Mother of Re-Invention

Maybe I am the odd man out, but I don't grieve for celebrities or public figures.

I am sorry they died, I remember and honor their work, I feel for their families and friends who will truly experience grief and loss from their deaths. I do feel many things when they die, but then I move on. Especially now that I am in the midst of my own personal grief journey, I can see and feel the difference between personal grief and parasocial grief.

There were a few major celebrity deaths this weekend, Rob Reiner and his wife Michelle, and Tony Geary from General Hospital. Both men created indelible stories and characters that live on in my head and millions of others' heads forever. All were gone way too soon. 78 (68 for Michelle) is too effing young to die.

Which is probably the thought that drove my subconscious to relive both of my parents' dying moments at 2am this morning. That's how old they were.

I am very tired of feeling the weight of this grief. I hate when it sneaks up on me like this, just as I think the hardest parts are over.

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Trying out some new non-political podcasts lately, just to see what the fuss is. The self-help ones, yeah I dunno if they are for me. I have Mel Robbins on my playlist but I keep skipping them because they are really freaking long and there is something too polished and practiced about her. But this week was about "How to Make 2026 Your Best Year: 6 Questions to Ask Yourself." You guys know how much I love a good New Years Resolution list, so I thought this might be a good way to frame it this year.

The Questions:
1. What were the low points of your year?
2. What were the high points?
3. What did you learn this year?
4. What are you going to stop doing?
5. What are you going to continue doing?
6. What are you going to start doing?

I could fill a book with answers to number 1, but I can't think of a single answer to question 2. Every single "high" is tinged with bittersweetness. The Amtrak ride with my husband...after my parents' memorial service. Watching Molly bond with Abby and R...because she can't live with her original owners anymore. 

I will have to think about if these are the right questions for me this year. She put a lot of focus on the necessity of looking back in order to plan for the future, and that is how I have often framed my NYE Resolutions, but something about that this year feels redundant, wallowing, and unhelpful. So we shall see.

We are supposed to get a lot of snow on Saturday. Which might make the big weekend sale really suck. Ugh, I hope not, this is our biggest weekend of the year. Mama needs to sell a lot more ornaments!

On that topic, I am moving my kitchen booth to a bigger space in early February. One of the other dealers is downsizing so they offered it to me. It's only $25 more than what I pay now, but it gives me about 30 more square feet, which is huge. Plus it moves me to another aisle where I might stand out more. I am excited about it! Plus it's far enough away it gives me time to break down my Christmas booth and get some rest lol.

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We are having a low-key Thanksgiving, just me and Richard and the dogs. He is gonna smoke a turkey breast and mashed potatoes, but if the wind is as bad today as it was yesterday, that plan may change. I made stuffing and cranberry sauce last night, and will roast some Brussels sprouts this afternoon. Also need to make a batch of Sweet and Spicy Pecans to bring to work tomorrow. It's the Official Cashier Snack of the weekend; Jackie literally clapped her hands in delight when I said I was going to try to make some today. 

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Ugh, it just occurred to be that 6 inches of snow will make it impossible for the landscapers to finish their work on Sunday (putting down mulch and aerating the lawn), AND will cause more delays in finishing the soffits/gutters part of the roof project. DAMMIT.

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A conversation popped up on the Yale Alumni Facebook group about the cool dishes they used to have in every college dining hall. They switched to a cheap generic version I think 5-10 years ago, so the college dishes became a hot commodity. Students, of course, had been stealing them for decades (one of the reasons they claim they switched), and then when they discontinued using them, Yale sold them online in their stores until they were gone. They sell on eBay now. 

Of course I have a stack from my dad; he gave them to me maybe 15 years ago, and honestly they have sat in my basement since. I had a couple hanging over the sink at the condo but I didn't love the look so I wrapped them up again. So when the convo started and people were asking for specific plates, I dug the stack out and offered them up. I didn't charge anyone, just asked them to cover shipping. So far I have sent out a Trumbull, a Pierson, and a Class of 1967 25th reunion plate. And am in talks with a couple of others who want some. It's kind of nice to pass them onto people who want them, and I get to talk about my dad a bit. 

