Your sleepless nights Have birthed a new dawn Your youth Was conquered and Won With tired eyes And a pewter crown Just let Your muddied mind Run This truth has set You free as a tree That tries To pull down the Sun Though older now With heavier soul You feel That you are still Young So hear me now And listen to this Your life Has only just Begun Wake yourself up Look up to that light Embrace A world where you Belong
Dripping with sweat after drying my hair in the chic yet small Boston hotel room, I told Thomas that my new nickname should be Hot Flash. We joked that I could make her into somewhat of a comic book character and immediately saw the potential for a regular skit on Saturday Night Live. Young women would be in a situation in which they’d want to demand better service but wouldn’t want to be labeled a Karen. They’d say something like “this feels like a job for Hot Flash” and yell “menopo, menopo, menopo!” and she’d show up, glistening with sweat wearing ill fitting Lululemon athleisure, itching for a fight. “She asked for a venti, sir” Hot Flash would say, tossing the grande iced chai in the face of a sassy barista. “And an almond croissant, not a plain one.” she’d hiss while tearing off a piece of the erroneous baked good with her teeth. “Thank you, Hot Flash!” the young women would say, as she took off with a cup of ice she dumped over her head. Who’s with me on this? Anyone? Who you gonna call? Hot Flash!
Thomas and I were in Boston to see David Sedaris and, if you know me, that is the ultimate birthday gift for sure. Dressed in a pair of coulottes and a jacket he said “looked like it had been attacked by a bear”, the packed Symphony Hall applauded his outfit and giggled at its quirkiness. He is known for wearing outfits like that, the audience now expects it. As he read his stories and we laughed at his edgier comedic moments, ones that challenged our current wokeness I would say, I couldn’t help but be jealous of his skill and delivery. What made this man so damn funny and successful? I want to be him. Seriously, I really do. When he opened the floor for questions at the end as is customary, I was sorely disappointed and a little perplexed. Someone asked him if he always had this voice or if it has changed. Hunh? If it were me asking, I would throw something unusual out there like “if you were to travel to another time period, what would it be and why?” This would be sure to get a hilarious response. Although I did not wait afterwards to get anything signed by him, I did dream that I sent him a flattened out family sized box of Eggo waffles and asked him to sign that so I guess I now know what I have to do.
This morning, Thomas is golfing and I am writing at his place, sweating through my pajamas because hot flashes are now the norm. He belongs to a course here in Plymouth and alongside music, craft beers, oysters, and the ocean it is one of the things he loves; he has been itching for this rainy weather to go away so that the season could start. I have golfed once and my best friends will attest to the fact that I am the worst. I couldn’t even drive the ball and by hole three, I decided to just spectate and eat the pudding shots Meg had made for the tournament. I had just had three of my wisdom teeth pulled the day before so these things went down very smoothly. Needless to say, eating the hot dog at the luncheon afterwards was a challenge. Thomas, however, is apparently a very good golfer, an “A” player which I assume to be the highest ranking. I’d like to try golfing again, maybe even take a few lessons on driving. In the meantime, I’m going to stick to writing because that requires absolutely no physical skill and only mild embarrassment due to grammatical errors I tend to make all. the. time. One of the things that make our relationship work well is that we honor one another’s independent loves and celebrate our shared ones too. It’s that simple.
This week is April Vacation and for this teacher, it is much needed. The craziness of my home life layered on top of teaching teens all while riding the waves of my hormones, cycle, and faulty thermostat takes a lot out of me. I. Am. Tired. Mom makes fun of me for saying this so much but it’s the truth. I haven’t always been pleasant to be around the past couple weeks, just ask my kids. I own that though and apologize often, something that is most important to do for all humans and the singular most important lesson I teach my kids—own your shit. As a woman navigating this new phase of my life without much of a guidebook or ability to predict, I have far less tolerance for bullshit and could easily see myself playing the role of Hot Flash. I could do without the crazy periods, thickened midsection, and interrupted sleep though. The amount of supplements I take to quiet all this is ridiculous. Black cohosh mixed with thistle this or that, who knows if it even works. It’s called “Pausitivi-T” I think. So far, I guess it makes me more pleasant but that may be the Prozac that just got upped. As I marinate in the bath trying to finish this piece, I’m struggling with how to tie this all up with a bow. Maybe that’s the point, there is no real conclusion to this one but to show you that growing old can be sucky, funny, and beautiful all at the same time. I may no longer be 24 but I’m a hell of a lot more self-assured than I was then and that’s a relief. I’d like to tap that girl on the shoulder and whisper a few words of wisdom. Alas, I cannot. So I write and hope that some young thing takes my words to heart and remembers them when the dawn of menopause arrives at her door. Until then, just say “menopo, menopo, menopo” when you have a job for Hot Flash.
