Ode to Candy

Bulging tires on a 2013 two-door… money out the window for new tires since I can’t risk injury to my child ever. Tony will get a new set of tires for his beloved car, and he'll also get Candy for a few days to hopefully appreciate her excellence above all other cars; or at the very least appreciate why I love her.

So, I suppose this post is an ode to my Lincoln – a 2011 MKS bought by me while I was in the throes of grief over having lost my dad two weeks before buying it. The salesman saw me coming from a mile away, the vacancy in my eyes as I tried to decipher the everyday tedium of existing without my dad in the world. He saw tears well in my eyes when I saw the car in the parking lot, facing the traffic, a big red bow waiting for me to unravel it.

I sat in it and thought “This is our car, Dad. I’m going to drive it out of here today.” And I did. 

I named her Candy after a Springsteen song and a Natalie Merchant line – “Candy everybody wants.”

I handed the keys to Paige the day she got her learner’s permit and cried. Not because my baby girl had reached a milestone but because my baby girl would be driving Candy around town.

As often happens, the first accident was a rear-end accident. Candy was the rear-ender driven by Paige.

Paige called me, frantic.

“Mom, I got in an accident. I’m on Route 100, I can’t get out of the road. The cops are coming…” I got in my car and drove as fast as I could to get to her, driving on the shoulder of the trafficked highway, following her path on Life360, going to where she was supposed to be.

I got there. I saw part of Candy’s grill on the side of the road. I didn’t see Paige or Candy. Frantic again, I dialed Paige’s number.

“They made me get off Route 100. Take the first exit.”

Okay. Good.

Candy was hurt and moaned whenever we started her up, complaining that the right parking sensor was out of whack. I didn’t have the heart to tell Candy it no longer existed. She could still drive, so all was well.

The second mishap with Paige and Candy happened at three o’clock in the morning during a snowstorm – a rare snowstorm in Odenton, MD.

“Mom, the wheel fell off Candy.”

“What? What are you talking about? Where are you?”

“Outside, in the intersection coming into the parking lot.”

“TF?”

I pulled on my boots and a winter coat, and there she was.

Paige stood beside her, pointing. “See?”

The wheel was indeed off the car. I had already dialed the tow truck and he was pulling up as I mourned the loss of another piece of Candy.

It was towed, the wheel falling off was part of something that was still under warranty – even 10 years later because that’s how Lincoln does…

“I don’t want to drive this car anymore.”

Waah… you don’t want to drive a luxury car with 375 horsepower, power everything, leather everything, and… 

“What? You’re nuts.”

In comes the piece of shit 2015 Ford Escort or Escape or whatever the slimy used car salesman sold me. Paige was happy. She got a hatchback piece of shit instead of a regular old piece of shit.

Candy was mine again. I loved her and hugged her but didn’t get her fixed up.  Tony was next.

I handed the keys to him. He was happy to have her and parked Candy nicely on the side of the road, out of harm’s way.

In the morning, I heard him leave for school.

“Wait, why am I hearing him leave for school?” I peered through the window and there they went – Tony and Candy.  Candy no longer had mufflers.

When he got back from school, I greeted him outside.

“TF?”

“Oh,” he giggled. “It sounds so much better. I want to get the air intake…”

“No,” I interrupted.

“No, it’ll be cool..”

“No.”

End of story until Tony calls me and says, “You’ll never believe what happened to Candy.”

I sighed and imagined my bank account leaking dollar, dollar bills yo.

“A rock fell out of the back of some guy's trailer, flew in the air, and landed on the sunroof. The entire sunroof smashed. What should I do?”

“TF?”

He sent me pictures of the vehicle that was supposedly in front of him with the license plate. “You should call the insurance company. Make him pay. Maybe you’ll get a new car out of the deal.”

Teenagers know nothing.

Then Tony said, “I don’t want to drive this car anymore.”

“You’re nuts. She’s an amazing car.”

