Hi Darling Ones,

I lost my shit this morning and now I have guilt. And I’m super weepy on top of that. Today’s not so great.

My mornings have been starting later and later since the relapse. The time change doesn’t help. Neither does staying up past 1 a.m. most nights. I’m lucky if I’m downstairs making breakfast by noon.

Today was no exception. Getting such a late start to my day makes me a little anxious. It makes me feel like a teenage slacker. I have no reason to be downstairs before noon. There isn’t much work to be done. And, well, I’m tired.

So I was finally ready to get the day started. My coffee, yogurt, breakfast sandwich, and water precisely balanced in the basket of my walker. Since I can’t walk and carry things, I use the basket to haul stuff. It’s the medical equivalent of the wicker-basket little girls used to put on the handlebars of their banana-seated bikes.

I turned from the walker to weed out some dead stalks from my green onion garden. It feels like my way of sticking it to the man, re-growing the green onions I buy from the grocery store in a pot of dirt on the counter. Free(ish) onions! Because I can’t stand for more than 90-seconds I have a wheeled stool I use in the kitchen. I was wheeling to the garbage, my back to the walker when I heard the crash.

Mortimer, the little acrobat, had jumped on the walker basket upsetting my delicate balance. My sandwich flew under the Sadness Garden cart, coffee and water rolled under the dining room table, and in his attempt to flee the scene of the crime Mortimer knocked the adorable mushroom plate I won at Rock & Roll Bookclub to the ground, shattering it.

That’s when I lost it. I threw the spoon I had in my hand into the sink and screamed “Fuck” as loud as I could, scaring all three cats.

“I AM SO ANGRY,” I shouted as I began to clean up the mess. “I’m angry at you,” I said to Mortimer who had calmly folded himself into a loaf in the middle of the kitchen floor.

“STOP!” I yelled at Fergus as she tried to lick the remains of my breakfast sandwich. “I’m angry,” I said in a more normal tone of voice as the anger quickly dissipated.

Because they are cats they did not care one fig about my hissy fit. Because I am human I did care about yelling at them for acting like kittens. It’s not their fault.

Losing my shit had little to do with the ruined breakfast or the shattered plate. It was just the very last thing I could take. I exploded for reasons. Good reasons, I think.

Yesterday I had a follow-up appointment with my primary care doctor. My Physical Therapist had messaged her expressing concern about my relapse. My doctor was also concerned and asked if I would come in.

Of course I did because I’m a goody-goody even though I think the concern is misplaced.

While I was there I showed her my new “party trick” where my right arm shakes uncontrollably unless I really focus on it. Then I can get it down to a barely discernible twitch.

“I think you should see a neurologist,” she said.
“Really?” I asked. We had discussed this in a telehealth appointment and at the time we both agreed it was probably unnecessary.
“Yeah,” she said, nodding her head. “I really dug into your records for the last year after our last appointment, and while I feel less worried that you can control the tremor with focus, I want to make sure there’s not something we missed.”

So she’s referring me to a neurologist for further testing. AND that was the second to last thing I could take, and why the breakfast catastrophe broke me. There’s something about seeing a neurologist that feels big and scary, somehow more serious and dire than, you know, a stroke.

Emotionally, I’m a precariously balanced walker basket.

I’ve been handling the relapse pretty well. When I had my physical therapy evaluation last week we discovered I had backslid quite a bit from where I was in September, but I had not slid all the way to where I was at the beginning in July. I even improved on a couple of things.

But still, it’s SO ANNOYING. And you put that on top of the grief of losing the relationship with my best friend and the money woes and what’s going on in the world and being a human, and well, something has to give.

In most ways I’m better off now than I was in March 2023, but damn I could really use a good break.

Thanks for listening,
Jodi

P.S. If you have any spare money you’d like to share with me I’d gratefully take it. I only made $225 last month and that doesn’t even cover my ridiculously cheap mortgage.

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Hoo Boy, Darling Ones,

I got some grief kicking my ass. I knew it was gonna come, and here it is.

Earlier today 3/4 of the Tea Ladies gathered on Zoom for our monthly catch up. I’d love to tell you some of the life-stuff we discussed. It was a conversation filled with brave and beautiful stories from my friends that are not mine to tell.

