Anticipation

I wasn't planning to go home but my mother isn't well and my logic is there won't be many more opportunities.

So I go.

My sister picks me up from the bus stop and greets me with an important question:

"When she dies, because I know I'll be the unlucky one to be there, who do I call?  The Life Alert people?  Hospice?  911?  Ron Scott?"

Ron Scott is our friendly neighborhood undertaker.  He is both actually friendly and an undertaker.

This seems like something we should know.

"I'm pushing that Life Alert button so hard," I say.  "Let it be their problem.  And this is really falling and really not being able to get up."

Later, because I am curious, I ask my mom.  As she gets closer to dying, these conversations get both harder and easier.  Somehow it's all we have to talk about and yet it seems abstract, like it's happening to someone else, someone else's mother, some other family.

"Don't call Ron Scott," she says.  "You guys aren't doctors. What if you panic and I'm not actually dead and he hauls me off?"

Good point.  Smart to remind us years of watching General Hospital does not translate to actual medical training and this is a judgment best left to the professionals.

I ask her what clothes she wants to be dressed in when she dies.  Since she's going to be cremated, she says it doesn't matter.  "Besides," she says, "I'm too cheap to let you burn up one of my good outfits that somebody else could wear."

******

Mom is complaining she's not dying fast enough.  "I thought it would have happened already, you know?"

I don't know whether to be grateful or angry.  But I know what she means.  We are an impatient lot so why should now be any different?

I try to remember even though this feels like it's happening to me, she's the one who is dying.

I decide it's my job now to make this easier for her.

So I try to reassure her.  "Well you definitely feel worse, right?  You would say you're getting closer, right?  That's something.  Progress."

Chin up, bucakroo, you'll be dead soon.  Attagirl.

I also tell her that I'll be fine when she dies. Every single time my voice catches and tears well up betraying me and undermining my credibility.

I'm a terrible liar.

She knows I don't believe it but she believes it.  And hopefully that's enough.

******

They ("they") call it "anticipatory grief."

Which is exactly as it sounds.  I say it's more like a thousand tiny deaths.  Mourning who a person was, what they can no longer do, who they no longer are.  Every day something else.

I find myself testing the limits of this new person in front of me - is she new or is she just a variation on the old?  One night on the phone as I'm telling her about a doctor's appointment, I feel she isn't paying attention.  She's yesing me and fluffing me off.  Despite myself, I poke the hornets' nest. I want her to hear me.  "You don't get it, mom. They are worried about me."

I've said too much.  

She starts to cry and unleashes a stream of consciousness rant that I'm not sure 100 years of therapy could make me forget.  Yet, there is some comfort in the fact that underneath it all, she's still my mother.  Her words remind me she's still here, she still cares and maybe that's what I needed.  She cares about me like no other and can wound me like no other because she installed all my buttons and can find them with her eyes closed.

******

I'm waiting for a meeting to start and the colleague joining me for it shows up outside my door.  "Oh come in," I say, "Let's do this."

We dial the line and wait and wait. "Where is everyone?" I wonder aloud.

"Um," he says slowly, "the meeting isn't until 2 and it's only 1:30."

"Seriously?  Well why did you come into my office then?"

Good one.  I'll blame him for this.

"I didn't.  I was just on my way to the bathroom."

Okay, then.  Carry on.

"Did I have a stroke and not know it?" I ask, which is a terrible thing to ask.

"I hope not," he says, "And besides, what's worse?  You thinking it's the wrong time or me knowing it's not time and blindly following your lead anyway?  I just figured you knew what you were doing."

Ahh, now there's your first mistake.

******

Everything feels suspended in time.  Like a jello casserole mold thing.  Or...

Remember those annoying Heinz Ketchup commercials from the 80s or whenever that was?  The one with Carly Simon's Anticipation playing?  What a terrible commercial.  Watching ketchup come out of a bottle is as exciting as watching paint dry (read: not very exciting).

Just hit the damn bottle on the 57 with the palm of your hand or smack it on the bottom.  Dig it out with a knife already.  Break the bottle if we have to.  

Let's get this show on the road.

But I don't want to rush along the inevitable even though it's hard to appreciate the days between now and then.  

For me, I want more time.  For her, I want less.  Really no one wins.

******

My sister teaches me how to make the syringes of morphine.  I'm not very good at it.  Much ends up running down my hands and arms.

"You are wasting my precious morphine!  And for God's sake don't lick your hands.  Or wait, is this why you wanted to learn this?  Are you going to steal my drugs?"

She's kidding - sorta - but it's tempting - sorta.

I laugh to myself and wonder how I can add this new skill to my resume.

Life goes on.

Hibernation

One of my favorite moments ever in film is that part in Tootsie where the director calls for the cameras to "Push in for a close up" on Dorothy Michaels and everyone yells in unison, "Not too close!"