After I said this, Tony looked at Paige and they rolled their eyes in unison.

Okay, so I finally had no reason to keep her. I decided I’d throw in the towel and just donate her for a tax break after I got Tony a new car – a 2013 Scion that grew bulging tires over the last few months.

We were at dinner with Ben, my husband’s son.

“Yeah, I’m just going to donate her…”

“Are you going to donate her to me?” Ben looked at his dad and shrugged.

Candy was back in the game. Ben would drive her.

She had some trouble starting – a bit of the Covid got her I suppose. Ben became proficient in using jumper cables.

Then one day he said, “I don’t want to drive this car anymore.”

I rejoiced! I jumped up and down when he parked it in my driveway with a nice dent along the entire passenger side,  and immediately began cleaning out the dirt of three teenagers – garbage, shoes, clothes, the engine cover in the trunk… pieces that had broken off the interior.

I scrubbed that car all day, cursing all of them, apologizing to Candy and swearing to take care of her forevermore.

But since I’m a good Mom, and Candy is the savior of all cars, I let Tony borrow her for the week so I could pay to get new tires on his 2013 piece of not-a-Lincoln-car.

He called me about an hour into the drive back to Maryland. “Mom, Candy’s not doing well. When I floor it, she barely accelerates.”

“Don’t fucking floor her.” I nearly cried. “Please just take care of her so I can get her fixed up. Your car will be done on Friday. Please take care of her until then.

“Uh, okay.”

Flooring it… TF?

They can all roll their eyes – my children, his children, him, the dog, the neighbor, the mechanic.  Roll away…

Candy is mine. She’s all mine from now on.

Changes

 We’re down to the last few days of 2024 and it’s a bit crazy to me to recall a conversation I had with friends as a teenager, envisioning how old I’d be in 2025. How 2025 was worlds away and there was no way we’d ever get there – not that we wanted to get there. We wanted to jump ahead five years, maybe ten but thirty or forty years ahead wasn’t part of the vista.  Nor should it have been.

Paige & Tony are where I was thirty years ago. Young, inexperienced, hungry (literally & figuratively) and spending every day trying to navigate being an adult… waiting for that time to come.

It never comes.

I have yet to grow up, to feel old, to be at the age where I am wise and embracing the way time seems to be vacuumed from my life, taking my youth and energy with it.

There are days when I think I’ll get there… you know, where I’m steady, breathing, calm and complacent with everything around me.

I used to think that it would come when I figured everything out about myself, embracing the ways I tried to do it – where I studied the bible and went through the whole “let go, let God” phase and it comforted me when I needed it. I let go, and He went to work. I turned out okay.

I went through the self-help books, crying and hoping, hoping and despairing. They helped for a time until I discovered Dr. Phil was and is just as fucked up as the rest of us – that the self-help books I read were written by people who were also trying to figure it out, paying for plastic surgery and Botox to make themselves feel better all while plugging their personal steps and processes to make it.

It never comes.

The knowledge, the wisdom, the security. It never comes and I’m going through another phase where I think it should never come. I mean, the beauty in this world is discoverable and the sky is different every single day – it can be pink, or red, or filled with white billowy clouds or foreboding black rain clouds. It gets noticed every day or it doesn’t. The water on the lake flows differently every day or sometimes not at all, where it’s as clear as glass, as though the world beneath it is also frozen.

Inside, memories come and memories go, and they’re never the same – there’s always a detail that gets missed with each iteration or an emotion that needs to be felt in any particular moment. The thoughts, the fears , the anxiety and the comfort are all different somehow – never the same; so how could I possibly feel old or as though I’m all grown up when nothing is stagnant?

Change is the means for giving and getting time out of this world – time for new memories, new beauty, new growth; time for old memories, remembered beauty, our youth.

I can’t wish for yesterday and I’m no longer hoping for tomorrow. I’m just sitting here, watching the sky as it changes and the lake as it flows.

