professional me

I’m a US-based writer residing in the southeast subtropics. I’ve previously worked for a major healthcare system, a health-focused NPO, a cause marketing and political consulting firm, and a major publishing house. My writing has been featured in newspapers across the country, healthcare and lifestyle magazines, academic journals, and multiple online platforms. I’ve received numerous creative awards for my writing and independently published works.

personal me

🤱🏼Mommy to 1 beautiful girl and 3 loving mutts.
👩‍❤️‍👨Wife to a boy I met in third grade.
🌎World traveler. I want to see it all.
🛍️Compulsive shopper. On a first name basis with UPS, DHL, and FedEx people.
🍟French fry addict. Particularly if they’re curly.
📱Social media reject.
💪🏼Gym rat. If anyone finds my six-pack, let me know.
🐐Animal lover. Currently angling my husband for a baby goat.
☀️Sunshine chaser. Need that vitamin D on the reg.

private me

I deeply value my and family’s privacy. I’ve never craved notoriety or fame. Nobody in my circle knows I write this - and that’s how I prefer it. Writing anonymously strips away any self-consciousness I feel and ensures I always stay true to myself and to you all. Someone can be anyone online; it’s important to me that I represent myself authentically. This is also why you’ll see people I write about referred to by their initial. Thank you for understanding and respecting my decision.

R,

It’s taken me a long time to put this letter together because I’ve been so stunned. For 36 years, I thought my “favorite Uncle” was a funny guy with filthy humor and offensive sayings. I thought you were a confidante; somebody I could share things with and ask for advice. I thought we bonded over silly life frustrations like our intolerance for stupid people. I thought you were smart, but your life didn’t turn out how you hoped or planned so at times you could be bitter. Nonetheless, you were my family, and I loved you.

That all turned out to be untrue, which is why I’ve been so stunned. Now that I’ve had time to think and process what I’ve learned about the kind of person you really are, there are a few things I’d like you to know.

Despite your stunted development into adulthood, I only ever loved and wanted good for you. I laughed at your teenaged humor and looked at the posts you’d send me from Pinterest. I listened patiently and laughed repeatedly as you would tell the same jokes over and over. I recognized your life was kind of empty and never wanted to hurt your feelings. I always tried to remember to send birthday cards and call on special occasions. One year I even gave you a card on Father’s Day. Mom was the same way. She always wanted to make you happy. She pitied you and never wanted you to feel bad about your life because everyone knew how pathetic it was. She would stay up late before we’d come to town making your favorite candy. She’d run around at Christmas looking for the new Garfield calendar to satisfy your queer obsession or buying new shirts in your ever-expanding size so you’d stop wearing the ones from 1974. Yet, you still lacked graciousness and found something to complain about.

My biggest regret in life is asking you to walk me down the aisle. I am mortified to have read you so wrong. I believed you were a decent person who loved me, an uncle worthy of filling in for a father who didn’t understand the privilege of giving away his daughter at her wedding. I was surprised to realize that, in fact, you have several common traits: you’re selfish, childish, cheap, ungrateful, and weak.

But you are worse than he ever was.

De was too sweet a soul and felt bad for you, but Pops was embarrassed by you. They are surely watching down, disgusted by your appalling behavior. You failed them, like you failed us. Back in 2022, we looked for your support as we fought through the worst days of our lives. We thought surely you’d come down – it’s your sister! It’s your niece and nephew, who in the speech you gave at my wedding you said were like your kids because you never had your own! (Thank heavens for that – you are completely unfit and undeserving of experiencing the blessing that is a child). But you couldn’t even bring yourself to drive an hour and get on a plane because you didn’t “feel well” and was “scared” because you get easily fatigued. You had the audacity – the fucking audacity! – to say that to us while our mother and your sister, your last living relatives, were in the MICU wavering between life and death. I honestly don’t know how you live with yourself.

Fortunately, you are the only one who does have to live with yourself. You go to bed every night, alone, haunted by the dreams you never made come true. When you awaken in the mornings, you have to look in the mirror at your aging face and gray, balding head and acknowledge the fact that you abused, lied to, and stole from your own mother. Do you feel like you won? Do you have the most money? Are you happy now that everyone is gone and you have turned your back, sacrificed your family? Because we were the most genuine relationships you ever had. Joanie has never given a fuck about you, yet you pine after her like a little high school boy. Fat, phony Laurie used you as company for her own misery, as well as for Mom’s food. Chris is a bored old gossip, vapid and jealous. For Mike, you were the means to an end: a pastrami sandwich! Your “crew” is a bunch of classless misfits, none of whom were there for you even a little bit when everything was happening with De. You can feign friends at Chabad, but all the prayers in the world aren’t enough to save you. Your greatest fear is already materializing. You are alone. You were wondering who would take care of you when you got old, and you were right not to count on me.

Time goes quickly, and one by one we age and people pass and now you’re alone in a big house that is no longer a home because the inhabitants who made it warm and welcoming are gone. Over the years, it was hard enough watching the family shrink – when we would leave after a visit, it was Nana, Dede, Poppy, and you waving goodbye in the window. I always loved that. Then there were 3... then 2… and now you. Just you. In a house once occupied by amazing people, full of life and happy times, you disgrace their memories with your behavior. To not reply to my emails and texts? To keep things that aren’t rightfully yours? To hoard photos and mementos and stories and memories out of spite? Your deep-seated anger and resentment fills the air that probably reeks of frozen pizza since you never learned to cook your own food. Shame on you for wasting your entire life and blaming everyone else for it. You were not born a victim. Nobody ever owed you anything. You were given everything a person could need - and so much more - except one thing: courage. You squandered your gifts by never finding the courage to actually live your one precious life.