One of the Tea Ladies asked how I was doing as the year anniversary of my stroke grows ever nearer (March 6). I burst into tears telling them how I’m finally feeling the grief, which literally struck that the moment.

As I work to accept how this might be as good as it gets, I’m mourning what might have been. What is that? I’m not sure. It’s hard to mourn something that never happened and never will. It’s a nebulous, idyllic future that was definitely better than what my future will be.

I’m also mourning more concrete losses. My ability to drive and the freedom that brings. The best friend who cut me out of her life over a misunderstanding I don’t have the emotional bandwidth or energy to clear up (told you the stroke made me more self-centered). Financial security. Life without debt. Pasta.

Pasta was lost to diabetes, not the stroke, but it’s a big loss.

I have three kinds of recurring dreams now.

1. I can walk without a walker or a cane and nobody is as surprised as I think they should be.
2. Everyone is sick of taking care of me or making accommodations for me, so they just leave me behind.
3. Medical bills for like $5000 keep popping up, like a game of financial whack-a-mole.

I’m doing that thing where I’m trying to feel my feelings. I guess this is something people do instead of cracking jokes about having an emotion. Sounds suspicious to me. Jokes are fun. Sadness and grief, kind of a drag.

So I’m sad and feeling grief for losses, both ambiguous and concrete. And I’m dealing with a spotty Spotify that won’t let me listen to John Cougar Mellencamp on my TV like God and America intended.

Endlessly troubled,
Jodi

The post Stroke Me Day 337: All of the Grief appeared first on I Will Dare.

Oh Darling Ones,

Last night I found out a friend from college died of colon cancer. He wasn’t even fifty.

While I haven’t seen Baltus since the 90s, I’ve thought about him every Valentine’s Day for the last twenty-eight years.

The Baltus-Valentine story looms so large in my memory, I’m surprised it didn’t appear sooner or more often. Of course he appears often in the archives as one of the Cross Country Boys. And while I can’t say with 100% certainty Baltus introduced me to the music of The Jayhawks, my memory is re-writing history to give him the credit. Sorry, other Cross Country Boys.

When I texted my sisters last night I pointed out that Baltus died the same day I had my stroke. “Not a good day for Blugolds,” I said, referencing UWEC’s nonsensical mascot.

I’ve spent a lot of time today thinking about grief and Baltus and my college years and the impact we have on each other.

As I mentioned, I haven’t seen Baltus since the 90s. I cannot attest to the kind of man he grew into. However, I was fortunate enough to be the recipient of his goofy kindness which has stuck with me for actual decades. Hopefully, it sticks with me for many more.

And while I’m hoping, I’m gonna throw some at this tsunami of terrible, no-good, very bad things. It’s got to come to an end. I am quite literally sick and tired of being the Queen of Unending Bummer. I’m ready to give up this crown if anyone wants it.

Unendingly yours,
Jodi

P.S. COVID-Stroke is continuing to kick my ass. I’ve never been this exhausted in my life. I owe so many people so much gratitude. I will get to it. I swear. But I continue to have limited reserves of energy and today I needed to take a nap after fixing myself a bowl of cereal.

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Well, Darling Ones,

Today is a nightmare combination of anxiety and complicated grief offset with a slate-grey sky out my window to just really, *chef’s kiss* this day.

My brain weasels couldn’t decide what should be the priority, my winter-driving anxiety in the face of 3-4 inches of slushy snow falling at the moment, the impending diagnosis of macular degeneration/retinopathy/tumor, or the fact that today is my dad’s birthday.

If you’re new here or have forgotten, I drive a 1999 Chevrolet S10 I bought twenty-one years ago. Her name is Ruby and I love her, but she’s a puny 2-wheel drive truck that cannot handle any kind of snow. Not the smartest vehicle for a Minnesotan.

Rubes is so shitty in the snow that when I lived in a crummy apartment in Prior Lake I used to have to get pushed out of my snowy parking spot on the reg. Lucky for me, one of my Friday night bowlers lived in the same building and he was always willing to give me a shove. I paid him pack in Bud Lights.

