to call it quits, so that one time I’m 96% certain my son did in fact dislocate it again, but popped his arm back in as he trotted off the field signaling for a sub? He reinserted himself in the game without even consulting the coaches, so that one apparently didn’t count. After that game he admitted to it only “kind of hurting.”

No, he didn’t play a perfect game in each of the seven bonus games he did get in. But. . .

Here’s the part where my introvert, where the quietest guy on the sidelines would disappear before bragging. But the boy earned his accolades.

The first time I noticed him along with three other seniors being marched by the referees to the fifty yard line for the coin toss, I had tears in my eyes. Even with his bum shoulder, he was one of the captains (and yes, it would surely have been nice had he mentioned that to his mom, but such is my child’s quiet nature). This march to midfield became my favorite part of each game, watching my “captain of the football team” shake the hands of his opponents and referees, because that had more to do with who he is inside than what he did out there.

Which is not to say that I didn’t enjoy watching him play. I LOVED and was thrilled to watch him play each down he could. The athletic trainers wrapped him up tightly so he could block, which is the role of the tight end. He’s more a pursuit tackling kind of defenseman in his heart though, so playing offense only was for him, playing only half a game. Mostly he played a solid tight end because he’s tall and tough, and when your parents’ DNA for shoulders is garbage, you do what you can for the game you love. This face is not the face of a player disappointed by not playing outside linebacker–this face is the face of a kid who in his first game back after injury understood that he GOT to play at all.

At parent-teacher conferences the night before his last game, we briefly chatted with his football coach/Global Politics teacher. I reminded him that surgery was the next week and maybe could you throw him back in on defense?? This was IT, this was without doubt his last-ever game of tackle football and whether his surgeon does a little repair or big repair. . .

He stayed on the field for the last defensive stand of the season. The good guys were getting pummeled so their opponent was angling to run out the clock. There was neither time nor opportunity for my kid to be an impact player, but he did make the final tackle of the season. I could have wept. OK, I did. The last game of his senior season and the coaches’ and team’s acknowledgements of the senior kids left them all with tears in their eyes, how could I not??

He came off the field smiling brighter than the sun. He completed the season without further injury! He led his team into battle in seven bonus games his shoulder told him he wasn’t supposed to have. He got sat down once or twice and he didn’t play a perfect season, but he didn’t miss real often. He was named second team all-conference at tight end and, keeping the student in student-athlete, was the only Husky recognized by the state high school football coaches association for the all-state academic team. He would D. I. E. to know I’m telling you all this, especially because I’m not at all humbly bragging, obviously I’m not. I am so proud of my son whose social media bade farewell to football telling his world that he had the time of his life going into battle with his Dawgs.

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Suddenly it’s October 27th and you’re driving to the hospital in the middle of the night (OK, the earliest of morning) because the time has come to have E’s shoulder rebuilt. The last thing I said to the anesthesiologist as he walked my kid down the hallway was, “Take care of my baby” for even at 6’2″ and almost at the age of majority, your baby is still your baby.

His surgeon discovered a bit more damage on his humerus, the upper arm bone (playing football with a damaged shoulder will do that) than was present on the September MRI but believed that with his shoulder now firmly in place, the bone should be secure in its new and improved socket. My child has not complained about the pain, taking only the barest minimum of pain relieving medications, and (with just a few reminders from mom) has done the post-surgical exercises he’s been prescribed. His early recovery has been amazing- -startlingly impressive, as definitions go.

For weeks, I’d been geared up and stressed out anticipating the most difficult case scenario of a weekend. Not only was my baby’s surgery on the books and on my mind constantly for the last seven weeks, but also we had a funeral to attend the day after.

To our profound sadness and shock, my boys’ beloved day care provider and our friend Jody passed away October 3. Jody’s family became part of ours and us part of hers; we remained friends since our kids were in her care. Jody added Build-A-Bear Moosey to our family when my baby was two. Moosey, a Christmas-themed stuffed moose was his constant companion through early childhood and still lives on his bed going on fifteen years now. When I broke the news to him that Jody had passed my son said that she would always be with him because he would always have Moosey to remind him of her. What a heart that one has.