In Judaism, some people believe that on your way out of this world, you see a reel of your life: highlights of the good and replays of the bad. How sad to think that yours will be void of highlights. Because what good have you really done? What have you contributed to society? ($50 to the Humane Society doesn’t count; nor to the nuns nor Chabad) Whose life have you positively impacted? What is your legacy? What will you be remembered for? What are you proud to have achieved? Have you ever asked yourself these questions?

You didn’t even know if your sister – your only sibling, your blood – was alive or not for two years. To have the opportunity to find out and choose not to take it is simply unforgivable. Others would give anything for that opportunity. As usual, you squandered it.

Your behavior upon finding out she passed was absolutely sickening. To not call us. To not ask if we were ok, if there was something you could do to help. YOU NEVER EVEN FUCKING SAID YOU WERE SORRY FOR OUR LOSS! You are reprehensible. You ignored us at our own mother’s funeral as if we were the ones who had done something wrong. You smiled and laughed, like it was some sort of social hour. You were steps away and didn’t even visit your own parents’ graves. I noticed your pathetic ass didn’t even drive yourself. Were you too fatigued?

I wonder what your funeral will look like. Not that I’ll be there… but will anyone else?

I never thought things would turn out this way and it’s truly unfortunate. I really cared about you. Now, your fate is in G-d’s hands… and I couldn’t care less.

P

I was 29 and we had just moved south. I was working out rigorously to get in shape for our wedding. One evening, my now-husband and I were leaving the gym in our condo building together and I apparently had a seizure in the elevator.

This particular time was unlike the other times I’d had breakthrough seizures (that weren’t caused by my irresponsibility), as it came without warning. When I regained consciousness, I was mortified. My husband insisted we go to the ER just to get me checked out – it was the first time he had witnessed a seizure and was terrified. I have virtually no recollection of the rest of that night. I do remember sitting in the ER being annoyed at having to wait and also feeling terrible for scaring him. Everything checked out fine and I was able to go home after several hours of waiting, being monitored, and having blood drawn.

Two or three years later, after we had gotten married, my in-laws were visiting us in our new apartment. It was Labor Day weekend and that following Thursday I was due to start my new job that I was excited about. I went into the kitchen and my mother-in-law asked me where we kept something, a mug maybe. I completely blanked. Our cabinets looked unfamiliar, and I couldn’t even begin to guess what was behind them. I opened the one with spices. No mug. I opened the one with dog food. No mug. My arm hurt, badly. I felt off, abnormal. In a daze, I went back to our bedroom and told my husband to help his mom. I got back in bed for a bit, still feeling weird. Awhile later, we went outside to a pizza place for lunch. I remember sitting down and getting a drink, but from there, my memories are conflicting. I have a vision of coming to at the table but also of waking up in my bed with the cup of water I had ordered from the restaurant next to me. I knew immediately I had had a seizure.

I felt differently when these seizures happened. I was more ashamed than in the other instances. I always tried to portray strength, independence, power with my husband, and stability and individualism with his parents. This time, I felt I looked weak, incapable. My father-in-law, a physician, called in my pills and gently but sternly reminded me how important it is that I stay on top of things.  

I still went to my first day of my new job. Lifting my arm to the keyboard on my desk was excruciating – I had to put the keyboard on my lap to let my arm rest. I still don’t know what caused that pain as I had never experienced it with other seizures. It’s possible I had a tonic seizure in my sleep that precipitated the one outside. It was so unbelievably painful.

I haven’t messed with my meds since. I now use a home delivery pharmacy so they’re always here before I run out. Looking back, I don’t even recognize myself as the person who took such stupid risks. I had always been pretty fearless, a little reckless, but so were a lot of teenagers and 20-somethings. I never thought I was invincible, but for awhile I felt untouchable.

But nobody is untouchable.

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In 2020, our beautiful baby girl was born via c-section. I was a double high-risk pregnancy and it took us ten months to conceive, which felt like an eternity. Add a global pandemic to the mix and it was one hell of a year. But immediately after she was born, every ounce of my love was absorbed by her seven little pounds. When I got home from the hospital, I didn’t eat for three days. It didn’t occur to me. I was too busy breastfeeding, pumping, making sure there was enough milk for someone else to feed her in the rare occurrence I slept. I watched her every move, making sure she was still breathing while she slept, checking her temperature, distinguishing between her different cries, getting to know this beautiful creature I’d spent months growing. Then I got sick. The sickest I’d ever been in my entire life. Like all my college hangovers combined x10000. The diagnosis? Exhaustion.

Things got better within 48 hours but I scared myself - and my family. Because if I’m not well, I can’t take care of the baby and ensure she’s well. I hadn’t perceived it like this because I thought I was doing what a first-time mother should, pouring my heart and soul into caring for her. When my mom left after a seven week stay and my husband went back to work after a very short five days, I again had to readjust. But as baby and I got to know each other and as I watched her change and grow, I gained confidence in my motherly abilities. It was the most precious time.

Then I made a BIG mistake.