The Happy Six and Me

Sometimes you meet a person and you feel instantly connected. I had that experience this past Friday except it was with six people.  I’ll refer to them as the Happy Six going forward.

The Happy Six invited me to attend their book club this month.  They read Eyes on the Horizon and wanted to discuss it with me. I think I may have learned more about the book from them than they learned from me. The experience was wonderful and it solidified my love of writing – specifically novels. I fell back in love with my characters simply because the Happy Six got to meet them – kind of like introducing two people you absolutely love and seeing how they hit it off and understand them to the depth you understand them. Kind of like that.

I introduced Claudia to the Happy Six with trepidation and a smidge of anxiety. After all, she’s quite mental throughout the book – sad, self-destructive, and depleted of hope.  They loved her.

I introduced Rose and Brooke, Maddie and Henry, and a couple psychiatrists, along with a real loser, Nigel. They liked all the characters. They may not have liked Nigel but they understood his role in the story and unfortunately, recognized that there are people like him in the world.

None of them hesitated to share their opinions or stories of grief and trauma. Everyone is grieving in some way, everyone is experiencing some kind of trauma. Everyone needs empathy, sympathy, and the acknowledgment that they're not alone in their journey. 

As we talked about the characters in Eyes in the Horizon, I observed the new characters in my life. The Happy Six is happy because they move together like hockey players on the ice.

There’s Lorie. She's sweet, smart, and full of entertaining stories that her daughter, Briana, flavors with some of the funniest quips I’ve heard in a long time. The love between them is obvious and Briana uses it to drive her mother nuts and at the same time, comfort her. It was a joy to observe. And it was also a joy to observe Briana’s love of teaching. I was happy to see she had a kinship with my character Rose because of it.

Louise was very warm, very kind, and so open and honest with her own stories and experiences that I got the idea she needed a pen and some paper to write them all down so she can share them with the world. 

Bridget was quiet, observing everything; and quick to nod and smile as she listened to her friends talk. And they talk a lot! I loved it. I loved the way Bridget absorbed the compliments from her friends as she embarks on saying yes to the dress - acknowledging their excitement but clear that "she'll know when she knows". I can’t imagine she’ll look anything but beautiful in whatever she wears.

Martha entered the room with a confidence and aura of contentment that almost seemed unusual given the amount of children she has! Franklin, her wee baby, does look like her, and has the coolest name I’ve heard in a long time. I absolutely loved her viewpoints about the book – especially because she liked it! – because she wasn’t shy about offering her opinion of Nigel, Brooke, and the ending. 

Last but certainly not least, Rochelle. She is quietly sweet and kind, empathetic in a way that makes everyone else in the room comfortable. I loved the comments she made about the book, but I also loved the way she made me feel welcome from the very first moment we greeted each other in Lorie’s driveway. Before we started discussing the book, she handed me a basket filled with Buffalo goodies from the Happy Six . Chocolates – sponge candy!, a beautifully scented candle, a Bills bracelet – Go Bills!, a Buffalo tumbler, bath essentials and a bottle of champagne.

Warmth.

Welcoming.

Wonderful.

I asked to become an honorary member of their book club and will attend whenever I’m in Buffalo and they’re meeting up. I intend to read along with them as I now have a new set of friends.  The Happy Six and me. 

It's Not Over, It's Just Beginning

I wonder if my best writing is behind me. I wrote Eyes on the Horizon amid great mourning. My heart was broken, my marriage was disintegrated, my day-to-day consisted of existing for the next day without doing something stupid and messing it all up. The years flew by. The kids, now grown, grew up while I existed in this weird place of growth.

I did grow. I learned that people you think you love sometimes suck. I learned that the ideal job doesn’t last when the company decides to accept the payout. I learned that cars break down, dogs die, houses sell, court cases are lost, and tears get shed.

Years of this. Years and years of all these ups and downs. The days where you fall asleep with a smile on your face because, well, “it was a good day.”

I’ve cried with characters that I made up in my mind! That’s amazing.