Anyways, S, I can't remember if you were Silliman or TD, but I have a Silliman plate if you want it!

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A year ago, I was just kicking off my time living in Florida caring for Mom. At the time, we thought it would be maybe six months. Never expected it would only be one month of the two of us (the rest of the family was with us the last two weeks of her life). This time was before she got really super-sick. She had energy to do things, wanted to eat so many random things. I would run out and pick up whatever she wanted -- KFC Chicken, the incredible chowder from Twisted Lobster, and more. I really enjoyed those weeks with her, watching cowboy shows, her showing me how everything in the house worked, and the routines she liked. Learning how to walk Molly by myself (she was TERRIBLE on the leash), rubbing Mom's swollen feet at night. It was really peaceful, even when it wasn't (Alison was being super manipulative with my Mom and Kate regarding Dad's ashes). 

I wish we had had more time like that. 

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Ok, time to make some cinnamon rolls and clean the kitchen a bit. Happy Thanksgiving, all. 

 We had a bunch of snow the last few days, and I cannot tell you how much it has felt like a relief. I have been complaining for ages that I have been wearing the same style of clothes for over a year -- capris, t-shirt, and sandals. I moved down to Florida in mid-November (and it wasn't very cold in Chicago when I left) where it was hot and sunny every goddamn day, and then I came back in late March where spring warmth had already begun. The hot summer here lingered through late October. So two days ago, when we got snow, it was a genuine change after all of this time. To look out and see my garden and backyard white and cold, I just loved it. 

It's yet another moment to nudge me forward again. To be around real seasons means I am truly back in my regular life. It's another step away from my Florida time, and all that that entailed. I missed that regularity, seeing time march on visually in nature. I am ready for more of that, for sure.

But first I have to get that new roof done. Luckily this snow is quickly melting, and we are expected to be in the 40-50s again for a few more weeks. So it should get done. 

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My plan of daily cleaning is going well. Well, it is in terms of the house being fairly clean all the time. It is not going well in terms of my feeling like I am constantly cleaning every goddamn day. Because every day I am goddamn cleaning something. Maybe it wouldn't bother me so much if I wasn't the only person in the house cleaning, but I am. Every day I do dishes 3-4 times, and then I find a bowl he left somewhere random. I do laundry at least twice a week, and then I spend the days between moving the basket of folded laundry from the floor to his side of the bed over and over until he finally puts his clean folded clothes away. 

I know this is the deal we made when we decided that I would quit my job and stay home and he would financially support us with his very draining job with lots of long hours of work. But dammit now I understand why housewives were seething messes in the 1950s. It's very easy to get annoyed at little things. 

But also, daily cleaning is annoying as hell, even if it was just my stuff. Today is cleaning the floors, making dog food, and yes a load of laundry, so I better get going on that. Because most of that work is due to the dogs (SO MUCH HAIR ALL THE TIME), and I can't get too annoyed at their sweet faces and grateful wagging tails. 

Decided on a roofer; he comes this afternoon to meet R and confirm dates to do this. Could go pretty quick (she said, immediately jinxing this possibility).

Got rejected by the insurance for Wegovy. I need to demonstrate I am on a weight-loss program, including a low-calorie diet, activity, and behavioral changes before I can reapply for pre-auth. So I signed up for Weight Watchers this morning. It's the one I know best, and they still have local meetings; in-person always motivates me more than just an app. And it's the last day for a great discount that lasts a year. So that's good news too, and it will keep me committed.

But it wasn't just the insurance denial that prompted my turn-around. This is a really hard week for me; today is the one-year anniversary of the beginning of the end. One year ago today, my mom went for her CT scan (which found the cancer metastasized to her liver) in the morning, and in the afternoon my dad collapsed in pain as his aorta dissected. I still have the voicemail from my mom as she followed his ambulance to the hospital. Kate and I flew down the next morning, and it all went to shit from there.

( cut because I get more maudlin from here )

Spent the morning submitting mailing-list removal requests from the stack of junk mail my parents have received at my house this month. My dad donated to all the Democrats and political organizations; my mom liked theater, looking at retirement villages and cruises, and shopping. Their name got around!