I always laugh so hard and it's a line that's especially resonated the past few weeks.  How much do we disclose and reveal?  Especially on social media where everyone seems to be putting their best foot forward.  Where's the line between what we say and don't say?  Between close and too close?  Do we show our imperfections or just keep pulling back the focus so everything looks fuzzy and lovely?

A few weeks ago, I decided to take a little break from Facebook, which seems a little ridiculous - I mean, it's not heroin - but I found myself on it constantly.  It's mindless and a way to connect but also a way to avoid and I feel like I need to be paying better attention, you know, to me, and stuff, and things.

I also realized I don't have that much to say that isn't a great big bummer. Between my mom, the deaths of a few friends, serious illness of several close to me, and other bad news, I feel depressed and unable to pretend the opposite.  Moreover, I don't want to.  And yet, I also don't want to post things like:

Dear Prozac, why aren't you working yet? #impatient

Nope, she's not dead yet. #stillhere

Have spent the past three days dry heaving from anxiety. #veryattractive

Got out of bed today.  #wheresmymedal

Besides work, I haven't been using much of my self-imposed Facebook exile to see other humans in the actual flesh.  People are too messy and I need space.  To quote another great movie, As Good As It Gets, "Go sell crazy somewhere else.  We're all stocked up here." Depression is selfish.  I've got too many emotions so I feel like I'm not a good or supportive friend to anyone right now.  Least of all myself.

So I bought so many books that I may need a GoFundMe to pay my Amazon bill.  I finally figured out Netflix and devoured Orange Is The New Black. I decide that going to jail to get into shape no longer seems like a good idea. Maybe I'll have to diet and exercise after all.  Some days when I can pry myself off the couch after work, I take dance classes.  I laugh at myself. That one time, I may have actually twerked.

If a person twerks and it's not on Facebook, does it actually count?  And can you enjoy it without an audience?

I don't have an answer but I've been thinking about it a lot.  And in doing so, I'm reminded of another great line from Tootsie, "I'm going to feel this way until I don't feel this way anymore."

Two steps forward, three steps back.

But I suppose it's still dancing.

On Fathers and Father's Day (2015)

As long as I can remember, I've had a complicated relationship with Father's Day.  My dad was a good man, with a lot of issues and as a result, a terrible father.  And then he went and died in a horrible accident when I was 14, which really complicated things, even moreso because I am of Irish stock.  Irish people are afraid to speak ill of the dead.  Try it out sometime.  I guarantee you, any universally abhorred dead person, if you mention him or her to an Irish person, they will find the good and then cross themselves just to be safe.  "Hitler, he certainly had a point of view, now didn't he?  God rest his soul." "Osama Bin Laden sure had a gift for finding the best hiding places.  Saints preserve us."

You get the idea.

It feels wrong to say that, when my father passed, the result of a violent accident that, somewhat ironically given years and years of poor choices, was in no way his fault, I could finally breathe.  When someone you love is struggling, you're always waiting for the other shoe to drop, the phone to ring with the bad news that will surely come, it's just a matter of time.  Sure, I felt sad when he passed, but I also felt some relief - for him and for me and my whole family.

My dad was alcoholic and abusive, unpredictable and violent. 

He was also charming and kind, would give you the shirt off his back, loved music, animals and children.

(Rest in peace.)

After my mother asked him to leave, he showed up at our house when I was in first grade.  He broke the back bedroom window, tried to break down the doors and cut the phone line so we couldn't call for help.  He was a cop and very crafty.  Luckily, our neighbor called the police before we could see how this story ended.  He was taken away in a police car with our beloved dog, Rosie, who insisted on going with him; she loved him more than anyone, seeing his good above all else. 

I'm in my childhood home a lot these days as I spend time with my mother as she nears the end of her own life.  We have lots of conversations we never dared have before.  We've never been a particularly emotional and don't spend a lot of time analyzing or reflecting - better to just keep moving forward.  Lying in the back bedroom the other day, where the window has never been truly fixed, covered instead with a thick plastic, I was reminded of what happened.  Emboldened by the sense that time is running out for me to ask these questions, I stroll into the kitchen to ask my mom whether, if he had gotten in the house, he would have killed us.  She replies, nonchalantly, "Oh, I think he just wanted back in the house."

Sounds perfectly reasonable.  Let's go with that, shall we?  There are some stones best left unturned.

(God rest his soul.)

He also showed up at my school and trying to abduct me, luckily thwarted by a quick thinking teacher who had her own alcoholic husband.  I think about the desperation of a man who wanted his family back but didn't know how to get his life back on track enough to do it the right way.  Of course then, I certainly didn't think that way, and this set off years of being afraid to go to school and at least a year of nonstop crying in the classroom.  My second grade teacher confronted me by bringing me into the closet and asking me if I hated her.  I didn't but did hate her a little bit in that moment for being more of a child than I was.  How innocent she was to think it was all about her.

