Dirty Laundry

So I have a confession to make: my grief story isn’t all about being sad. Well, it is, because it’s all rooted in sadness and loss, but right now, I don’t spend my nights crying myself to sleep. I’ve spent so much time living in my sadness that I’m actually not sad right now, but excited about the possibilities for the shape my life could take. I feel like I’m coming into my own. Crisis is definitely propelling me to greatness: my passion is to write, and be creative and tell stories. But also, I love technology and business, and I can be all of those things at once. My world is expanding, and it feels so amazing and right, and I’m really excited to see where it goes. Still, I haven’t forgotten that it still comes back to the fact that my dad is dying, that was the catalyst.

I had the privilege of getting some feedback from one of my best friends in the whole world - I mean we go back to fighting over Foam Barbie in second grade. My friend’s liberal use of the foam (read: re-packaged shaving cream) really stressed me out - but let’s be clear - that’s how far we go back; and she’s always one of two friends I have that know and love me for who I am, and will point out things that only the three of us can say to each other, like that I’m being selfish over shaving cream. So her feedback was that I was holding back in my writing - there was a barrier between my experiences and what I’m sharing with you - resonated.

On one hand, I’m okay with that. My goal is to only post about things that I’ve processed - I don’t want to get feedback on things that could still hurt me. On the other hand? My whole intention was that there was so little published on anticipatory grief that it was my goal to share the ups and downs - for worse or for better (Am I getting married? Please let me know if you’d like to send a gift, I don’t have a registry, but I would like a new set of dishes, for details please inquire).

So let’s get real. These last few weeks, I’m not inconsolably sad. Of course, there are moments where I lose my breath - talking with my dad about trees to plant in the spring, not knowing if he will live to see them - but generally, I’m feeling more free than I’ve ever felt. I spent the last couple of weeks evaluating what means the most to me - relationships at the top of that list - that I’m feeling alive and present, owning my own destiny.

I also make some really good jokes, which, from an external perspective, could be a bit much, if you’re not expecting them. Imagine yourself in a New York City Bloomingdales dressing room, just trying on some clothes, or trying to sell someone some clothes, when you hear a customer shout out from a dressing room, “Hey Sal - have I played the dying dad card yet today?”

God bless Sally (and my wardrobe blesses her); she gaily responded back “not yet, not today!”. The sales associates and the other customers were, justifiably, a touch shocked. As was my wallet, but damn, I played that card, justifying my purchase of a nice cashmere sweater with fun, colorful lightening bolts across the collar and sleeves. Photos upon request.

Or maybe imagine yourself at a jolly evening spent at a friend’s house with a group of women who share your enthusiasm for wine, and while scheduling the next get together in December, you announce that it’s good that you are planning on a Friday night instead of Thursday, because “that Thursday is my dad’s birthday, if he makes it that long”.

That was my best job of silencing a happy room - I mean it, it was as though I’d killed a puppy - all the oxygen was sucked out of the living room, and I had to hastily explain that I was making a joke - and then it’s weird when you have to explain that you are making jokes about your father’s impending death. Awkward, but, I still maintain, funny.

My dad does this, too - every dollar he spends these days he reminds my brother and I that we are splitting the debit to his estate 50/50. I’ve never seen my brother become more conservative on tech specs for my new laptop that my dad bought for me (Matt, I love you, and I know that you know that I know I don’t need anything too fancy). But sometimes humor and / or laughing about the truth is the only way to get through it, and that’s again, funny.

Here’s the another part that probably isn’t so flattering - I’m not surprised when I drink about a bottle of wine a night. Not every night, and not because I don’t want to feel, but because it lets me feel. I come from such strong German stock that it’s hard to talk about and exhibit emotions without feeling guilty and weak. So I drink while I cook dinner, while I eat dinner, and finish the bottle while I live my life or write about it. I’m feeling very Hemingway - in a good and slightly scared way, where my best writing comes while I’ve been drinking. I’m just lacking a trail of ex-wives. I’m not scared enough for an intervention; I’m good, I promise. Although my brother blew me up the other night - when my dad said he drinks whiskey so that my brother and I could share the bottle of wine without running out, Matt was quick to point out he didn’t understand, as he really only had a glass at night… But seriously, I have so many emotions swirling inside me, that I need an outlet to scratch an itch that therapy, exercise and friendships just don’t get in the right way.

And since I’m airing my dirty laundry, it would be remiss to not address the stack of mail that I ignored starting the week of my dad’s colostomy. That week State Farm sent me a letter (how many times I’ve signed up for electronic correspondence with them is ridiculous - they INSIST on paper mail) notifying me that because I’ve had two accidents in less than 36 months, I was uninsurable. To be fair, the first accident was a doozy, and while technically my fault, I still don’t see it that way. The second, a gentle bumper tap while I accelerated at a light while drinking some water, missing the fact that the car in front of me had stopped again. Seriously, cars are not made of the same stuff anymore.

I’ve digressed. Last week, when I was feeling not sad, I decided I should open my mail from the last two months. It suddenly made sense why my insurance card only listed my scooter! Shit. I went 30 days without car insurance. I pray to my lucky stars / God that I was ok (as do many of my passengers!). Jesus.

At the end of July, when my dad was in the hospital, and then diagnosed with metastatic peritoneal cancer, there was no way that I could really think about anything else, unless it was major. I guess my car insurance telling me I was uninsurable was kinda a big deal, but where was my electronic notice (that I signed up for), or my call from my agent (that I paid for)? My point is not to rant about shitty insurance company experiences, but I’m trying to be open about how I totally neglected something really important. Because at the time, it seemed (and, frankly, still seems) relatively less significant. Again, so thankful, for no accidents that month. To be clear, I am insured now, so please, rest easy.

Details didn’t matter to me for a couple months. It was about surviving and figuring out how to best take care of my dad, and how to add a bandaid to myself. “Treat yo’ self” was my mantra (damn you, Parks & Rec!). I did an excellent job in New York - I have some great clothes and a new earring to prove for it, and I remain convinced it’s the only place to shop in the world. That’s only sustainable for so long, though, and eventually your bills come due, even if you don’t want want to deal. Generally, that’s ok for me - but I took three months of denial until reality hit me. My lifestyle was becoming more of one that required two incomes, instead of just mine.

So, yeah, that’s the less sympathetic, ugly part of what I’ve been doing. A life of “treat yo’ self” and developing a nice palate for reds, as I nurture my passion for writing, while ignoring reality, or, more uncomfortable for my friends, making jokes at the expense of my dad’s life. While I wish I could maybe have been insured for the month of September (seriously, thank you, God, for not adding an uninsured accident to my plate), I think the past few months have been almost a trial run for when I actually lose my dad; I’ve got some good coping skills I can lean on, and if worst comes to worst, my wine group friends have promised to check on me to see if I’m still insured every month when we meet.

But yeah, this hasn’t all been about being sad and poignant, it’s been funny and a bit shocking (particularly if you are familiar with my driving style). My shit is together, I’m happy and coping fairly well, but it’s not always pretty. I’m also fairly confident that I’m not alone in these experiences during a time of crisis. Not the exact face that I’d like to present to the world, but this is what is real.