We knew our son wouldn’t able to attend Jody’s funeral when we learned the service was to be the day after his surgery. At the age of seventeen, he didn’t love the idea of having to have a babysitter (my dear friend Rebecca sat with him so my husband and I could attend her funeral without worrying about his pain/meds scheduling) for his babysitter’s funeral.

The church was jam-packed on Saturday. Euologies were touching with just the right bit of sass–we laughed and we cried. My favorite part–can you say a funeral has a favorite part? My favorite moment, let’s say then. My favorite moment came near the end when “You Are My Sunshine” was sung in a mash-up with “Sweet Child O’ Mine” (trust me, it works). “You Are My Sunshine” was the song for kids at Jody’s School, simple and sweet. Her funeral was heartfelt and heartbreaking and I cried a real lot. The song opened the floodgates holding back the weeks of worry I’d been holding about my sunshine’s surgery, the weeks wishing he could attend her funeral while at the same time worrying how I would find someone to sit with him, the weeks wondering how our friend had left this earth too soon. I felt both sad and relieved to have these two enormous events in the rearview.

You are my sunshine
My only sunshine
You make me happy when skies are grey
You'll never know dear
How much I love you
Please don't take my sunshine away

You always think there will be more time for the next backyard barbecue, the next visit, the next Botanas sombrero dinner out. I miss her.

Looking Back

I’m not talking about rhapsodizing about pastel, fluffy cloud days gone by. I’m not talking about laughing til your cheeks hurt with your besties about the stupid shit you did and got away with pre-social media (but really I think I speak for an entire generation when I say, “whew!”). I’m not even talking about taking stock, engaging in that good, hard inward look at what you’ve achieved in this life and evaluating your progress toward the goals in your lifeplan.

I’m talking about looking backward. Literally.

While walking yesterday morning I happened by my post office. Their parking lot had been resurfaced, so marked off with orange cones. USPS vehicles normally parked elsewhere were crammed into too few spots, situated in the back of the building parked right up to the sidewalk. Don’t ask me why, but nosy me peeked into the mail truck as I passed it and I noticed this sticker on the dash.

I walked on maybe 20 feet more but couldn’t help myself. I had to turn back and photograph that sticker. I don’t often use the word “trigger,” but I felt triggered.

I wondered as I walked—if only my husband’s employer had thought to post something similar on the dashboards of the electrical workers’ trucks, maybe just maybe it would have been more on everyone’s mind. And by everyone, I of course mean the man who backed over my husband with his truck those four-plus years ago, but of course also everyone else. But mostly, specifically though, I’d give anything for that sticker to have been in the truck of the guy who ran over my husband, setting off the chain of life-changing events, none of them good, for our family.

Would it have prevented the accident? Obviously that’s an unanswerable hypothetical. I suspect not, to be honest. But what if? What if it could have?? What if seeing that message meant it became ingrained in daily operating procedures? What if that passive though constant message meant no one on the jobsite really backed up anymore, because it just became a thing that isn’t done?

I emailed another bill (the latest in four years’ worth of medical bills we should never have received) to the workers’ compensation administrator on August 18. Today, TODAY, October 2, I finally got an acknowledgement. I get threatened with collections agencies while they do what they do, which apparently is little.

In response to an old friend’s message today, I wrote that I was mad much of time time I’m awake. What a thing to admit to someone about myself, that particular truth! I spent a quick blast of time with a dear friend over the weekend. As we parted, she hugged me, saying she missed me. I told her I missed her too and I missed the old me.

I used to think that my son’s MD diagnosis would destroy me, and well, it did. But it didn’t. I think now that maybe the bottomless well of accident-related follow-up is going to do me in, because well, it is. But god I hope it doesn’t.

As I turned out of our parking lot and around the corner leaving work today, I looked back to see a random guy on the street peeing on our school building. Broad daylight. Major thoroughfare. COME ON! What the actual what??? I AM mad much of the time I’m awake, but it’s not like I’m out looking for drama or shock just for the sake of shock and drama.