Rubes is so shitty in the snow that we had a scary accident back in aught-six. That accident and the 1991 death of Sister #2’s BFF due to back ice, is why I refuse to drive when it snows.

So I had to choose one more day of anxiety about my possible macular degeneration/retinopathy/tumor or the anxiety of driving to the eye doctor in 3-4 inches of slushy snow with the added worry about whether or not I’d be able to get out of my driveway.

I chose one more day of degeneration anxiety, which has effectively cut my anxiety in half, so now my brain has time to focus on what today is really about.

My dad’s birthday.

It’s the first one since he died and I’m not sure how to feel about it.

For most of his life we were not allowed to acknowledge his birthday. There was a temporary lifting of the embargo once the niblings came along, but not for long.

He hated his birthday for reasons he never told us. Whenever we’d ask he’d say, “I just do.” Maybe because he shared a birthday with his own abusive father? Was it from decades upon decades of untreated depression? Who knows?

Even writing about his birthday here feels disloyal. I’m not sure I believe in an afterlife or anything, but I don’t want him to haunt me for writing about his birthday.

Bleh. Life is rough, man.

I’m gonna go shove eleventy-billion episodes of “Bob’s Burgers” into my brain until I feel better.

Jodi

P.S. While I was getting this post ready I was listening to some live versions of Jason Isbell’s “Anxiety” on YouTube, and then they popped up Frightened Rabbit’s cover of “Whole of the Moon” and that was a delightful gift from the universe (or algorithm if you want to be no fun).

The post Brain Weasels Working Overtime appeared first on I Will Dare.

Hi Darling Ones,

Last week while my infection was wreaking havoc on my life I managed to attend a virtual reading by Hanif Abdurraqib.

I’m having a moment with Abdurraqib’s work. His book, A Little Devil in America was the best thing I read in 2021. That’s saying a lot because 2021 was a good reading year for me. I love ALDIA so much that it’s one of my comfort books. I just finished reading it for the third (or fourth?) time a few weeks ago.

Over the weekend I read They Can’t Kill Us Until They Kill Us, and I enjoyed it, but due to aformentioned havoc-wreaking infection I didn’t give it the attention it deserved. I’ll definitely have another go at it soon.

Tonight I’m gonna watch a celebration of Toni Morrison with Hanif Abdurraqib and Dionne Custer Edwards. I do feel a teeny bit stalkery. Like I said, I’m having a moment. Though, to be fair, it’s really no different than traveling to various states to see your favorite performer on consecutive nights. Right? RIGHT?

Another reason I’m attending: I have read The Bluest Eye more than any other novel. I’ve read it about every other year since it was assigned in my Women’s Lit course in the summer of 1992.

At the reading last week, Abdurraqib talked about why his mother, who died when he was 12, continually shows up in his writing.

I wanted to share this with you because parents and beloved aunts and uncles are dropping like flies in my age cohort. I know seven people who have lost parents in the last eight/nine months. I see so many struggling with their grief and the guilt for still grieving.

What Abdurraqib said about grief, grieving, and his writing has found a home deep in my heart, and it’s been rattling around my brain for a week looking for an escape.

Here’s what he said: “Grief [is] not something you get to be done with, which for a long time I thought that was the case. I thought grief is something you get to move past or you get to kind of extract and leave behind. But thankfully, I think, I’ve come to realize that grief is something that makes a permanent home inside of you and then you have to be a good steward to it, and if you are a good steward to it, then it in turn can be a good steward to you and the absence is not only accompanied by ache.

I think my mother arrives so much in my work because I think about that kind of process as tending to my grief. I’m tending to my memories, tending to decorating the absence with memories so it isn’t just wind blowing through it, so to speak.”

(all grammatical errors and typos are mine. I’m not good at transcription.)

It’s the idea of decorating the absence with memories that kicks me in the gut. Tears come when I think about the idea. It’s lovely and painful at the same time.

I have not been a good steward to my grief. I’m not entirely sure what that would mean, considering the complicated relationship with my dad. I for sure have not been a good steward to my grief regarding the estrangement of The Tibbles. I do not decorate their absence with memories. I just shove all the memories away and try to not think about them lest my heart shatter.

So, that’s what been on my mind this week.

Jodi

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