After my dad moved out of town, he moved around a lot; we were never sure where he was, but he would send lots of rambling, emotionally charged letters, and would call from time to time.  I would write to him, mostly out of obligation and guilt.  I enjoyed getting the $50 or $100 he would sometimes send (Lord knows he never paid child support), but dreaded the letters that came with it.  Reading them was a high price to pay for that $50. 

On rare occasions, we would see him in person; my mother, I am sure, torn between doing what she thought was right and trying to protect us.  Sometimes I would talk to him but after awhile, I refused.  It was uncomfortable, and well beyond the emotional maturity I had at 6 or 10, or who am I kidding? - 42.  I didn't know how to process then - or candidly, even now sometimes - how someone who claimed to love us could hurt us so much.  It just didn't jive with any of the images I knew from television or books.  Pa Ingalls, Mr. Drummond and Mr. C certainly didn't act this way.

This continued on for years until one day, two weeks after his birthday, he died.  Killed on impact, hit by a car by a nurse driving home from her shift at the hospital.   When I read the accident report, I felt sick as it described in graphic detail how he had been hit multiple times.  It was not an easy death, but somehow fitting as his life was not easy either.  I found myself feeling sad for the woman who had killed him, really just minding her own business heading home after a hard day at work.  It made me lose my enthusiasm for driving, thinking about how one day you were just a person, and at the end of that day, you could kill someone simply by chance, through no real fault of your own.

When he died, I didn't have to worry anymore that he'd show up at school again and try to take me with him, or show up at our house uninvited.  I didn't have to feel guilty for not answering his calls or not returning his letters. In one last blow, my birthday card to him was returned to me a week or so after his death; returned to sender, addressee unknown.

As I get older, I realize more and more how much of a struggle he really had, and how, really, at the end of the day, we're all just doing the best that we can.  Sometimes it's not enough, but day after day, we're all just waking up, putting one foot in front of the other and giving it the old college try

So maybe it's that, now, as an adult, I can see beyond my fear of him to love and understanding, and that's where the sense of loss kicks in.

Sometimes I do things I'm not proud of.  I'm impatient and controlling and refuse to ask for help.  I'm overly sensitive to looking stupid and have an overdeveloped sense of justice.  Often, I say things I wish I hadn't and never say the things I should.  I haven't mastered the flow of thinking BEFORE you speak as I prefer to ruminate and obsess for years after instead of investing two seconds before in a moment of consideration that could save me a lot of grief - and sleep, and, on too many an occasion, calories.  But pretty much always, I come from a good place.

As I become more self-aware, I see how not having paternal support did impact who I've become - for better and for worse.   To every positive, a corresponding negative.  What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, but it's better to be rubber - tough but flexible - than brick - thick and unyielding.  I've spend a lot of time working in brick.  Maybe it's time to switch to another medium.

Someone asked me recently if I felt cheated not really having a dad growing up.  Honestly, yes, but more in the fairytale way that probably never would have been a reality.  I think about being walked down the aisle at my wedding and other pop culture "dad" situations that I've seen on television and in the movies as being "perfect, bonding moments."  Aw, shucks, dad.

Real life is far messier, so I know that, in reality, my life wouldn't have played out in those ways.  In real life, I've had amazing uncles, cousins, brother-in-laws, teachers, mentors, coworkers and friends who have filled various "dad" roles at certain points in my life and will continue to do so.  I have been very fortunate to be surrounded by wonderful, caring men.

And my mother, as a single mom for most of my life, did a pretty great job as both mom and dad.  I think ahead to next Father's Day, when, in all likelihood, I won't have a father or mother on this earth to celebrate with, and it makes me sad.  Over the past few months, as I've prepared to say goodbye to my mother, I've had the good fortune to be able to tell her how incredible she was as a parent.  Certainly not perfect, but she did the best she could and that was more than enough.  Finally as an adult, I know how hard it must have been being both parents, and not only that, feeling the need to apologize for someone else's actions as well as your own.  And, as I get older and consider my own options, I don't know if being a single parent is something that I would be by choice, and yet, there she was.

So, on Father's Day, sure, I feel a little sad, a little wistful, but mostly I feel happy watching the joy the great dads I know feel having children, and hoping they soak up the much-deserved love and appreciation on this day.

And to those who have lost their dads too soon - it's always too soon - I simply say:

I'll be thinking of you this weekend.  I know it must be hard for you.

Permission

Ever the planner, as my mother's sickness progresses and her passing seems more real, I look to the future.