Mom lost her best friend last week, on Good Friday of all days. She was the most anti-Catholic yet church and cathedral loving woman I knew and I don’t know if that was fitting, ironic, or just plain funny. She was a pistol and never once allowed “that fat white man” (aka Santa Claus) to take credit for all her hard work at the holidays. No sir. She made sure her kids knew exactly where that magic came from and that is something I have always admired as I myself perform Broadway level theatrics in order to entertain my kids. The magic has gotten a little too magicky, don’t we agree? Simmer down people.
Auntie Pat was the one who invited Mom to live with her when all hell broke loose in Mom’s home. Through Auntie Pat, Mom found a stable home and loving parent figures—something she had been denied for far too long. Over the years, Mom and Auntie Pat grew as close as sisters, her kids are our “cousins”. We love them. The female flame that burns bright in this world is a little dimmer without Pat adding to it. When she came to Dad’s 90th birthday party, her profanity laced rants were like a warm hug. No one was more worried about the current state of the Supreme Court than Auntie Pat. She and RBG are plotting their revenge right now, can you feel it? She had been worried about the fate of that all too powerful branch for over 3 decades, maybe longer. If you think that means you should be worried too, you’re right. Worry and worry a lot.
With all the sadness and upheaval of the last week, I have learned the limits of Mom’s coping mechanisms in the face of enormous grief and have also learned to breathe deeply and frequently. Her attention turned toward her car (her grandson has it), her inability to just pop down to CVS or Dollar Tree, a missing tape dispenser, and finding a way to have Chardonnay delivered with Drizzly no longer in service (Uber to the rescue!). I didn’t realize the last thing was an issue until I found her watching a car in front of our house like a hawk. Why? It was Uber with a wine delivery. I know that last bit may come off as unfeeling or cold but I assure you I am neither of those things. If anything, I now carry a greater appreciation of the agony it is to lose one’s independence set upon the backdrop of constant loss. Of course she’s hurting and looking for any way to make it stop. I will keep breathing and hugging, listening and praying. She is a force of nature as was her “sister” Pat. Whatever coping mechanisms these ladies developed over the years were born out of necessity no doubt. We kids, though often bewildered/befuddled, have had to learn to shrug and accept, accept and shrug. They simply don’t make them like these women anymore. We’re losing something with Auntie Pat’s passing and Mary’s entrance into elder ladyhood. I only pray that my Maire carries a shred of who these women are in her blood.
Although the week has been filled with chaos and failed attempts at a meditative writing practice, I managed to meet up with three of my best friends from college in the city where it all began—Worcester. We snagged tickets to see Alanis Morissette’s Jagged Little Pill and reveled in the nostalgia of being in the city where we stumbled and picked one another back up when her music was still fueling our female teenage angst. Hearing that music again brought me back to car rides with all my high school friends, belting out the lyrics to “Hand in my Pocket” and “You Oughta Know” even though most of us didn’t yet know the treachery it was to really be a woman in this world. Something about that somewhat offkey, screachy, female power rock ballad music was exactly what I needed at that time and now 30 years later. That album represents the primal scream that I have yet to release but now can at least identify a few key directions for it. My throat hurts from singing every song on the way home from Worcester and later with Maire in the car on the way to her soccer game. “What ARE these lyrics?” she asked as Alanis sang about the benefits of walking around naked in your living roOOoooooooOOOOOOOOOM. I just sang “FEEL FREE!!!!” to her. (if you know the song, you get it).