I made a serious decision less than three months after she was born. The head of marketing at my organization asked if I wanted to join her team. I was flattered – this woman was a powerhouse, a female who I thought could possibly be a mentor, someone I could learn from. Plus, I’d have a team! I’d been flying solo in my role as a communications professional for so long, I thought it would be great to work more closely with people whose skills complemented mine. I thought I’d have room to advance and grow, which is what I had always aimed to do in my career. But I was in a different stage of life now, tending to a newborn in the middle of a pandemic. I didn’t yet have childcare and was terrified to let anybody in the house. I had reservations and was nervous I would fail or let people down – two things I hate in life. I had a few calls with her and my boss-to-be and expressed my concerns. They assured me they too were working mothers and understood and not to worry because they’ll support me. So I took the job… and very quickly regretted it.     

Foreign projects were thrown at me left and right. Everything was “urgent” and due in 24 hours or less. I’d never been invited to so many meetings in my life. My calendar was completely packed, leaving minimal time to actually accomplish something during the day, leading to late nights and very early mornings. My inbox was flooded. Frustratingly, the new teammates I thought I’d collaborate with were so overwhelmed and buried in their own work that it left little opportunity to collaborate. I felt guilty asking for help and prefaced every request with, “sorry to bother you but...” And perhaps worst of all, the work was boring. I’d never received a job description despite asking for one several times. All I had to go on were the words from these two women on our calls. I came to realize their words meant absolutely nothing.

They were toxic, running a toxic workplace, and unapologetic about it. I was trapped.

Our office eventually mandated a return-to-work policy effective in fall, leaving many decisions up to department heads to make at their discretion. I communicated to my boss that returning right away would be very difficult for me; my daughter was registered for half-days at an early childhood learning center but would not begin for a few more weeks. My commute is an hour each way. It would be impossible for me to drop my daughter off, get to work, and turn around to pick her up. The nature of my husband’s job at the time required him to be onsite. We do not have a single family member who lives in the same state.

I asked my boss for some flexibility on the in-office start date. I wanted to get my daughter in school, make sure she was well-adapted, establish a routine to keep her – and us – physically and mentally healthy. Where we live, Covid restrictions were minimal and young children were getting sick and winding up in the ICU. My daughter had been on my hip for a year; I’d never been away from her for longer than four hours. I was scared.

My boss told me that she cannot give me special treatment and there must be equity across the team.

I’ll never forget her dictatorial, condescending statement: “You need to wrap your head around the fact that you need full-time care for your daughter.”

She cited childcare is not a valid excuse for requesting help, even temporarily. In an attempt at good old-fashioned honesty, I explained I had interviewed 31 potential nannies and either didn’t like or couldn’t afford them. (Some demanded more than our mortgage.) She replied that was not her problem and I was not encountering anything women before me hadn’t. When I pointed out that women before me weren’t faced with a pandemic, she said “that’s not a factor here.”

I reminded her that when I began this job, she assured me support would be provided and she would work with me. She said, “I didn’t mean like this. I meant you could take your daughter to the doctor.”

Excuse me? Who the fuck do you think you are? As if I would ever ask anyone - especially you - for permission to take my daughter to the doctor.

She proceeded to suggest I remove my daughter from the school we had carefully and thoughtfully selected for her and put her in daycare near our office. I told her that wasn’t an option, and I am unwilling to sacrifice my daughter’s education, socialization or my own comfort of her well-being for this or any job.

She gave me an ultimatum: show up three days per week, or I will no longer be employed. I cried the entire evening and for days afterward, not even realizing she doesn’t actually have the power to fire me for solely that reason. I battled sleepless nights and often woke up drenched in sweat knowing I had to face another day of her. The mental anguish I experienced over the situation was debilitating. I was stunned, confused, and so incredibly angry that modern women – professionals, mothers – could be so shortsighted and rigid in today’s 21st century workplace. Did I mention we work for a major healthcare organization? This major healthcare system touts compassion as one of its core values. It’s laughable.

From that encounter on, I never asked her for anything ever again. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of being able to shoot down another request. (Although, when I needed a laptop she ensured I received a heavy, old, outdated one while ordering my colleague a brand new, slick $4000 Mac) This led to me compulsively fibbing. I would reject meeting requests at the time I had to pick my daughter up at school (we never did get full-time care for her.) I would say I had a doctor’s appointment when I was really volunteering for something at her school. I would say I had a migraine if my daughter had a day off so I could spend time with her. Like my boss and her boss, I am unapologetic.

I got into a bad habit of replaying the events of the year over and over, beating myself up for accepting the position.

Why did I do this? How could I have made such a massive mistake? What was I thinking?

The short answer: I wasn’t thinking. Not how I normally do. There’s research underway that apparently demonstrates a woman’s brain undergoes chemical changes after giving birth. It’s logical to think that chemical changes result in alterations in the decision-making process. Priorities shift, new feelings emerge and old ones fade away. For me, things that once claimed priority suddenly seemed unimportant, like continuing to advance my career.

Common advice recommends not making big decisions for at least six months, or even a year, after experiencing loss. The loss of a loved one, for example, has tremendous impact on all aspects of life. Not waking up next to them, not being able to call them, no more celebrations or holidays together, one less seat at the dinner table. Life changes instantaneously and things are noticeably, viscerally different. Accepting these changes takes willpower, patience, adaptation, and sometimes, therapy.  