Yet, I do wonder if my best writing is behind me.

Maybe I’ve cried my last tear, felt my last giggle, killed my last annoying-in my face-buzzing and laughing fly, lost my last pound, cared about my last wrinkle, written my final email…

That’s how life is right? You don’t know if this is the last of all of it – good, bad, stress, love, fear, laughter, beauty, darkness, solitude, or merriment.

Maybe it’s all behind me now.

Maybe falling in love and laughing until my sides hurt with my very best friend made me this way.  Maybe this awesomeness made me a bad writer and I’ll never be able to soar again… to feel the speeding heart, the oxytocin in my brain waves, the thrill of zapping that annoying fly.

A second ago, I went outside and called for my cat, and my anxiety is sometimes so bad that I think, “Damn, the hawk got him” and I just think that the pain of losing him will be so horrible and I think about breaking the news to Paige & Tony and telling them, “I think the hawk got Goose”. Then I walked inside and started writing.

Goose just jumped on my lap and now I’m happy, and smiling again because the things I think in my head always seem to be worse than my reality. Until they’re not. And maybe the joy of seeing him after I experienced the darkness of my thoughts is how I exist now.

That’s messed up, no?

I’m happy these days. Happy that I finally got the courage to publish Eyes on the Horizon. Happy every time I nail an email at work and “get it” and “feel it” and know that I’m an asset; happy with every message I get that says, “I read your book in two days. I couldn’t put it down;” happy to see smiles on my own face. Happy. And anxious and worried. And anticipating, always anticipating that the dark cloud is going to stop and sit over top of me.

Life itself.

But right now, I’m happy.  I saw Springsteen in concert on Saturday at Nationals Stadium in D.C. and… well, my soul, my spirit, my joy was soaring and still is. Bruce is and always will be my muse, my hero, and a very close friend.  

I’m not done writing. I’m just getting started. Play the songs, Bruce!

Waah, waah, waah. I'm hideous

 Who knew the release of a book came with emotional baggage? Since announcing the release of Eyes on the Horizon and then seeing it for sale online, my nights have become sleepless. Is it good enough? Will my readers understand what I'm trying to say? Did I say it clearly?

The answer to each of these questions is YES! and NO! and I DON'T KNOW!

It took a minute, but I had the epiphany that not all the readers will like it or understand it.  And I'll never know if I said it clearly because as Einstein might stay, clearly is relative.

But enough about the book. I'll have plenty of time to ruminate about that. I want to talk about the emotional baggage that I've been carrying for so many years and thought I had shed. The baggage is there, stuffed into plastic garbage bags, taken to the street and dropped at the dump for a time... all  those secret (not so secret from my husband and loved ones) insecurities that rear their ugly heads just when I think I've beaten them down and dumped them.

I'm in my 50s for crying out loud! Enough with the emotional baggage and whiny insecurities. Yet, I think it's the human condition.

I'm late to the game but I've been binging Game of Thrones. It was popular for a reason because it highlights that human condition. The fear that breeds evil, the need for power that never abolishes the deep insecurities. And there are quite a few psychopaths in there. I cheer when they're shamed or sliced or beaten. I cheer when the good overcomes. I cry every time a freaking dire wolf yelps.

Prior to this binge, I watched Ted Lasso. It is and will always be one of  my favorite shows because the human condition is highlighted there as well.  All the weird things we say and do to keep our secrets hidden until one day - or many days - they're not. It's full of joy and kindness, fear and worry. It's the kind of show that needs to be made. Happy tears, poignant tears and hearty laughs.

What was it that made me so unsure of myself? So replete with doubt that I freeze in a swirl of thoughts and anxiety?

I remember going to a Tony Robbins event one time. It was when I was at the peak of my insecurities and I wanted to banish them forever.  We were put into groups of three and the instructions were to make a statement about yourself that you believe is true but others may not see or even know you think it.  My statement was: "I'm so fat and ugly, and I'll never accomplish anything."