As you all know from reading over the years (or months, or days), I try to find a thread in each of my weeks that feels like something to tug at, something that might unravel another way of thinking about things. Sometimes, I succeed. Other times, I fail. This week, I am bombarded with memories of Auntie Pat saying things that made me laugh yet fear the future, a high school classmate who is now a full-fledged lesbian belting out Hand in my Pocket song in the front seat of my friend’s Nissan, my college friends and I navigating the streets of Worcester without cell phones, and my own sordid past as a broken down woman who found her feet again with the help of the women in her life. My ears hurt after listening to Jagged Little Pill all day today, trying to suss out why it meant so much to so many of us. I love you but…small doses, Alanis, small doses. My take is that somehow that music represents the birth of the females of this generation from women like Mom and Auntie Pat. We inherited a strange world and were told we could have it all. And here we are now wondering if having it “all” is what life is about. I don’t think it is. When we are confronted with the weight of the past, we have a choice—stagnate in the present, design a new future, or use the past as a bridge between the two. I’m choosing the latter and I don’t yet know what that means. And all I really want…
With the amount of time I have dedicated over the past week to figuring out exactly why Kate Middleton’s family picture is causing such a stir, I could have written this piece many days ago. But, alas, I got sucked into the controversy much like many others who apparently have absolutely nothing better to do and here I am, on a Sunday afternoon, toiling away over the many thoughts I’ve had over the past two weeks. At the exact moment I found myself zooming in on Princess Charlotte’s hands, I asked myself “who am I and what has become of me?” I finally let go of my curiosity and let the sleeping princess lie. Poor thing, I’m sure she’s just having a nervous breakdown like the rest of us parents out here.
The past two weeks have been busy. I hosted my first open mic storytelling night at Holmestead Harvest in Whitman last week. The closer we got to the date, the more I wanted to back out. “What have I gotten myself into?” I asked a few times on Saturday morning. I was stressed and my nerves were beginning to get the better of me but not before I downed a huge hamburger at Dillon’s in Plymouth. I can eat no matter what it seems. The night was a big success with a much bigger turnout than I anticipated. Old Colony Brewery (also in Whitman) was there to serve local beer, they even included an IPA named Evergreen & Grey! As I said at the end of the evening, Whitman and Hanson are great towns but they are both lacking many things and one of those things is a flourishing art community. Storytelling is ingrained in us as humans and, if we keep this up, I think these towns will only benefit and begin to prosper as they deserve. It was great to see all ages come together there. Don’t worry, I’m already working on the next one.
In addition to the open mic, I have also been wading through personal trials and tribulations with my kids. I know that many say that parenting is the hardest job out there but I am just now coming to fully appreciate that. No matter how old your kids are, there will always be challenges. Although my knee jerk reaction is to say things like “kids these days” or “this generation, amiright?”, but I don’t think that’s very fair to who these kids are. My generation and before grew up with our eyes on the prize and our mouths shut. This generation seems to have existential angst for breakfast and doom and gloom for dessert. They’re anxious, unsure, stressed, confused, bewildered, and angry at us for screwing it all up for them. How did we do that? Well, we’re the ones who started to kill the planet and now we look to them to save it. As a student said to me the other day: “Humans, in all their hubris, think they’re killing the planet when the reality is that the planet will be just fine…its humans that won’t be.” With that, I was firmly put in my place and realized the unfairness of my generation’s disdain for theirs. Bottom line? Of course these kids are having a hard time being human right now. What we do with that I have no idea. When I have all the answers, I’ll be sure to let you be the first to know.
“Are we doing anything for St. Patrick’s Day?” Isaac asked me as I sat in the sunroom with Thomas, taking in and reviewing all of the shenanigans of this past week. “No, Isaac, we are not.” I told him without hesitation. I have made a Guinness chocolate cake with Bailey’s mascarpone frosting to follow our not very Irish stir fry and rice dinner. After this week and, let’s face it, all the weeks prior, I have finally decided that I can no longer be more than I already am. To quote Ryan Gosling, I am “Kenough”. For once I feel self-assured, confident. This week was long and difficult yet somehow I found time to admire the rising crocuses and budding silver maples, to share a surprisingly good pizza with Thomas over beer. Last weekend, people came out to support a risky decision I made to invite storytellers to share. I talked to people who are going through/have gone through a lot; I was told that my writing has helped. What I neglected to tell everyone last weekend was that when I first started Evergreen & Grey, I felt as though I was shouting into a void and I shuddered with embarrassment over the very intimate details I had shared. I was at an exceptionally low point but kept at it as often as I could. Now, 5 years later, the fact that people have read and processed what I have written is humbling; the hope that what I write makes a small difference keeps me at it. This journey is never going to be easy, that much I am certain of. Yet, the more I share that journey with my people, the more compounded joy I feel. However you wish to tell it, the truth will always set you free. Now, let’s dance.