Not long after I took this job, I did start seeing a therapist. I needed guidance to contain my anger, anxiety, frustration and now, disgust, with my job situation. Our expenses were higher than ever and quitting without something else lined up was not an option. Plus, with my preexisting conditions and a newborn, no health insurance was not an option and this had me completely panicked. My therapist pointed out that waiting to make big decisions after any major life event – not only loss – is an option. I had never even stopped to consider this. I was perfectly happy in my old role. I had built myself a terrific career I was proud of. When I agreed to move, I was still in a haze, sleep-deprived and overly emotional. The parenthood learning curve was large enough without the added stress of a professional one.

I discovered too late that career growth and advancement simply were no longer as important to me as they once were. Maybe they will be again, but in my new life, family comes first. No matter what. The ambition I once had for my career has taken a backseat to the ambition I now have to practice positive and productive parenting, making the best decisions for my daughter and teaching her to be a good person, to be truly compassionate and understanding.   

Reflecting on all of this, I still can’t explain my decision. I’m kind of ashamed to admit this, but I think a small tiny piece of me wanted to prove that I could do it all – continue being a superstar professional and a superhero mom. For nine months, I took full-time care of my daughter while simultaneously working full-time from home. No nannies. No childcare. No family. When I told people this, they were both shocked and impressed. Even though I certainly never set out to impress anyone, it still felt good. But it came at a steep cost that I never would have paid had I been in a normal frame of mind versus just weeks postpartum.

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Many will probably think I did this all to myself by staying and continuing to work under this woman (with whom I had more run-ins with later) but I would challenge them to put themselves in my shoes. I scoured the job boards and worked my contacts for other job opportunities but came up empty-handed each time. We are not independently wealthy and we didn’t have enough saved to afford me indefinite time off. Faced with these realities, leaving my position just wasn’t tenable. So I stayed awhile longer, and yes, I suffered. It was the ultimate sacrifice - a paycheck for my mental health. No one should ever have to choose between the two.

*UPDATE:

I never did wind up going in three days a week. Leadership changed their minds about returning to the office and re-decided it wasn’t safe enough. Later, I went in once, twice a week for a few months. Then there was a mass exodus of people from the organization (more proof of its toxicity).

I did move from this position after a tormented 3 years and now have a compassionate, understanding, supportive boss. Unsurprisingly, my quality of life vastly improved, almost overnight. Also, I have since discovered that the “powerhouse” head of marketing didn’t poach me; I was essentially sold to her by a financial manager in my old office under the guise of avoiding layoffs or furloughs during Covid. I was outright lied to and misled by all three women.   

Hey y’all, 

I’m not always very good at verbally communicating my feelings and so I am sending you this note… you don’t have to reply but I just wanted to share some things with you. 

We love our Sunday talks, but tonight’s conversation was very difficult for us. We hate asking for financial help – it makes us feel irresponsible and like we are failing at adulting. You have been so beyond generous with us in every aspect of our lives and I hope we have done an ok job expressing even a fraction of our gratitude. Thank you SO much.

It’s sometimes unclear to us where we’re going wrong. For years, our focus has been on our careers, then shifted more to each other when we got married, and we’ve been trying to find the balance between both since then. Ambition is one of the shared qualities I believe make B and I work so well. We’re both somewhat addicted to achieving, meeting and exceeding goals we set. But sometimes it also feels like the hits just keep coming, and no matter how high we reach or how hard we work, something is unattainable. 

In a million years, I never, ever thought I’d be where I am, for whatever reason unable to start a family like seemingly everyone else has. It’s almost unmanageably disappointing, the worst part having to tell B month after month. It has been excruciating. The thought of not being able to give him everything he wants, and deserves, in this life makes me feel purposeless and completely hollow. But he has a magical way of making things seem better, downplaying the negatives and elevating the positives. I know this is the attitude you raised him with, and it's what helps us through our challenges, and will again as we proceed with IVF. He is everything to me and I can’t imagine ever loving another human more.   

We have a beautiful life and sometimes it’s hard not to feel guilty for wanting more. Your support and encouragement has enabled us to do some really significant things the last few years. You always make time to listen, talk, advise and love us, and me. So, from the bottom of my heart, thank you for everything.  

Love,
P

By the time I got anywhere near my apartment in the evenings, things were closed, including the pharmacy I used for my prescriptions. I am not a morning person and no matter how early I set my alarm and said I’d pick them up before work, inevitably I snoozed until the absolute latest possible minute. Five days passed and I was without my meds.

A has been my best friend since age 5. We worked summer internships in DC during college and lived in the GWU dorms together (which were nicer than my first apartment). When I moved to DC for my job at the firm, she had been there for a few years already. The timing worked out perfectly and we were able to find an apartment together. This redux was best case scenario and we were thrilled.

We planned to go out one night. I didn’t go out that much because I didn’t have much money. We went to one of our favorite Greek restaurants in Penn Quarter and then to the Chinatown movie theater to see Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps. The theater was crowded but had stadium seating and we sat first row on the elevated platform. We were waiting for the movie to start when the lights dimmed… and I blacked out.

When I regained consciousness, I was in a stretcher in the middle of the bustling movie theater lobby, being wheeled out by paramedics with my best friend walking quickly beside me to keep up. I knew immediately what had happened and I was pissed. And embarrassed.