How's that for horrible?

Anyway, we were told to make the statement and then have the other two people react to it.  I made the statement and one of the people responded by saying, "Oh my God, you're not fat or ugly. You can do anything!" Very sweet, indeed.

The other person put his hands to his sides, lowered his head and shoulders and in the whiniest voice I ever heard said, "Oh poor me. I'm so fat and so ugly and I'll never accomplish anything." He sort of stomped his foot and then wailed like a baby. "Waaah, waah, waah, I'm horrible. Hideous!"  

He repeated it until we were all bent over laughing. 

It was the best lesson I've ever gotten about self-esteem and it depleted about 85% of my insecurities from that day forward. 

The remaining 15% are vicious,  I won't lie. Yet, when I start to feel lousy, I think in a whiny voice "Waah, waah, waah. I'm hideous." It breaks it for me and I'll forever be grateful to the stranger who made fun of me.

So I'm anxious about the book and about people's reactions to it. Waah.

People may hate it. Waah.

People may love it. Yeah?

People may need it. Yeah?

I wrote a book and became vulnerable in those pages. I shared a part of myself, a part of the human condition that messed me up, a part of the human condition that helped me soar. 

I wrote a book and released it out into the world. 

I'm halfway done with book number 2. It's about dogs. Lots and lots of dogs. Yeah?

Yeah.

 

Book Release

 Eyes on the Horizon: Available June 1, 2024

Back in 2008, I started writing Eyes on the Horizon. It was the story of a young, whiny, angsty woman and I wrote the last page first, pretty much word for word, because I knew how I wanted her to emerge from the 300+ pages before.

In 2009, my brother Jeff died of a hemorrhagic stroke at the age of 38. I put the manuscript in a drawer and left it.

I picked it back up in early 2010 and wrote the majority of it. I workshopped it at a writer’s retreat in July of 2010 and it was nearly complete. My angsty protagonist was growing up. I was so excited.

Two weeks after I returned from that trip, my father died tragically. Then my Aunt Carolyn died followed by my Uncle Jim. Two more profound losses.

The book went back into a drawer.

I didn’t look at it again until 2013, and when I did, I scrapped 90% of it (keeping the last page) and started over. The writing in that first iteration seemed so meaningless, so fluffy, so small compared to the immense grief I was feeling inside.

It evolved.

Writing Eyes on the Horizon became my covert way of processing the deaths of Jeff and Dad. As I wrote it, I thought more and more about those who had died, how they had died and who they left behind; and I think, sharing my pain and my grief on these pages – albeit fictionally and dramatically – is necessary to help others tap into their own. The opening quote of the book is from Earl Grollman and summarizes what I’m trying to say here:

 

Grief is not a disorder, a disease, or a sign of weakness. It is an emotional, physical, spiritual necessity, the price you pay for love. The only cure for grief is to grieve.

 

When I finally got the book proof, I reread it. I’d only read it 100 times before, but as a whole book, I read it with fresh eyes. I’d change it, of course. I’d add details and cut some of it, but for me, it’s not really about the finished product. It’s about where I am now compared to where I was when I started writing it.

I became who I was meant to be while writing it; and I’m happy to know they live on and on; and I am so grateful for the love I feel. I hope Eyes on the Horizon touches you in some way and allows you to share your grief because sharing it helps.

Happy Birthday, Tim!

The day was June 16^th. It wasn’t quite summer in Buffalo, and if we’re honest, the snow piles were probably still melting at the end of the driveway like icecaps.  Like the birds, the humans wanted to mate after a long, cold winter.

Nine months later, and voila.  Another child born in the ‘70s.

My birthday is March 8^th, and many of you have probably done the math and thought, “Ew, she was thinking about her parents conceiving her.”

I wasn’t.

I was thinking about Tim’s parents conceiving him. Ew. That didn’t come out right. I wasn’t thinking about anyone mating, I was thinking about the day and the weather not the act of conception. Ew.