Maybe I can "find myself."  Whatever that means.  Maybe I can take a Cheryl Strayed-like trek into the wilderness and push myself to my physical, mental and emotional limits. I'll eat food from cans and carry my life on my back.

But that involves going outside.

I wonder if I instead I could "find myself" at a mall, or a spa, or while eating gelato in the Piazza di Spagna.

I think about where I'll live, having decided with certainty that I'll need to leave NYC behind.  Too many years I've felt trapped, waiting for the other shoe to drop, bracing myself as my life got smaller and smaller.  NYC seems as small as my tiny hometown now.  My apartment in Manhattan - a dream of mine when I was younger - seems tiny, claustrophobic on some days; a safe cocoon other days.  I feel 17 again desperate to find where I belong and connect with people that understand me.  I conveniently ignore the fact that wherever I go, I'll still be me.  The images in my head are me but not me, me on steroids, a better me - or maybe it's not me at all.

The prospect of change is seductive.

****

My life these days is divided in two - NYC and LI, work and family, numb and numb-er.

Having not seen my mom in two weeks thanks to a forced break in the form of another emotional storm - my 20th college reunion - 100 miles from my mother's house, it's easy to convince myself that all is well.  She sounds good today, I tell myself, ignoring the fact that she had to hang up after 2 minutes because she was out of breath.

It's the weather, it's allergies, it's boredom, it's Tuesday.  I mean, look, I'm tired too and I'm not even sick.

Out on LI, reality is far less easy to rationalize, especially when she says, "I don't know when but it will be soon."  I want to know what soon means.  Soon as in, don't go back to the city?  Soon as in, leave my phone on at night?  Soon as in, better make sure that trip I am hoping for in August is refundable?

Despite myself, I start to cry and cry nonstop my entire visit, prompting her to threaten that she is going to send me back to the city.

I am crying for myself and she consoles me, holding me for the first time in probably 35 years.  She says she won't take that away from me, that I am allowed to be sad.  She's frail and weak and I wish she could hold me tighter but I'm grateful for this moment even though it's not perfect.  She talks about mistakes she's made and encourages me to think about the future and all of the good things ahead, that I am still a young woman and anything is possible.

We both know I don't believe her.

****

Back in the city, work is a welcome distraction.  I am grateful for my job, the nature of which is that I could never do too much, it is never enough.  We can never have too much money to support our work.  My colleagues have learned how to support me, in some ways despite their best instincts.  They make gifts for my mother and slip gifts for me awkwardly on my desk.  Because you're having a rough time, they say.  They mean well, I think to myself, still not sure any of us is getting it right.

I worry my colleagues have gotten used to my unpredictable moods.  I am, at turns, soft and yielding, crying in my office which unfortunately has glass walls.  "Are you alright?" One brave (foolish?) soul might ask which is my cue to shift to hard and brusque, closed off and brittle, like pieces of me are cracking off throughout the day and vacuumed up at night by housekeeping.  "What's going on with that project?  I haven't heard an update for awhile."

I don't look up.

The best offense is defense.

*****

I reconnect with an old therapist and start working remotely as she has relocated to California.  I worry that she doesn't seem happy there but that's none of my business, although I love to deflect attention from me.  We are in the business of me, a business that resembles a burned down, abandoned building.

She's smart and soft but not at all tricked by me. This is why I like her.  I've learned the right things to say but these don't placate her.  She beats me at my own game.  We are a good match.

I decide I need pharmaceutical help, something I have resisted for years.  When I share my thinking with friends, family, my acupuncturist, my doctor, I expect resistance but everyone readily agrees, leaving me to wonder if I haven't been fooling anyone.

My sister starts calling me every night just to make sure all is ok.  I know my mother told her as keeping secrets is not a thing we do well in our family, most people told what they're getting for Christmas well before the actual exchange. One of my closest friends puts her best friend on the case, my case.  Even though we've never met she starts texting me every day.  It's oddly comforting.

Maybe I'm not as smart as I think.

Even my acupuncturist, who has made a career out of finding alternatives to Western medicine and medication, tells me this is what I need.  He's seen me week after week in various stages of distress and checks in on me regularly.  I look to him for permission and counsel, only comfortable asking for help because I pay him for it.  It's easier that way, transactional but I know it would hurt him if he knew that's how I view things.  He's realistic and not reassuring but I know he's right, "It's only going to get worse before it gets better."

I sit across from my doctor, who is very young and very fit.  Generally her solution to me in every situation is to eat better and exercise more, which is good advice that I take or leave at whim.  When I tell her that I want medicine to help manage what has become the deepest depression of my life I expect to hear her say, "Have you tried yoga?"  But she doesn't.  Instead she says, "Start taking these now so that, well, you know, when the inevitable happens...I mean, it's your mom.  You only lose your mom once."