My sister re-mailed the final check from the escrow company (refund for what was left after the sale), and I have a similar refund check from the flood insurance company. So it's off to my bank manager friend who will help me get them deposited. (The flood one is made out to both of my parents estates).

( grief talk )

I miss my mom's affection.

She was a physically demonstrative person. She hugged and kissed and would smooth my hair and kiss my forehead. She was like that to all of us, curving her hand around our chins or cheeks to give us a kiss, Dad included. Molly too. Now, when I cup Molly's chin, she melts into it, her eyes and bones going soft and sad.

My cousin commented after she died, that like her mother, Mom kissed us "on the mouth", but it wasn't something the rest of her family did. I never really thought about the distinction; both Mom and Dad always kissed us on the lips. But I guess different families kiss in different ways. I think it came from Babchi (our grandmother); I remember her kissing me on the lips all the time. It's just the way our family does it. Or used to do it.

And I miss it a lot.

I have so many pictures of my Dad and I smooching, of my Mom going in for a weepy hug with me. She had this way, when she saw you for the first time in a while, where her facial expression would change, her smile growing soft and warm and big, like you made her heart feel better just from the sight of you. She bestowed that warm, welcoming smile on everyone in her life, not just us. I bet it's why her friends miss her as much as we do.

That last month I was living with Mom, we were extra-affectionate. As a kid, when she got home from work, she was always so exhausted. At night she would plop down on the ground in front of us on the couch (mostly me, but often Kate), and we would rub her scalp or shoulders. She loved the scalp rub so much, her neck lolling with a big sigh. When she got sick, she suffered from bad edema in her legs, so we rubbed her feet at night. My dad did it first, of course, but when it was just us after he died, I took on the nightly task. She appreciated it just as much as she did when it was her scalp. We would sit on the couch together, her feet on a pillow on my lap. Molly had to come sit on the big ottoman in front of us because there wasn't room for her on couch (and she did not like that). Mom and I would talk while I rubbed and tried to move some of the excess fluid out of her toes and ankles. Plans or stories or just anything. It was a nice quiet moment for us.

We hugged a lot, too. She had taken to saying an old Polish phrase she had never used before; I think it was a long-forgotten memory from her mother or grandmother. "Daj mi buzi," she would say as she stopped while passing me in her rollerator in the house.

Doh-meh-boo-gji. I said I didn't know what it meant. "Give me a kiss," she said. I smiled and gave her one. When the boys arrived (her grandsons), she added a tap to her lips when she said it so they knew what she wanted. They got it.

For months after they died, I couldn't really mourn them as my parents because I could not stop reliving the moments of their deaths. One of the memories that would kick off a reliving jag was saying goodnight to Mom the first night she was in hospice. After a long day of the ER and observation and then the ambulance trip to the hospice, she was completely worn out but the drugs were finally kicking in so she could rest. I leaned over to say goodnight, giving her a kiss on the lips, and her arm haphazardly came up to my head. I could feel the back of her hand pressing the back of my head. She was trying to give me a hug, the only way she could now. It's the last time she was able to touch me; after that she was mostly unconscious so the physical affection was only from me to her. This was her last hug for me.

At least now, when I think about that moment -- and still have that tactile memory against the back of my head -- the memories that flood back are all of the other affectionate moments of our lives. Which is still incredibly sad and brings on floods of tears, but it's much less painful than reliving her death. Daj mi buzi, Mom.

Carrying over a conversation from denynothing1's comments...

Eight months after my parents died, the very hard things keeping me busy and stressed have been completed. The house is cleaned out, sold, and the money is distributed. The probate has ended, the estate is closed, and the money is distributed. I came home after 4 months of living alone in Florida. I resigned as Chairman of the Board for the non-profit I volunteer for. I declined returning to weekly work as a cashier at the antique mall. The memorial occurred, as did the water burial. I ceased needing to have frequent contact with my horrible sister. Both planned summer trips -- one to Wisconsin for reselling, one to Michigan for fun -- are over. I finished the major overhauls of my booths. I unpacked nearly everything from Florida, and set up my new office. I graduated from grief therapy.

There are still small tasks to do for the estate, but most will be next year at tax time. But otherwise it's done.