For the past 30-35 years on this day, I say “Happy Birthday, Tim” within minutes of waking. He doesn’t know it and I’ve probably posted on his FB timeline a few times over the years, but without a doubt, I’ve wished him a happy birthday every March 7^th since I can remember.

We were classmates forever.  His birthday is March 7^th, mine is March 8^th. One more day! One more day!

It started innocently enough during our birthday week. He brought in cupcakes, I brought in cupcakes. I imagine as we got into high school, he pilfered alcohol and cigarettes from his parents or his friends’ parents, I pilfered alcohol and cigarettes from my parents or my friends’ parents… it was a magical cycle through the years.

I suppose his birthday started the countdown to mine. Okay, Tim’s birthday is coming up. We’ll get the party started with him and then we’ll end it with mine. But it didn’t end with mine.  We still had Heb’s and then Missy’s birthday to celebrate in March. What a glorious week in cupcake/alcohol/cigarettes land!

I was always excited to get to my birthday. Not so much for presents, but because I knew the dark days of January and February were over. The birds chattered, the sun rose higher, the school year was nearly halfway done and it would be summer! The icecaps would be long gone… unless they weren’t; and overall, moods brightened. 

All because it was my birthday!

Happy Birthday, Tim.

Canis Lupus

Other than February 14^th being a kinda, sorta made up holiday, it is also the anniversary of the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre where seven people – six of which were rivals of Al Capone’s gang, were murdered in Chicago. It’s strange to know that this happened 95 years ago in 1929!  95!  Two amazing things about this (to me) – 1) this historic date happened years before my parents were born yet they know who Al Capone was, and 2) I did the math in my head and I suck at math.

I spent a few minutes this morning thumbing through a magazine I bought last week : The History of Dogs.  It’s hard to believe that the domestication of dog breeding happened between 10,000 and 40,000 years ago. Yeah, that's a big space between years. Wouldn’t you just go with 40,000 years ago? I asked the same question and found that the dogs/wolves/canines that were domesticated didn’t live through the ice age. They went extinct just like the wooly mammoth. Duh.

Anyway, there is evidence of dogs (i.e. domesticated wolves) and humans spooning in gravesites together. And there is evidence that about five domesticated lineages existed at the time of the ice age.

Dogs have been bred and domesticated from wolves, foxes, and dingoes, but all dogs trace back to an extinct wolf species shared with the gray wolf: Canis lupus.

The descendants of the gray wolves we now know mate for life.  They have monogamous relationships and flirt with each other, nuzzle their snouts and bump their bodies together.  Of course, the male alpha and the female alpha in any pack have their pick of the litter during mating season. Semantics.

Other animals that mate for life: Sandhill Cranes, Beavers, Bald Eagles and of course, Macaroni Penguins where their joy at seeing one another is evident because they jump up and down, do chest bumps and flap their wings. Interestingly, the male stays at home with the kids while the mama hunts.  

Then we have the Gibbons, monkey-like creatures that mate for life with the occasional side tryst, break-up and make-up. They share a mutual need and understanding to coparent their offspring. 

Being that it’s Valentine’s Day, I fell into an article about love between humans and dogs. Did you know both humans and dogs produce oxytocin when they stare into each other’s eyes? I had no idea but now it makes sense why it’s impossible not to smile when your dog greets you at the door with their tails wagging and their bodies moving.  My Gracie used to smile when she saw me! That memory makes me smile just thinking about it.   

To end this, here is a picture I snapped of my boy while I was on a conference call:

 
 This is the picture I took about two minutes later, still on a conference call:

 
 He wanted to go for a walk and kept creeping closer. 

Happy Valentine's Day. 

My Default

 I wish I knew how to make the font Times New Roman the default font on Word. I’m sure there is a way to do it, I just haven’t figured it out; and it’s weird, but I dislike Calibri (body) because it’s the “go-to” font for everything.