But, because we are all who we are and she can't help herself, she says, "Diet and exercise will help a lot too."  And because I am who I am and can't help myself either because I want to please her I say, "I know.  I've lost 7 lbs since I was here last."

She goes to congratulate me then stops herself, realizing it's been less than a week since I saw her.  She stumbles.  We both want me to be thinner. "Um, that's good but too fast, you know?"

I know but my mood has taken root in my stomach and although I've been eating, food hasn't had much appeal and I've been exercising more in a desperate bid to tire out my ever spinning brain.

And besides, I need to get in shape to "find myself," which I am pretty sure involves losing a lot of everything first.

****

I spend a lot of time thinking about how maybe I wasn't born for these times.  I don't understand people, with me at the top of the list.  I embrace technology but get disappointed by it constantly - choosing to blame technology than the people behind it.  We are closer together but more apart than ever.  I hear from people I haven't heard from much nor did I expect to. It's surprising and comforting.

I bite the bullet and text a friend that I am depressed and am not sure how to get through it and need help.

I don't get an answer.

I tell myself that maybe I shouldn't drop bombshells like that, maybe people don't like it.  It makes me feel wrong and sorry I reached out.  I push down the part of me that tells me I'm not wrong and it's ok.

The next day I get a random text about the weather.

Why yes, it is cold outside.  

Even colder in here.

****

I take solace in books and read constantly, embracing an old habit from my childhood, feeling 5 years old and scared and desperate for comfort wherever I can find it. Books a far healthier choice than food as long as they are light and meaningless.  Nothing about death or dying.  Nothing too hopeful either. Let's not delude myself of a happier ever after. My comfort zone is small but I immerse myself.  I look forward to returning home at the end of the day to my books.

I tell myself I'm not isolating but simplifying and in many ways it's true.  I'm exhausted and it's all too much.  People are messy. I'm messy.  I'm not sure I can handle anyone else's mess right now.

****

I plan a hot Friday night with me and my new book after my dance class.  It's small, controlled, reassuring.

My colleagues ask if I want to join them in sending off another colleague who is heading to a new job.  

I hesitate, feeling the pull of my couch, solitude, isolation - the tidiness of my controlled world - but know this is not always the answer, and that this is not going to be the support I need moving forward.

I look up and try a smile.

"Count me in," I say.

And I almost mean it.

Scar Tissue

I write this post after a short two week break from work - not so much a vacation but a family leave that I took to look after my family, and by family, I kinda mean my mom but mostly I mean me.

As a complete workaholic, it was a dicey move and one that, unlike essentially everything I do, was made quickly.  As a friend said to me, "I'm worried for you; this could go either way." Meaning, this could be a disaster.  Maybe distraction was the only thing keeping me together.  I had the same thought.  But as I stood on a Manhattan street at 9 pm on a Tuesday night overwhelmed and crying and with one phrase repeating over and over again - "I can't" - for someone who always CAN, I knew something had to give and for the first time in my life, I identified that something as work.

When you self-identify as strongly as I do around your work and qualities relating to work - hardworking, smart, reliable, etc. - pulling that away for a bit, even for as short a period as I did, can leave you reeling.  But I really had no choice.  Not only did my mother need me as she has been really sick for a long time and is now reaching the end of her journey, but I needed me.  I needed me for mundane things like, "How about we do this laundry that isn't doing itself" and "Maybe we should find some foods that aren't cheese..." but also for big things like, "How do I feel about what's happening?" I needed to feel some feels and put a name to them instead of sitting in my office all day crying so much that my under eye bags got chapped.  Did you know that can happen?  Neither did I.

"Go back to work," my mom said, "You'll get fired.  And it's not like this is going to happen overnight."  "This" being dying.  But it might and I wasn't willing to take that chance.  At the worst, taking this time was going to give me a few more days to spend with my mom that I wouldn't have had, and I would have time to do laundry so I would have clean underwear to wear.  I knew I wouldn't regret either of those things.  And I'm very lucky.  I work for an employer with a generous family leave policy, which meant that do this and not put myself in danger of being out of work or penalized.

Taking some time also helped me make some order out of chaos - even if order is just an illusion.  As my mom said, "We're smart women and we try to control everything, and a lot of things we have been able to control being smart and working hard, but this we can't control."  I look to her doctors for answers and wish I had a crystal ball.  Someone asked me what a crystal ball would do for me, why I would want to know.  If I had one, I would know that I can go see a 3 hour movie and shut my phone off and know it's OK, or I can maybe sleep through the night tonight.  It wouldn't make later much better but it might make now a little more livable.  Or maybe it wouldn't, I don't know.  The last thing I want her to feel is guilty that we are all worrying but it's inevitable because I am just not that emotionally healthy enough to live this much in the moment.  And, as I keep saying, it's payback for the last 50 plus years she's spent worrying as a mother.  All her doctors can say is she's already lived beyond what they thought she would, so they have nothing to contribute to this debate and here I was thinking they were captaining the team.  I read into comments that are probably innocuous.  So, why doesn't she need to make a follow-up appointment?  Do you think she'll die before then, would that be about in six weeks' time?  Or are you just trying to make her life easier and save her the trip when there's not much more you can do?