So I am finally able to really think about what is next.

I don't know what that will be. I know it won't be anything like what it was 10 months ago before this all began. I have no interest in filling up my calendar on a permanent basis with obligations: no weekly cashier shifts, no 3-6 meetings a month as Chair. I am happy to sub for others when they need to be off, in fact I am already signed up for 2 shifts each month through October to do just that. That's enough for me.

We have a lot of home improvement projects to work on now that we have the funds for them, but tbh I am kind of dreading starting them. They are all major work -- new roof, new HVAC, new front door, new windows -- and each will be a steep learning curve and a huge time suck for me. The thought of them makes me a little weepy too; my parents loved, loved, loved home improvement, and would have so much advice and support for me, if only I could call them about it. But I can't.

I said to DE that one thing my parents taught me was having consistent daily tasks was how they found "purpose" in their lives post-retirement. It gave them structure and autonomy and confidence and pleasure. They read the paper every morning, made the bed, did a small load of laundry, went for a swim in the afternoons. They cleaned up after themselves immediately, not letting things pile up. In the mornings they decided what to have for dinner, and then took out what was needed to defrost. They didn't make excuses in order to go lie down; they relished their naps, and appreciated the moments of down time. They also included at least one bigger task every day: a grocery run, a doctor appointment, lunch with girlfriends, a cleaning lady visit. When they were more active, they would do more of those, but as they got older and sicker, they learned to keep it to just one big task because more than that would wipe them out.

I can definitely do more than one "big" task a day, and so I try to knock off at least 3-5 from my Notes list each day. But that feels like it did when I was working; it's just a running to-do list that I clean up at the end of every day, and I look at first thing every day. It's starting to stress me out. I think I need to find a happy medium. I want to set up consistent daily tasks like my parents did. Tackle a little of the house every day, instead of putting it all off and then doing it all for hours and days at once. Same with my reselling paperwork.

Here's a dumb example of letting things pile up and then getting stuck in the work: I had to make some appointments for the HVAC guy, the financial planner, the vet for Molly, and a mani-pedi. Instead of staggering them, I contacted all of them yesterday and everyone was available, so now they are all crammed into the next two days. Why didn't I stagger contacting them??? I have the time! Ugh.

I need structure for the small things so I have the mental and emotional space for the larger ones. To be able to do the small stuff on auto-pilot, I guess. Which seems like an easy enough thing; I think the hiccup in my brain is that the small stuff is different than it used to be. I don't need to make lunch to take to work, or make sure the car is gassed, or even wash my hair every day. I don't have to cram the house stuff into evenings or weekends, as one big project to do all at once.

Today, like yesterday, instead of playing games on my phone on the couch until I got going for the day, I made myself come into the office to write a DW post on my laptop at my desk. I liked it; think I might add it into my new daily structure. The dogs like it too; they are both stretched out on the rug behind me. Maybe I can use this time to do 20 minutes of reselling inventory data entry too, instead of letting it pile up to tax time and having to type non-stop for 2 straight weeks. Hmmm.

Anyway, I don't know what's next. But I am going to work on it.

I am an extra early riser, but 2:30am is way too early even for me.

At first my brain was buzzing with ideas about re-arranging my big booth, which is my main project this week. How am I going to take everything off the shelves and store it safely within the booth so I can then move the shelves to new locations? How many boxes should I bring in? Oooh, take the long folding table too. Etc.

Then my eyes started leaking, and a full-on cry burst out of me. (Note: get a new box of tissues by the side of the bed.) Eventually I acknowledged I wasn't going back to sleep so I moved to the living room so my husband and dogs could get their sleep.

The memorial is on Saturday, the water burial is Sunday. We fly out on Friday. All of my nervous energy around the booth redesign is just a distraction technique from the wall of pain I am about to run into. I'm going to bury my parents in less than a week and it's already wrecking me.

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I was contacted by two very different people last night about the memorial. That's probably what brought this so close to the surface.