I guess the morning hours are supposed to be about writing what comes to mind. If the font in Word is the first sentence then either I’m problem-free, not very intelligent, or avoiding something. I’ll go with the latter, but who knows?

I spent the better part of three hours trying to get to sleep last night. It could be because I play silly games in my bed, sitting askew on my pillows until my shoulder starts to hurt, and then try to fall asleep. I can’t seem to get anything to pull me away from the game. It’s another way to avoid things, I suppose. My heart starts to pound so fast in some moments that I think something is wrong and random pictures come to mind and I start to panic.  Then I inhale through my nose, long exhale out of my mouth a few times and my heart calms. Then I get scared that it calmed too quickly and oh no, what if it stops?

What is that? I mean, I know it’s anxiety but why?  Is it because I’ve failed to write every day – essentially gave it up for a few years in the early morning hours and because of that, my brain rewired itself to have panic be the default emotion?

I recall my early mornings before the kids got up, before the sun stretched it’s arms and yawned, before the birds peeped. Of course, my early morning consisted of a couple cigarettes and some big cups of coffee. It also included many words on paper, mostly about love and sharing kindness. It was my way of finding gratitude without mentioning gratitude or the need to find it.

I love that the Buffalo Bills players have the phrase Be Love on their helmets. I recall saying something similar. Show love, give love, be love. I remember using my label maker to write out the phrase and paste it to my refrigerator so I would repeat it a few times a day. It was so the kids read it too.

It seems a bit naïve now – 10 or 12 years later, but I don’t think it is. I think I was at a place in my life all those years ago where I needed to grow and from all the ignorance I had as a young(er) adult came the knowledge that I was imperfect, vincible (is that the opposite of invincible?), mortal and in need of a shit ton of love.

All those years ago. All those lessons I learned. That faith. It was so strong, so real, so necessary. I fell back on faith and landed softly.

Was I still a nervous fool? I think I was, but I don’t recall fretting over a lack of sleep. But I probably did.

I miss cigarettes right now. But at 51, it’s a habit I can’t have, especially since I’m so out of shape.

Yeah, I’d write, smoke, sip coffee, find faith, spout love and kindness and then I’d greet the children with joy, get them off to school, and start my day. I’d work out, get ready for work and be in the office vibrant and happy – even if I was broken inside, I always showed nicer. 

Kind of like Calibri and Times New Roman. 

For the past few years, Calibri has been my default. It’s fine. It’s convenient, it shows up regularly, it’s a bit rounder, and it’s what the majority of people use because it’s conveniently the default. But I don’t really like it. I tolerate it, sure. I use it conveniently, lazily. But Times New Roman is where it’s at. It’s slender, tighter, and reminiscent of my “finding Carrie” days. 

I’m going to switch it to be my default, minus the cigarettes.

Forever Here

 Fifteen years ago. Everything changed.

The morning was pleasant. Working on a Dream was released. Bruce was going to sing at the Superbowl halftime show. The kids were at pre-school. I was at the Verizon office, and then out to lunch Jessica for her birthday.

Then Kathy called.

Jeff had a stroke.

My flight was booked. The kids would go with the ex.

Buffalo was in the midst of a snowstorm. Chuck picked me up at the airport. We went straight to the hospital. I lugged my suitcase in, up the elevator to the ICU. Everyone was in the waiting room – Cor, Cliff, Jim, Mom, Dad, John, Dana, Lynn…

Jeff. On life support with a breathing tube, swelling in his brain, bleeding.

Everything changed.

It’s okay that I’m sobbing. It’s okay. It means that I loved. That I love. That love exists in this world. It still exists because I feel the pain of my siblings, my mom. I hurt and love all who love Jeff, who remember him as a solid, vibrant, laughing, generous, broken soul.

Forever changed. Forever carrying grief in my heart like a tattoo. A tattoo that spreads to my head, swirling in the madness of loving and losing, wanting, and needing, disguised by time, cracked open in moments like this when I allow myself to remember, to feel and taste the pain again, to grieve.