I need a reset button. It’s only Monday, but it’s taco Tuesday in my brain. Somebody get me a margarita! Cheers to tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, when the sun will rise again, providing another crack at being mad maybe a little less of the time.

The Little Sad Before The Big Sad

I bid my older son a tearful goodnight Thursday evening before heading up to sleep. We were off to the Twin Cities at the crack-ish of dawn Friday morning, returning him to his university home 299 miles from his home-home and I felt pre-sad.

I used the term pre-sad in response to the expression of “OMG, Mom, how are you crying already??” he obviously felt though wisely kept to himself. I said all the right things I believe a mom should say to her kid on the eve of his first apartment move-in day and was stunned in his acknowledgment: I get it, Mom. Tonight’s the little sad before the big sad.

Which was lovely and beautiful and perfect and terrible. When did he become so insightful?

Earlier that afternoon we learned that our younger son’s shoulder dislocation was more than a simple dislocation. An MRI revealed an apparently healed and recently re-weakened left labrum after last year’s double tear in football. My baby was taken out in the third quarter of the first football game of his senior season and friends, hear me: granting permission to the team physician and athletic trainer to “reduce” his dislocated shoulder (read: pop his shoulder back in) on the sidelines is second in parenting terror only to hearing your child agree to the remedy.

I was a big girl though for my big little boy, holding my gaze into his beautiful blue eyes as steady as my stream of “I’m sorry, baby, I know this hurts, it’ll be OK, I promise we will take care of you, I’m so sorry” until he was “reduced,” finding immediate physical relief. The not being able to play? Well, there isn’t anything to pop back in place for that.

So YES I WAS PRE-SAD and not only about my kid moving, but also because my first child moving into not a dorm but a 50-week apartment lease presents the rich possibility that he may not come home next summer. So THAT, combined with the newly acquired piece of “Your son’s shoulder requires surgical repair” data combined with my dog’s cancer and “Please, Caleb, pleasepleaseplease DO NOT DIE while we are out of town moving #1 back to Minneapolis” equals one pre-sad mom.

The move itself went as smoothly as it could have in 95° temps. His apartment is pretty sweet! I am Too. Damn. Old. to be moving furniture anymore. Sure, for a “woman my age” I’m pretty badass physically and I bet I could move, maneuver, and manipulate more household items than most of my age peers. But I don’t want to anymore. The mental load I carry on any random Friday feels too much sometimes. Adding physical exhaustion to the mix serves no one—I’d say “just ask my kid,” but please don’t. I wasn’t exactly at top form by Friday night. Though my kid with neuromuscular disease surpassed any endurance limit I’d believed possible for him, next time we hire professionals.

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Just prior to our Saturday afternoon departure, my amazing, sweet, kind, loving Minneapolis-based SLP (like her favorite aunt!) niece Lauren chauffeured us to lunch and invited my big kid to tag along to a minor league baseball game with her that evening to welcome him back to the Cities. Everyone should have a cousin like her, and I’m so grateful my kid does.

Poor Lauren had to witness the BIG sad, the actual goodbye. Having to say goodbye is both what you want and positively what you do not want. You do want your kid’s wings to expand into flight. You do want you kid to figure out how to live apart from you. You do want your kid to figure out who they are and where they belong in this world. You do.

But when the path to self-discovery begins at an apartment 299 miles from his bedroom, not some random apartment bedroom, you hold onto him outside the lift gate of your niece’s SUV as tightly and for as long as he will allow. You say, “Don’t half-ass anything. Work hard! Be a considerate roommate. Have fun! I love you.”

You walk the half block back to your car. You turn for one last glance at the baby handed to you almost twenty years prior and find an almost 20-year-old man glancing back at you for his one last look too. You dissolve into a puddle of tears.

The big sad.

Return of the Sunday Scaries

If you’re an educator, you’ve no doubt experienced the Sunday Scaries. I believe the term has begun to be used and accepted more widely, but I assure you, educators own it. We coined the term first and have no intention to relinquish the crown.