We wound up at the GWU Hospital in Foggy Bottom. I don’t remember the ambulance ride or arriving at the ER. I just remember there being a ton of people there and A sitting in the bay with me until after 3am. And not just sitting – getting me water, asking questions, refusing to leave my side when I told her she should go home. But the most vivid memory of the entire night is her making me laugh. In the ER! After having a seizure in front of hundreds of people! She was saying ridiculous things and though I was hysterically laughing on the outside, I was crumbling on the inside. Why had I let this happen? What was wrong with me?

I had jeopardized my health, my safety. Of the more than 3,000,000 people in the U.S. with epilepsy, I was considered a lucky one - my seizures were completely controlled by medication that had few serious side effects. These pills I neglected to get in a timely manner were enabling me to live a normal life with a serious medical condition. The least I could do was feed my body and brain the blue tablets it required to help regulate my central nervous system.

In addition to the sheer stupidity of all that, I had ruined a perfectly fun evening with my best friend. I was overwhelmed with guilt. I wanted to find a way to make it up to A. Not that she expected anything; she stayed with me all night because she’s my best friend. The next day, she drove me to the pharmacy to make sure I had all my meds.

Throughout my life, I’ve put my health at serious risk. I have epilepsy and take antiepileptic drugs (AEDs). I was diagnosed when I was 11 and cycled through a few different medications, and thanks to my fabulous physicians, found Lamictal. Like many AEDs, its efficacy is reliant on timed doses. After years without seizures, I had breakthroughs at college, in my 20s, and after I got engaged. Each time was my own fault.

When it happened at college, I was 20. It was nearly the end of the year and we had been partying for days with very little sleep and far too many substances. I was a very good student and went to a very good college, known for its academics… and also its party scene. I cycled through a few different friend groups before finding four girls I really clicked with. After that, we were inseparable.

I was dating an older guy I had met the year before, and he lived below these girls, which is how we found each other. Admittedly, I was worried at first. They were all pretty and skinny and in actuality, saw my boyfriend more than I did. I’ve never considered myself naive; this was college, people partied, got drunk, things happened. But the only thing that ever happened was we all became great friends and formed beautiful bonds that last to this day. (except my ex, who turned out to be totally crazy obsessive, psycho bunny batshit insane)

I was on the balcony of my friend H’s house with the boyfriend and blacked out. I woke up in H’s bed with his arm around me and her sitting in her desk chair looking very concerned. Not angry, not upset, not still partying – sitting right there with me making sure I got put back together, like a glass figurine that had shattered. They had carried me inside from the balcony. Had they not been there when it happened, I could have fallen down two flights of stairs. I felt guilty for scaring them and embarrassed they witnessed it. But I felt especially mad at myself. I knew the potential repercussions of not adhering to my medication schedule. I had put myself in a dangerous position and was just extremely fortunate to have H – who insisted on having sleepovers for a few days to make sure I was ok. She is a wonderful friend who made me and my wellbeing her priority when I wouldn’t do it myself.

I’ve collected friends from all eras of life: elementary school, high school, college, study abroad, internships, jobs, the many different cities I’ve lived in over 36 years. My husband doesn’t understand how I kept in touch with so many people for so long, but it just happened naturally. My closest friends are scattered across the world: LA, Boston, Chicago, DC, Atlanta, Sydney, Cleveland, Denver, Toronto, Portugal, NYC. I met two of my people when we were five. One I talk to every single day. I never realized how remarkable this was until it randomly started coming up in conversations. People would tell me it was unusual to keep such a close-knit pack for so long; a group of friends that came of age together and even after going our separate ways maintained regular contact, visited each other in our respective cities, attended each other’s weddings, met each other’s babies. Birthdays and bachelorette parties could have just as easily been a parentless house party when we were 16 (with better cocktails).

Most people probably have that one friend who they don’t see for a year but when they’re together again it feels like nothing has changed. That’s my entire crew. I am proud of who I am as a friend and like to think that in real friendships, you get back what you give.

K and her brother J once came to my apartment unannounced in New York because I hadn’t been out in awhile. I was feeling down about my job situation and worried about spending too much money so I went into hibernation mode. I buzzed them into my 5^th floor walkup where I had been laying in pajamas all day, writing. The only light coming in was from the boats just outside my window on the East River. K & J hustled in, sat on my bed, asked me if I was ok, and demanded I get dressed, we’re going to dinner! At a time when I was down, they lifted me back up. On a night when they could have been doing anything in the city that never sleeps, they chose to come from Union Square to the Upper East Side and spend a few hours with me at a mediocre Italian restaurant.   

After my mom got sick, K called every single day. As an LCSW, she gave me a crash course in navigating this side of the health system and caring for someone with cognitive problems. She helped, guided, informed me about everything: what questions to ask nurses and doctors, what to look for at rehab facilities, what Medicare will and will not pay for, what to do with my mom in her fragile mental state. She referred me to a care planner. She asked for updates all the time and always said “we” – “these are the choices we have,” “we need to find out about that,” “we don’t want to do that.” She made me feel like we were truly in it together - it was a constant reminder that she was there for me. I know she was aware of her phrasing, but she wasn’t giving it a second thought. She is truly just that genuine of a friend.

Then she offered to come down. She offered to leave her family and her two kids under two and spend time helping me take care of my one. It was the kindest, most generous gesture. I was immediately overcome with gratitude and tried not to let her hear me nearly cry on the phone. I told her how much I loved her and said I’d let her know.