It will linger through the day, through the rest of this month and next month. The memories of those six weeks when he was in the hospital, fighting for his life, offering hope and dismay, and hope again.

The smell of the hospital room, the tension in the waiting room. The notebook where we shared our thoughts. The doctor whistling in the elevator, the tune: “If I only had a brain”.

The kids greeting me at the hospital, their little suitcases trailing behind them. Their faces as they tried to understand why mommy was so scared, and sad, and hopeful, all at the same time.

My headphones playing Queen of the Supermarket, marveling at the line where her smile blows the whole fucking place apart.

The waiting room sofa where I attempted to sleep; across the room from Cliff.  When we gave up trying to sleep and getting a cup of black coffee in the early morning hours. Scared. Aware that something big had shifted, that maybe we’d never go back to how it was. How the family was whole. Intact.

The days that followed and then the weeks, and then plans for my birthday weekend. I would spend it with my brother in the rehab facility. I didn’t want to be anywhere else.

That Tuesday morning. The phone call from Mom. Falling to my knees and screaming “No.”

Maybe it’s not healthy to dwell. Maybe it’s not healthy to recall all these painful memories. Maybe it’s not right to know that even fifteen years later the pain is just as piercing, just as present, just as new as it was then. The pain of loving and losing and knowing love. Always secure in knowing that I hurt because I love. And because I love, I’m living. And because I love fully, he’s still living. In my heart, in my head, in the pain that grips me now.

He’s here and he’s still alive.

                                       

The Wolf Man

I was able to spend some time with work acquaintances last night. The Virginia Wireless Association held an event, and my coworker invited me to join. It was fun. I got to see some people I haven’t seen in a while, and more importantly, I got out of my pajamas and socialized.

As usual, when I think of my career in the wireless industry, I think back on my first couple years at Insite where I met Bryan Wolf. I got to know him as a boss when he would score my lease drafts with a red check or if I did a great job, a check plus.  There weren’t many checks without the plus after the first one.  During that time, we became great friends.  Then I got married and had a couple kids.  We still hung out, but not as often.

When the marriage was falling apart, Bryan called me out of the blue and asked if I needed some part time work. He didn’t know I was heading into divorce and the job I had at the ex’s company would soon be over. (Side note: I remember my resignation letter from that job. “I quit. The owner, my husband, is cheating on me and I feel it is a hostile work environment.”)  Bryan hooked me up doing Title reviews and offering reports on how to cure Title. He took 10% off the top and gave me the remainder. I made a lot of money for about six months while the contract lasted.

After that, we saw each other more often. We’d grab a beer on a random Tuesday evening (the one night during the week I didn’t have the kids) or we’d meet up with my neighbors on a weekend night I didn’t have the kids. We laughed. A lot. When you meet a decent human being who is fundamentally good and kind, you tend to gravitate toward them.  That was Bryan.

He died last August. It was a complete shock to all of us, and my heart broke in another place. I spent three sleepless nights crying and asking why.

Last night I met with my coworker, and she said she had run into another friend of mine who was very close with Bryan. He told her to say hello to me. I told her he was also a great human being and that we had a mutual friend who had passed recently.  Of course, I got somewhat emotional – swallowing back the tears that threatened to escape.  She nodded and said, yes, he mentioned it. He had to swallow back the tears as well.

I thought of a title for a story: The Wolf Man. I’m not sure where I’ll go with it or if I’ll even write it, but the protagonist is going to be this very tall, very kind, always smiling man. A man who loved his children beyond measure. A man who helped everyone and formed a social group that met once a week for years on Fridays for Happy Hour. I wasn’t part of the group, but I was always invited.

The last time I saw Bryan was in late June. We met up for a beer and made plans to see each other more regularly. He had invited me to his yearly summer fest and I regularly attended but had to miss this year – I was in Boone with Paige for college.

If I had known…

The Wolf Man.

I miss you, Bryan.