Sunday Scaries is a term for, oh, “existential dread” may lean a bit heavy, but a vibe that begins while Sunday daylight still shines and devolves into some level of fear or panic at what lies in the workweek ahead. Being an educator is being a performer of sorts. Much of your “audience” is there by force, held hostage by laws governing K-12 education. Teaching requires an immense amount of preparation and planning. I’m an SLP–on days I do therapy all day, I plan 10-12 different lessons for 3-4 different disorder categories (some overlapping) with kids who’d rather not have to have speech-language therapy. I don’t hate my job or anything, but I feel an enormous responsibility. At this stage in my career, most of the lessons I plan land and kids are mostly engaged, hopefully they remember a thing or two to apply in their real life communication scenarios. Success isn’t always the case though, so you’re planning Plan A, and also Plan B and C.

The first weekend I was off from school last May, I noticed the absence of the scaries as the sun began to set that Sunday evening. Like I noticed I was feeling different somehow. Not having that pit in my stomach, that nervous energy was a gift.

I am working one of my side hustles tomorrow, Monday, and the real deal kicks off on Tuesday. Tuesday marks my 33rd professional year and my fifty-second first day of school. It’s not all scary all the time and I’m looking forward to attacking and achieving some professional goals this year. I don’t have a cute first day of school outfit or anything, but I am looking forward to celebrating my little one’s senior year of high school. He’s begun football practice and I cannot wait for game nights! There is nothing quite so perfect as the sounds of a high school football game.

The Scary Sunday

Last Sunday, my husband and I were walking our dog through our neighborhood park as we do. Ten or so minutes in, he spies this rather large lump on Caleb’s belly. Days prior to this, my younger son called my attention to a tumor on the dog’s leg, opening with, “This isn’t normal, right?”

I was familiar with aging dogs fatty tumors but this belly thing couldn’t be ignored. I’d also been tracking Caleb’s loss of appetite. I did some quick math, putting two and two together, and called our vet.

I assured the receptionist that I wasn’t freaking out or anything, but I wanted someone with a DVM to tell me it was just old man dog problems–we had just had him at the vet for shots and his annual checkup weeks before, so these tumors came on quickly. The receptionist asked if I could have him there by 2:30 that afternoon, and did some other quick math. . .

The last time I was hustled into a doctor (a pediatric neurologist) I went from having a kid to having a kid with muscular dystrophy in less than a week. Well, in less than twenty-four hours, I went from having a dog with an old man tumor to having a dog with cancer.

My good boy Caleb (still feel silly that that’s his name) has an aggressive cancer called hemangioscarcoma. Don’t Google it. It’s terrible. It’s a cancer that attacks cells that create blood vessels and the lifespan from diagnosis to his demise is counted in weeks to months. Our vet did a needle biopsy from the tumor; the sample pulled blood along with other tumor material and the vet observed cell division under the microscope. When she returned to inform us that the leg tumor was indeed just a fatty tumor (woo-hoo, let’s celebrate), I could tell she was leading with the good news. The bad news was the worst news and she wasn’t super clear at first, but in all fairness, I maybe wasn’t hearing her so clearly.

I remember asking my son’s neurologist that day, “So you’re saying my kid has MD?” and him looking me squarely in the eyes to say “yes.” Similarly, I asked Caleb’s vet, “So you’re saying he has cancer?” and her response, looking me squarely in the eyes was again in the affirmative.

His other systems are in tip-top shape, so Caleb’s going to get lots of extra treats–he can put on a few pounds at this point, right? He’s going to get extra, extra pets and even gets to sleep on my big kid’s bed when he feels like it. When pain meds become necessary, he’ll have those and when those pain meds aren’t enough to manage his pain. . . Well, that is when we will give him the dignity and kindness he deserves.

I’m not quite ready to think about that yet. I am hoping for months–she estimated six–and not merely weeks, but I will take every second I’m given with my handsome and adorable goofball mutt. I love him so, so much. You are the bestest boy, Caleb.

A Tale of Three Cities-2: Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio and Clarkston, Michigan

A Tale of Three Cities, Stops Two and Three: The Barenaked Road Trip

The second of consecutive girls’ weekends kept me closer to home than Pennsylvania, but boy, did I log the miles! 1163 miles from door to door, to be precise, and thank stars I wasn’t behind the wheel for all of them.