For years, I never wanted to have kids. I was, admittedly, very selfish, and found them weird, kind of boring, needy, and diapers made me gag (still true). Truth be told, I also perceived pregnancy as a way to become uncomfortably fat really quickly. Growing up, I struggled with my weight. Looking back, I suspect part of the reason was because I come from a long line of exceptionally talented cooks, and the other part is that when I was diagnosed with epilepsy at age 11, I was put on medication that made me gain almost 40 lbs. In middle school.

But by the time I headed into high school, I had switched meds and the weight melted off. I was the thinnest I’d ever been, and healthy. My neurologist put me on folic acid, which he explained would be a necessary complement to my drug regimen if I ever wanted to have kids. At 14, I balked at this, but at 33, when we first started trying to get pregnant, I thanked that doctor in my head many times. 

When we were dating, my now-husband and I discussed having children. He was absolutely certain he wanted them. One day, before we were married, we were sitting on the couch in his Virginia apartment watching TV and I can’t recall what was on but it prompted him to ask me, “What if you can’t have kids?”

I burst into tears.

He hadn’t meant to be insensitive, and I was surprised at my own reaction. Up until that moment, I had never thought about not having kids because I couldn’t, only not having them because I wouldn’t. But after all those years being disinterested in reproducing, his question triggered feelings I didn’t know I had. Maybe kids would be cool! Maybe kids with him would be cool.

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We got married in 2016, moved, and both started new jobs a few months after our wedding. At 30, we were in no rush to begin a family; I still didn’t even know if I wanted kids for sure. Our jobs were demanding and we were adjusting to a new city. Plus, my epilepsy and other health conditions needed to be addressed before we could even try.

Eventually, I began consulting with doctors. I knew I was already considered a high-risk pregnancy but I didn’t know exactly what that meant. For two years I worked with a family planning team consisting of an OB/GYN who specialized in high-risk pregnancies, a neurologist, an interventional radiologist, a maternal fetal medicine physician, a genetics counselor, an ENT, and a pulmonologist. Each doctor put my mind at ease and agreed that my own health issues were certainly not a reason to not have children and that plenty of women before me had healthy pregnancies and healthy babies.

As I was adapting to the idea of pregnancy, it seemed that suddenly everyone around me was expecting. Friends who got married after us were having babies, telling me that when we have one, “they’ll be besties!” I’d be lying if I didn’t say that some of this played a role in my growing desire for children. Watching our friends with their kids opened my eyes to a whole new side of them. They were indisputably happy, even when things got tough and their kid melted down faster than an abandoned ice cream cone.

I also knew how much my husband wanted a baby and I knew he would be a wonderful father. I had never said ‘never’ to having kids, and he never said it was a dealbreaker if I didn’t.

In 2019 we bought our first house. I had randomly found the listing online at 7am on a Sunday morning (why I was awake at that ungodly hour on a weekend remains a mystery) – it had been on the market less than 24 hours. I sent it to our realtor who set up an appointment to see it immediately. We fell in love and wrote an offer, beating out four others. We felt very much like adults and as if we were taking the next big step in our lives. The step after that, of course, would be children. We couldn’t ignore the fact that as proud new homeowners, we had two extra bedrooms.

Baby Brain set in and I was consumed with getting pregnant. As someone who enjoys control, my biggest mistake was trying to control this. I listened to too many people, read too much online, downloaded too many apps and spent too much money on ovulation sticks. We were hemorrhaging cash on new and unforeseen things for the house and my husband was extremely stressed.

After nine months of trying with no success, I was losing my mind. I added so much pressure to our lives and unfairly left many responsibilities to my husband. Convinced it would never happen, I sought help from a reproductive endocrinologist. He reminded me that nine months really is not very long for a healthy woman my age but understood my fears about managing my risk factors were I to get pregnant. After a slew of tests, the doctor reported that we had “unexplained infertility.”  

The Letter

I talked my husband into trying IUI. I knew someone who had done it and wound up with triplets on the first round - it sounded effective! IUI is far less invasive than IVF, not to mention a fraction of the cost. But it still required a significant time investment. I was going to the office three times a week for check-ins and giving myself shots each evening. I tried extremely hard to stay positive and reassure myself it would work.

It didn’t.

This all sounds very dramatic, and it was. It was saddening, maddening, and made me feel like the biggest failure of a wife. I know firsthand people and friends whose journey to conceiving took years and hundreds of thousands of dollars. Here I was at “only” ten months, and I began to feel very guilty for unloading on my friends. Fortunately, I have the greatest friends in the world and they were compassionate, helpful, and kept me hopeful through it all.

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We decided to stop timing the trying. I tossed the ovulation sticks, deleted the apps, and retreated to a clear headspace. We lived our lives, attended more weddings, did it when we wanted and didn’t force anything. We were coming up on the one-year anniversary of our home purchase and my husband seemed less stressed. I was no longer trying to control things. We were just living.

Then, on my drive home from work one day, I realized I was nine days late. I am never late. Ever. I walked into the house and didn’t quite know what to do with myself. So I took four pregnancy tests.

They were all positive.