This time has also helped me process some of my emotions.  I was at acupuncture the other day and had a vision of me holding lemons.  I know it sounds weird, but when you stop and truly let your mind quiet down - something I never do - random things happen. And I realized I've spent a lot of the past several months feeling angry and isolated.  Bitter, sour.  Mad at life, mad at the situation, mad at people.  Friends who say or do the wrong thing, or, worse, nothing at all.  If it's one thing I've learned going through this it's that doing something - anything - is always the best thing.  There have been times when I haven't known what I wanted or needed and so I have been in no position to ask for what I need, because I can't identify it, although the closest name I can put to it is reassurance.  Reassurance that people care and are there and silence doesn't help that one bit.  People mean well but saying, "Let me know what you need" is not really helpful but I'm guilty of it too.  It's what we do when we don't know what else to do.  I just said it to someone earlier today.  Being present helps, giving the gift of attention and care although that's admittedly so hard for any of us to do with so many demands - both virtual and real; we've all got our own stuff.  I'm learning to appreciate those who have stepped up and are around, those who are clearly trying, while keeping a careful eye and an open heart toward those who have disappeared or stayed away.  Resentment won't help this process and I'd rather have lemonade than a fistful of lemons.

I'm surprised when I can handle conversations about her wishes after she dies (cremation, short service, nice lunch afterward maybe on the water) and how to get rid of her things (take what we want and then let anyone we know take what they want, you never know when someone needs a spatula and why should they have to buy one when we have a perfectly good one here) - but then fall apart at random moments like when I'm asked to fill in my emergency contact person's information on a form.  It doesn't seem like a good idea to choose her and yet I always have so it seems wrong to choose someone else, you know, while she's still here, but will that mean when I fly off my SoulCycle bike and end up in a full body cast, I'll end up rotting in the hospital until finally someone at work realizes I should have shown up a few days ago?  I know that's a crazy talk, especially since you need to actually go to SoulCycle for that to happen. We laugh that maybe she didn't need to buy a 20 pack of toilet paper (something else to throw out after she's gone) and think of my grandmother who would only buy single rolls of toilet paper for the last 30 years of her life, always reasoning, "I'll be dead before I go through that much toilet paper!"

Mostly this time has helped me realize that even though the death of a loved one is universal, it is really effing hard.  Nothing prepares you for it.  It doesn't matter how many times you get to say goodbye.  And there's not much that anyone can say or do to make it better.  But you have to try to do whatever you can to make the process as bearable as possible, especially when it's a marathon not a sprint.  Some things will work, like exercising and sleeping more, and the occasional brownie, and withdrawing when you feel the need to in favor of watching Scandal vs putting on a happy face and forcing small talk.  Some won't, like a second brownie or that last glass of wine or talking to the friend who never says the right thing because she sure as Hell won't all of a sudden won't say it now and you'll be left wishing you stayed home with Scandal and a second brownie.

We have a choice in letting these situations make us harder or softer, not second brownie soft but the kind where you are open to all the feels, even the awful, devastating, terrifying ones.  I'm still stripping away all of the brittle armor I've built up over the past few months - the scar tissue of  pretending things are okay when they aren't while refusing to ask for help.  Two weeks is just not enough time to get to the marshmallow center but I'm closer and I feel like I can breathe again.  For now, anyway.

And now the real challenge begins in not letting it build up again.

Landslide

Protip:  If you ever find yourself home at 11 pm on a Saturday night Googling "Depression Quiz," you don't even need to take the quiz to know the answer.

But like every overachiever, we are good students, aren't we, and we love tests, so let's take a look and see how we do.

Question #1:  Without trying to diet, have you gained or lost weight?

What kind of question is this?  When I have not tried to diet?  And wait, people actually can lose weight without dieting?  If I wasn't depressed before, I am now.  Next.

Question #2:  My sleep has been disturbed - too little, too much, or broken.

What sleep?  Next.

Question #3:   It takes great effort to do simple things.

You mean not everyone's closet avalanches down on them when they open it?  Then yes, I guess, yes.  Isn't this quiz over yet?  Next.

 Question #4:  I have difficulty making decisions.

I'm not even sure how to answer this.  Like, all the time, or just sometimes?  Like big decisions like what to be when I grow up or small decisions like how do I like my eggs?  I don't know, I don't know.  Next.