My road trip opened with me trekking to my friend Bek’s house at the easternmost point of Michigan. A six-hour drive on the best of days was uglified by Chicago traffic made even worse by Chicago road construction, road construction freaking everywhere else along the route, and a fun little thunderstorm that wasn’t so little.

But since I’m all doom and gloom and “the end is near” and stuff, I’m thinking this is GOOD though, right? As I’m driving idling in bumper-to-bumper traffic for the 34th slowdown I’m all pumped up with, well these are my final concerts anyway and this insane traffic provides just one more point in favor of why I’m not embarking upon another BNL road trip. It’s cool. I’ve had a great run, but it’s time to reprioritize (oooh, there’s that word again. . .). How entitled am I to think that I deserve these good times when our bottom line feels busted? What right do I have to do something super fun for me? I’m moving into the austerity part of middle age, and I’m glad I’m not making this trip again, so yeah, eternal traffic is perfect! Again, the guilt over doing something fun took root and took over my brain. My brain is kind of an asshole sometimes.

I arrive at Bek’s and am gleefully reunited with four of my Ladies Ladies friends, my girls who I’d not seen in five years! The world’s before/after timeline is COVID-related, but my before/after began with a municipal truck on May 7, 2019, so it’d been five years since I’d seen my BNL besties. Margaritas were mixed and the first round of cocktail-infused reconnection was on. We talked and laughed and ooh-ed and ahhh-ed over our band and shared a wonderful evening under the stars.

Blossom Music Center

It’s a three-plus hour drive from Bek’s to the venue for soundcheck, so an early start (and maybe some coffee and Tylenol) was on tap as we lit off for Blossom Music Center early Friday morning. Until we entered the area, I was unaware that the concert venue was located in a National Park, and I was a little juiced to know I’d knocked out two national parks in one week. I don’t get out much. No really, I don’t. I was genuinely intrigued and pleased.

Parking the car and sprinting to the VIP check-in, we are all there. Well, all of us that were going to be there were there–two Ladies Ladies short this time. They’re lovely women, the Ladies Ladies–the only people I know who get my BNL superfan dork status and embrace theirs too. They’re the same brand of geek (though they’re not geeks, don’t be fooled) as I am and they’re welcoming, charming, and generous. I’m so lucky to know them and if you think connecting with random people from across North America via social media seems odd, well, you just haven’t found the right band or the right random people. I mean, look! Smiles all around, even from Kevin(!!) but not from Ed, apparently neutral about the whole thing.

I conditioned my brain not to be excited, so even at soundcheck I hung back. Don’t get me wrong–when you walk into a concert venue and you and your friends are greeted by name and with a song riffing Beyonce’s Single Ladies, you have to grin just a little! I’m sad, but I’m not dead! I wasn’t prepared with anything picture-worthy to wear, even knowing I’d get my photo taken with the band. My brain even reined in my usual enthusiasm throughout that evening’s show, which was amazing–their show, not my brain, obviously. Not at MY request, they played When I Fall, a song I’ve not heard live in 20+ years and have been pleading with them to play forever. I couldn’t help but feel lifted by that bit of good timing!

Their newest single, Lovin’ Life, is relentlessly positive and I’d only previously listened to it twice. I’m actually not so much lovin’ life this summer, so the song hit different–instead of it being an joyful anthem, I made it a reflection of what I was missing out on. I didn’t even sing along to every word and maybe intermittently pouted along at the show. My energy was pitiful and while I was loving being in the front, I felt like a phony and then I felt guilty about that. And holy crap, can I be the blackest of black clouds or what?? I told you my brain was an asshole, y’all.