I began to think back and couldn’t believe I didn’t recognize the signs. There was the morning I randomly craved OJ and after one sip was running to throw it up. My chest felt like boulders. There was the exhaustion. I had been abnormally tired to the point where I thought I had narcolepsy. I was leaving work early, my eyes closing on the long commute home, and taking naps before dinner because I physically could not keep my eyes open.

I couldn’t reconcile my emotions. I was elated and shocked and scared. I was so scared it was a false positive. I was scared to tell my husband for fear that it wasn’t real. When he got home that day, I waited hours to say anything. I found him laying on our bed and I went to retrieve the tests I had hidden earlier to give him. He smiled so wide and pulled me in to the biggest, tightest hug ever.         

In January 2020, I went in for a blood test to confirm everything and breathed a huge sigh of relief when that too came back positive. We went to the first ultrasound - the only one we’d ever attend together - and the doctor pointed out the tiny cell that would grow to be our Peanut within 9 months.

As the outside world changed rapidly, I stayed inside where I felt secure and safe. My job had sent everyone to work from home. Not having to venture into the new COVID-laden society was an absolute privilege; I could wear loungewear all day and get Starbucks iced green tea delivered when I was too nauseous to drive (a godsend for morning sickness as well as their butter croissants and marshmallow dream bars just FYI). If I needed to take a nap, I did. I wanted nothing more than to have a healthy pregnancy and a healthy baby – boy or girl, I didn’t care. I tried to do everything right.

For all my fears and worries, I did indeed have a very normal pregnancy. The nearly four months of morning/all-day sickness were brutal, but I got through it with Whole Foods mac and cheese. I gained a perfectly healthy 35 pounds, and while uncomfortable, a daily pool routine helped immensely. My husband and I bonded over my growing belly. Every Tuesday, we would look at the What to Expect - Week by Week Pregnancy chart to check what size Peanut was that week. It was a silly, fun little activity we looked forward to doing together. For the rest of the week, he would refer to the baby as that fruit - How’s my little strawberry today?

As it turned out, having a baby with my husband was pretty cool. She looked exactly like him when she was born and in my painkiller-induced fog, I wondered if the doctors had gotten the sex wrong. They hadn’t – and two years later with her long blond curls and fair skin, she’s finally looking much more like me. The other day I showed her a baby picture of myself and asked her who it was and she said her own name. It was so validating.

Reposting in recognition of Infertility Awareness Week 2023. Don’t miss Dear M&J, the letter I wrote my in-laws when we were trying to get pregnant.

Everything in that place seemed to remind us of something special, an event, holiday, our childhood, frozen in time. I tried to approach the cleanout with a sense of practicality, to only save things that seemed to matter or that could actually be useful like kitchen and cooking items. It proved difficult and I definitely wound up with more than I wanted to. I associated certain things with my mom because they were always so prevalent throughout my life - a large, round, blue platter she used to make her famous Mexican dip when she entertained, enamel and jewel brooches in the shape of ladybugs (she always loved ladybugs), an ancient yellow kitchen timer that you had to wind up to set, several Edna Hibel portraits of mothers and children.

My mom was the true sentimentalist. She held on to dozens of birthday and Mother’s Day cards my brother and I wrote her when we were growing up. I didn’t have the courage to reread them but maybe someday I will. In every card I ever wrote her, I know I told her that she was the best mom in the whole world and I was the luckiest girl to have her as mine. I am so thankful I always told her.

Evidence of her creativity was everywhere, including a spare bedroom that was approaching hoarder status filled with every conceivable craft item in existence. This was where she thrived, and where I get my creativity from. She could imagine something and bring it to life. She had a knack for taking something average and improving it to extraordinary. This was most apparent in her baking business, which she started from nothing in 1997 and grew to be a beloved company with clients across the nation. I dread the upcoming holiday season and having to somehow tell her customers that she’s no longer in business.

I realize I sometimes speak about my mother in the past tense, as if she’s gone. She’s not, physically. But my mother as I knew her is. The woman I called a million times a day, texted every insignificant thing, asked for advice, recipes, and opinions from… she is no longer with us. This is the singular most heartbreaking thing I’ve been forced to come to terms with. This is Mom 2.0. Usually new iterations are for “bug fixes” but Mom 2.0 is the opposite. She is riddled with bugs, problems that no physician or scientist has figured out how to delete. Her functionality is sub-optimal. There is no upgrade on the horizon... yet.

We tried to make the best of the trip. We saw some friends who still live there and now have families of their own, too. We spent some time outside, soaking up the milder weather and fall colors. We even went out to dinner one night. We stayed with my mom’s best friend who has been tremendously kind and helpful throughout this living nightmare. The world would be hard-pressed to find a finer human being. Mostly, though, we were together – my brother, my family, our friends – and we needed it more than we realized.

Going back to our hometown has always been complex for me. After high school, I attended college out of state and I knew I would never move back. I wanted, needed more. As a mother, when I reflect on my 18 years there, it was truly a wonderful place to grow up. But it also holds a lot of dark memories I’ve never been able to fully escape. My mom moved twice after I left and going “home” to a house other than the one I grew up in never felt right. My mom tried her best to make them feel more like home, but moving was never her choice. The second house she resided in showed signs of wear and was on a main road, outside the expensive and desirable private community we grew up in. It almost felt like an exile. When she downsized again to a townhouse, it was so small and cramped there wasn’t even space for guests to stay overnight. It was old and outdated. Quite frankly, it was depressing. When we flew up to clean it out, it was only the second time I had ever been there. Thinking about the reason why I was there was emotionally debilitating. It was 30 years too soon.