The moment Dad passed into the great beyond, Barb (my sister) and Dave (my brother-in-law, my other sister Jan’s husband) were driving to MGH for one of her definitive scans. At this point, we were about 90% sure of what it was–Posterior Cortical Atrophy. Sure, there were signs we all saw, including Barb. But, as you do, you explain things away and wade around in a little denial because reality is just too scary to accept. Menopause, stress, anxiety. All of these were offered up as possible explanations for what Barb was going through. A few of us, however, began to beat our drums louder and louder with every passing week. Something was not right and the longer we stayed in a pool of denial, the less time Barb had to receive treatment and help. It wasn’t until a neuropsychologist said “atypical Alzheimer’s” that the road before us came into blurry focus.
With a confirmed diagnosis and action plan in place all around the time of Dad’s funeral, everything was kept under wraps from Mom whom we didn’t want worrying needlessly as she prepared to say goodbye to her husband of nearly 64 years. Dad’s memory had slipped away slowly over the years, his life bubble got smaller and smaller. I am just now making sense of the weight of what we handled within our home. How did we do it? “Dad’s brain is being donated” was one of the first things Mom told me when I walked into the house hours after he passed. Turns out, as Barb was having her scan, Dad was donating his brain in the very same hospital. I have imagined these two events happening at the same exact time; there is nothing more painfully poetic. Dad would have gotten a kick out of donating his brain, I worried that he was somehow going to need it wherever he was going. I’m funny like that, lending sentience to the inanimate. But, I’m a writer and a weird one at that so just go with it.
Perhaps this last selfless act will shed light on this loathsome disease, perhaps his brain will go to some crazy Frankenstinian doctor which would amuse him to no end. About a week after Dad’s funeral, Jan, Barb, and I sat down with Mom to fill her in on all the subtext that ran underneath Dad’s final days. For the most part, all went well. Barb is enrolled in a study and is likely slated to receive the new drug that can help slow the progress of Alzheimer’s. Mom seemed to roll with it, to take it all in like any kind of somewhat surprising news. Three hours later, I heard the sobbing and knew that it was just sinking in. “Why? Why?” she asked, over and over. “I don’t know, Mom.” I told her “It’s not fair.” I agreed. Her sorrow turned to anger, focused in a direction that I will not elaborate on but could through anger I myself carry. I will say this: Diseases of the mind will steal far more than you anticipate and will begin that process long before anyone is aware of the danger. This is their reality now, figuring out what to do with the many broken pieces scattered all around. Our reality is figuring out how best to spend the time we have remaining. This is what's next, what calls us now.
Last week I was in Puerto Rico, a journey of uninhibited discovery. This weekend we were back in the thick of things, all the emotions and imperfections front and center. Thomas and I have had some tough conversations, all vulnerabilities exposed and in the open. Just like the rest of humanity, we, too, are broken. If you are sitting there saying “I’m not broken”, I will say “Give it time.”, the very thing Thomas tells me when I extoll his virtues—humility, obviously, being one of his greatest. “I will.” is my response whenever he throws that out, I mean and intend business. With everything going on right now, I have come to the following conclusion: love is not for the foolhardy, it is for those who sense that to gently surrender yourself to another (any other) not only because it feels good but right, is what a life of purpose is all about. Although countless difficulties will be tossed your way be you prosperous or poor, it seems to me that if you choose the very courageous path of love (whatever shape that may take)— the kind that goes far beyond giving it “time” and ventures well into the messy and ugly—you can find the true essence of what it means to be alive, one grossly scarred human alongside another. Run towards the grief, pain, discovery, and redemption. Give it time. I know I will. Barb, you are loved more than words can tell.
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