Question #5:  I don't enjoy things that I used to.

Like taking tests?  Next.

Question #6:  It's hard for me to concentrate when thinking and/or reading.

What now?  Next.

Question #7:  When something is bothering me, I cannot stop thinking about it.

I mean, seriously, people can lose weight without trying?  How can this be?  Next.

Question #8:  When things go wrong,  I don't want to tell people because I worry they will pity me.

Why would you tell people and subject yourselves to their sad faces and pouty lower lips?  Move along, Judge Judy. Next.

Question #9:  Do you feel isolated and alone?

I think the fact that it's 11 pm on a Saturday night and I am taking this test speaks for itself on that front.  Next.

Question #10:  Do you feel depressed?

Why do I feel like this test could have been one question and not 10?

Yes.

******************************

If I were to be honest, I think I've been depressed for quite awhile now, but since I so wholeheartedly embrace the anxious side of me and consider it a major part of who I am and, in some ways, a defining part of my personality - I mean, who in NYC isn't anxious?- I don't give the old depressive side as much attention.  Frankly, it's a bit of a downer.

I mean, at least when you're anxious, you get stuff done.  Depression is like a big old reverend no fun, like the friend in your group who is always complaining and has lots of negative opinions but has no productive suggestions.  I hate sushi.  Okay, where should we go?  I don't know, I just hate sushi.  Ok, what about burgers?  Ugh, no, God, who eats BURGERS?  I'm a vegetarian now.  Oh and I have a gluten allergy.  Wait, aren't you eating a donut, right now?  Ok, maybe it would be better if you just stayed home with some Real Housewives, Depression, you're bringing us down. Take one of those online Depression quizzes and text us in the morning.

Anxious me is always moving.  Where are we going?  What are we doing?  What can I plan?  Depressed me has no energy for the 37 unreturned emails, calls, and texts and last minute backouts and cancellations seemingly required to put any kind of plan together.  I'll just wait over here and see what happens, and if and when it's nothing, it'll be more food for my depression.  SEE.  No one loves me.

A good friend says that solitude and loneliness is the fuel that depression feeds off of.  And it's totally true.  But it's also true that, when you are depressed, reaching out, making plans, is really difficult.  It's really hard.  When you think about it, it's a pretty brave thing we all do each day putting ourselves there to people - do you want to see me?  Do you want to hang out with me?   Those are pretty vulnerable questions.

When you're depressed, not only does it take a lot of effort to even put the ask out there, but you're not really in any position to stomach the answer, either way.  No, you have other plans?  Oh God, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have bothered you, I knew that you would say no, if you wanted to see me, you would have reached out to me on your own, I know you'd rather be organizing your sock drawer, pretend I didn't ask.  Yes?  Oh, you mean I have to get dressed and have a productive conversation and be interesting and fun and toss my hair back and laugh and pay attention to what you have to say and answer the question "How are you?" with the socially acceptable "Fine" and not cry?  I'm not sure I can pull this one off.

The catch 22 is that you need to cut depression off from its food source of loneliness.  Depression is like those robots who use old people's medicine for food except the food in this case is isolation and, oh God, nevermind.  See questions #3 and #6.

And it's hard for those in our lives to win, right?  If you tell people you're depressed, if they start being a little more attentive, it's hard to not think, "Oh, so I had to be depressed to get attention?  That kinda stinks, doesn't it?"  And if they do nothing, you're like, "God they're assholes."  And if you don't tell them, the isolation increases and the gap between you and, everyone else, gets wider and wider.  But as they say, "It's not you, it's me."  And essentially we have to forgive ourselves for being broken and everyone else for not being inside our heads enough to know it and even moreso, for not knowing what to do.  They're too busy being inside their own heads.  And who knows what's going on in there?   Maybe a little resentment that we haven't been calling - because we're been depressed, remember?  Just a thought.

Like every human interaction, it's a little bit risky.  A little bit scary.  A little bit terrible.  Just like writing this post.

I know I won't  be depressed forever.  I'm not sure how I know that, but I do, and I think that's the biggest lifeline that I have.  Hope.  That's a bigger part of my personality than any depression.  I always believe, sometimes with no real evidence or reason, that tomorrow is another, better day.

So maybe I'm not as depressed as I think, maybe I'm a little bit closer to failing this test.  And funnily enough, the act of writing this post, of sharing where I am and how I feel, brought me there.

Who knew?

(Parting thoughts:  I encourage anyone struggling with depression to seek help - you are not alone, even when the empty space on your couch or in your inbox or the lack of likes on your posts or dings on your phone suggest otherwise.)

Fait Inaccompli

'tis the season for resolutions!  How will I use this year to become a better, different person?  Lynn (Len) 2.0?  Sign me up, baby!