Only 8/9 of us were heading west back to the Detroit area for the last night of the tour. Nikki, Ketchup to my Mustard, peeled out before everyone except me woke up. She and I shared a quick goodbye, after which I sat staring at the walls of the most trashed up AirBnB house I’d not-quite-slept-in in my life. Our rental sold itself as a newly renovated space, and it was (??), but it was a 10,000 code violations renovation kind of place. Staring at those dilapidated walls and this weird plastic lion statue made me laugh but didn’t exactly help my melancholia, but I am skilled in presenting like a normal person, so I did. Probably I did?? I don’t think the girls could tell I had a “this is it for me” coming, but maybe thought I was a little quiet? Not sure.

Pine Knob

A legendary venue for the tour finale, Pine Knob. It’s the venue that broke my band big back in the day. I’ve nothing to add to the legend, but I will say this: If you’re even remotely geographically close enough to catch your favorite band on the last night of their tour, get thee to the venue. Do not pass go, do not collect $200–run your ass to the front of the ticket queue and click with every ounce of lightning you can muster.

We fled Akron early Saturday morning, escaping the AirBnB largely unharmed. After another 4+ hour drive we found ourselves in the east parking lot at Pine Knob for the second Barenaked Ladies sound check in as many days. I don’t know what kind of Pine Knob sorcery was in the air, but all of the sudden I felt good.

Like actually good. Really good. Happy even. Excited. Feeling deserving of every bit of the sunshine and blue sky vibe Pine Knob offered up.

Still kind of hanging back, but cognizant of the proximity to my musical idols, I enjoyed sound check. It’s super cool to witness musicians working songs and arrangements out, witness their photographer getting film for upcoming videos, all of that. It’s kickass, for reals. I felt happy and exhausted in equal measure, because though I attended two rock shows in as many days, the reality is that I am not, in fact, a rock star.

I am however and in fact, an idiot. I asked the guys how they did it, how touring was possible for them because after two days I was fucking exhausted, and yeah, I said “fucking exhausted” because I was, and because I am an idiot and even when I try to be chill around the Barenaked Ladies guys, I’m anything but. The trick, I’m told, is to have people take care of your shit for you and drive you from Point A to Point B overnight while you sleep. Ahhhhhh.

The concert was delayed by a shelter-in-place order enacted by the local meteorological authority. So what do you do? You sit there in your front row seats with your girls while the guys from all three bands and their crews hang out on the stage, chatting, waiting out the weather.

My attitude adjustment couldn’t have come at a better time. The concert was epic, as all Pine Knob shows are known to be. It’s a magical venue for the band and its fans and the band members appeared genuinely grateful to be there, still performing for a huge audience thirty years in. After the encore, Tyler and Jim shook hands with everyone along the front, expressing love and appreciation. For me, it wasn’t the ending I’d been building up to. It felt instead like maybe a happy ending.

Like I’d planned for Pittsburgh, I went to Clarkston, Michigan to tell my friends this was going to be my grand finale, but this time I wouldn’t even have to broach the subject. I’d made up my mind to be done with my obsession, but found out I’ve got no switch to turn into the off position. It’s on–I’m on! I guess I’ll be done touring (the non-rock star kind of touring for me) when the band decides to discontinue their touring. I will have to ratchet things down, but there’s no way I’m out.

After months of listening to my preparation and denial and a constant loop of “this is it,” my hubby appeared unsurprised and unfazed when I told him I couldn’t quit this club either. He doesn’t “get it” but he gets me. Poor man.

The Real Grand Finale

If you’ve hung in this long, thank you. I’ll leave you with these takeaways:

1. Save some money for a rainy day. Save like you anticipate an Amazon rainforest level monsoon and then save more than that.
2. Banish any belief that the powers that be will necessarily use their powers for good. They will use them to their benefit, even if they almost murder you and promise they’ll do anything for you.
3. Be smarter than me and seek professional mental health support.
4. Cultivate and maintain friendships. Friends are gold and rainbows and unicorns and sequins and will shimmer when you desperately need the sparkle. Sue, Beth, Bridget, Julie, Nikki, Bek, Jen, Chantal, Katie, Janice, Marie, Michelle–you are stars.

I hope you have circles in whose company you fit so perfectly that you’re sad when you say good-bye. It’s not that I want you to be sad, no. I want you to have felt the highest of highs that makes the tear-filled, deep-breath goodbyes necessary.