The first was my Dad's best friend. He's been texting me from time to time, to check in on me or offer a kind word about the house, or something he and Dad would talk about, etc. He's so kind, but every time his name pops up on my phone, I start crying. Because my Dad would be doing the same for John's oldest son, if John had passed away first. John and Dad were friends for 50 years because they were so alike; John's thoughtfulness is so like my Dad's. Dad would have sent a congrats text when the house sold, asked for an update on the memorial, told a story about them texting while watching women's basketball at the same time, told his son how proud his dad was of him. John is caring for his ailing wife Betty (she has Alzheimer's) like Dad cared for Mom during her cancer treatments.

John's message last night: Kristen, Betty and I will be attending this Saturday. We will only be staying a short time as we are going to do a round trip. It's important to me to see you, Kate and Alison. See you Saturday.

It made me cry so, so hard. They live in New Jersey, it's not a short drive. But I am so grateful he is coming. I haven't even seen them in at least forty years. But the 4 of them saw each other every year during that time. My dad had a pile of t-shirts, 15-20 at least, of Barnagut Lighthouse, where the 4 of them vacationed together on the Jersey shore for years and years. My parents knew how to be good friends to their friends, a trait I wish I emulated more.

The other message was from a random relative of my husband's. Not sure even he knows who he is. A cousin or something, I assumed from Pennsylvania where his dad is from. We're facebook friends but I don't know him at all. Anyway, he had commented on one of my posts saying he wanted to see me when we were in Connecticut, but wasn't sure if he should come to the memorial. He jumbled up my husband's and father's names, he didn't know why we were havng it in Cheshire, and I didn't respond because it felt rude and intrusive of him. Then he posted again last night to say I hadn't replied, and maybe we could meet while we were in town. He emailed me too, same thing.

I replied back in email this morning, and said this was an extremely emotional visit and I was not up to seeing any new visitors, but maybe next trip. But you know what? Fuck you, buddy. No, I do not want to meet you, this is not a casual fucking trip. You are a facebook friend, you have had access to all of my honest and painful posts about losing my parents. Read the fucking room.

Anyway. That's been my way-too-early morning.

The weekend has been very difficult. Lots of memories of my dad, and a lot of keening sobfests. I miss him so acutely right now.

One breakthrough I did have, though, is that I think I am finally mourning MY father. With all the interactions with my sisters since my parents died -- a lot more than we ever had in the past, we mostly communicated with my parents being the vector between us -- I have been learning that we each had very different relationships, perspectives, and images of our mutual father. My sister Alison always had a hard and hurtful relationship; she railed against him even as a kid, and said many times (as an adult) she hated him and only talked to them both so she could get money from them. But he made sure she was there before they started comfort measures, and they did talk and hug for a bit in the hospital. It was complicated between them, for sure. Then when he died and moreso after Mom did, she became obsessed with having his ashes in her possession. She used a lot of controlling language when she talked about them, and it was hard and uncomfortable to navigate through that period. Her single-mindedness about them ended up driving huge wedges in her relationships with my other sister and me.

It's mostly resolved now -- in that the ashes are with Kate and being prepared for a water burial in July -- but it was months and months of being immersed in Alison's relationship with Dad. And the only person I could really talk to you about it was Kate, and then I learned she too had her own relationship with Dad. She saw him as a wounded bird, someone who had something broken inside a long time ago that made him a figure of pity for her. All she ever talked about with me were his broken pieces: his drinking, his inner feeling of not being enough, his neglect/inability to be an engaged parent during our childhood.

But neither of those views are how I see Dad. I always admired and respected him. He was a role model to me all of his life. He was smart and funny and competitive and thoughtful. He made himself a success in his career, and he learned how to re-invent himself when it was over. He loved my mother every minute of their 57 years of marriage, even when she exasperated him to death. I loved spending time with him, a lot more than I think either of my sisters did. I liked learning from him, even if I teased him about it. He was curious about so many things; he read newspapers and magazines, and he loved engaging with everyone in his community and seeing it as a whole ecosystem. I loved, loved, loved playing games with him. I would give anything to play one last game of Rummikub with them both.

I feel like spending all those months mired in talking/hearing about Alison's and Kate's versions of Dad prevented me from mourning my own. So it's hitting me even harder now, seven months after he died. I want my Dad back. I don't want their versions in my head. I just want mine.