But alas, it is well-documented that I'm not a patient person.

I'm a pacer, a leg-shaker, an interrupter, a constant phone-checker.  I hate waiting, or, really, the lack of control involved in waiting.

It runs in my family - we've been known to ask for the check before the entrees come, and plan an exit before something even begins.   What time does this show end?  Why did I even get tickets?  To essentially show up and wait for it to end?

By the way, I can't wait for this post to be over.

This is probably also why I am not a good listener.   I want to listen.  I care about what you have to say, really I do, but let's get this show on the road already, so we can continue to go, well, nowhere.

I feel like I've been going a whole lot of nowhere recently and I'm in a really big hurry to get there.  I can't be bothered to finish an entire article, project, workout, night's sleep, thought.  All starting somewhere and ending nowhere.  The only thing I've finished recently is a donut.  And, let me tell you, it was good.

Now, don't get me wrong, at work, I am a star at starting and finishing things.  So, before you rush off and tattle to my boss, it's my personal life where it all falls short.

Pretty much the only thing worse than starting something and not finishing it is thinking about all of the things you started and didn't finish and how, if you had actually finished those things when you started them, if not the first time, but the tenth time, they would be off your plate, and well, done, and you could move on to the next things.

But where's the fun in that?

Sometimes I think about having been on a diet since I was 8 years old.  If my math serves me and I'm being a little kind to myself, that's over 30 years on a diet.  Do you mean to tell me if I had actually lost weight 30 years ago I could have spent the past 30 years of my life doing something different?  Like curing cancer?  Or becoming the first white middle aged lady rapper?  Or finding out what all the fuss was about with Breaking Bad?

Gretchen Rubin writes about how all of our bad habits and patterns actually serve a purpose and if we can identify the purpose, we get closer to the root of change.  For example, if you eat a candy bar every afternoon, it's maybe because you hit an energy slump every day at that time - you hit on a solution for it, congratulations you!, but how can you come up with a better solution?

Now I want a candy bar.  No, must finish post.

Where was I?  Oh right, so what does all of this starting and not finishing mean?   For me, I think it's fear.  Fear of finding out that I'm not perfect.  I know the fact that I'm not perfect is shocking and mind blowing to many of you so, if you feel the need to take some time to eat a candy bar and reflect and come to terms with this revelation, feel free to take that time for yourself now.  I'll wait.

Wait, you're done already?  You're sure you don't need more time?  Ok, whatever.

You know, maybe I never finished learning to play guitar because I'm no Carlos Santana or even Charo.  Maybe I can't dance, swim well, paint, ride a horse, run a marathon, cook a proper dinner.  Maybe I keep gaining and losing the same weight over and over because I'll find out that, under all this, I look perfectly average, maybe even worse than average, and not at all like Gisele.

Even worse, maybe all the things I've blamed on my weight really had nothing to do with it after all.   Maybe they're thanks to other things that I also need to work on.  Man, you mean I'm not done?

I'm tired just thinking about it.  When do I get to be done?

Oh, I know:  Never.  It's all a little overwhelming.

I tell myself, I don't want to be perfect.  Perfect is boring.  But IS perfect boring?  Or is that what imperfect people tell ourselves?  I guess since no one is perfect, we'll never know.

But what's the flip side?  A constant, lazy, circuitous quest for imperfection?  If they give out medals for that, I'm definitely in the running for the gold.  I'm like the Michael Phelps of imperfection.  Quick temper?  Borderline hoarding tendencies?  Underachieving bank account balances?  Check, check and check.  I'm getting to imperfect at lightning speed.

Love yourself just as you are, they say.  I call bullshit.  I'm not sure that's always great advice.  Hitler, you be you, I got you brother, never change.   No, no, no.

Sure, we can have compassion for ourselves, and not beat ourselves up, but I don't see any problem in wanting to be a better version of yourself.  Not for anyone else, but for you.

The problem is, how do you identify those things that you really can and should work on without subjecting yourself to crippling judgment?  I'm not really sure.

I feel like I've spent the past year in a place wanting to move forward but really marching in place, marking time.  And what I can say about that experience is it doesn't help anybody.

So as 2015 starts, I have a whole new list of to-dos, many of which are carry overs from, the, well, last 20 years.  Some of them have evolved into more realistic goals over the years.  Like, maybe "Get a body like Gisele's" is now more like, "Get a body like Kirstie Alley's after she lost the weight the 15th time - no, not when she lost it with Jenny Craig and went on Oprah in the bikini and had those weird control top pantyhose on with the seam- but that time right after Dancing with the Stars before she gained weight again."

This, my friends, is what we call progress.

And at least I finished this post.  If nothing else this year, I can say that.

Happy belated new year, friends.  May you end this year a slightly better you than how you began it - whatever that means to you.