Saying, thinking, writing the words magnifies a disconnect I’m feeling. Like it cannot possibly be true. No way. It cannot be my mom. In MICU? Never.

But it is. She doesn’t look like my mom underneath the wires, needles, tubes, masks. The silence definitely doesn’t sound like my mom. Her face is gray. Her arms are bruised and bloody from all the IVs and stained with yellow medical soap. Her hair is coated with blue glue from the EEG electrodes. Under normal circumstances this would greatly upset her and she’d be rushing to wash her hair.

It was Sunday morning. I had slept in a little bit and came to the kitchen where my daughter was playing with her toys and my mother was reeling my husband into a discussion about meals for the week. She was making a grocery list – one of her favorite things to do. She said good morning to me, I sat down across from her. We talked food for a few minutes. She then suddenly put her hand to her throat and said, “My throat feels funny.” She kept talking but her words were slurred. She then said, “My voice sounds weird.” I was instantly alarmed. Was she having a stroke? My heart was racing but I tried to keep her talking to assess things. Part of her mouth looked frozen but it wasn’t drooping. The right side of her body was fine. She got up and walked to the freezer. She was lucid. The slurring went away.

But I knew something was extremely wrong. My husband and I looked at each other with concern. I texted him even though we were two feet apart. He pointed to the grocery list my mom was writing – it no longer contained words in her pretty, flowery handwriting. It was scribbles, loops, like an old rotary telephone cord.

I ran to the bedroom to text her oncologist and do a quick Google search. My hands were shaking. My mouth was dry. I was nauseous. My husband followed me to the bedroom and said she had been fine all morning. He agreed she definitely should be examined – NOW.

My mom has severe anxiety and I didn’t want to unnecessarily alarm her. I threw on clothes, ran back to the kitchen and calmly explained that I just want to make sure everything is okay and we’re going to get checked out at the ER. I expected a full-on protest or meltdown but was met with neither. She asked me why and told me she was scared.

She stood up, put her hand to her mouth and muttered, “I hope I’m not having a stroke.”

I tried to comfort her and held her hand. She was still moving around fine but the slurring had returned. I grabbed her purse and a sweater and hurried us into the car. If it was a stroke, time was of the absolute essence.

The 10-minute ride to the hospital was bizarre. She was unusually quiet. In all of our previous trips to the ER – unfortunately this was the fourth, each time on a Sunday – she had nervously chattered, speculated what the issue could be, repeated she was scared. But this time she didn’t speak unless I prompted her.

We checked in and she said she had to use the restroom. I pointed to the door and assisted her through it. She walked in and stopped. She looked around as if she forgot what she was supposed to be doing, or how to use a bathroom. She did, then we walked out. The staff immediately put her in a wheelchair and guided us to a large exam room. A team of five or six rushed in, nurses, doctors, techs. They each clearly knew their roles and were moving insanely fast. They took my mom to an adjoining room for brain scans. A neurologist was already there ready to interpret the imaging.

The scans were all clean. While this was great news, it was also suspicious. What was going on?

A nurse told my mom to repeat her words and touch her finger to her nose to the nurse’s finger. She did it all, no problem. She was talking, even being a bit funny, almost as though she was drunk.

Fast forward an hour and things were in rapid decline. My mother was growing ornery, her normal cognitive state severely deteriorating. She grew confused and began yelling at me. Not in a mean way, in a childlike way. She repeatedly asked the same questions, even when I made her recite back to me the answer I had given seconds earlier. She asked for water but when she went to take the cup with her hand, it didn’t work. I held it for her and tried again. She took the smallest sip.

The right side of her body had grown noticeably weaker. When we had walked into the ER, she moved fine herself. Now she could barely get six feet to the bathroom without assistance. She brushed the wall walking in and nearly missed the toilet when she tried to sit down.

What the hell was going on?

With the help of a nurse, we got her back to the bed. She looked terrible. Her eyes were glassy and she could barely move her right side. She had no spatial awareness, no sense of her physical self. It seemed she could no longer see in front of her. She couldn’t follow a sound with her eyes or head. When my brother arrived at the ER, he had to stand directly in front of her and I had to hold her head so she could see him.

The neurologist asked to speak with me and said my mom was indeed having stroke-like symptoms but it was odd because her imaging was normal even after they repeated it. I learned then that with strokes, there is an intravenous intervention called TPA. It’s a medication that helps dissolve blood clots and restore blood flow to the brain. It’s highly effective but must be given within three hours. While my mom was in that window, she was also being treated for a previous blood clot in her leg. She was not eligible for TPA because she was already taking anticoagulants and at high risk for bleeding, which could be fatal.

She was eventually wheeled off for an MRI. She had been admitted to the hospital given the severity of symptoms and absence of a complete diagnosis. By the time they deposited her in her new, bright white, clinical room in MICU, she was asleep. We thought it was the Ativan they had given her to help calm down, but hours later she still hadn’t woken and had barely moved.

That was three days ago.

My mom came to stay with us for the month of February. Both my husband and I had travel commitments and she happily agreed to watch Peanut. Being in school with other toddlers, she regularly came home with a runny nose or cough. My mom seemed to have acquired it this time, with a hacking cough and cold that didn’t go away even when she returned home to the north. It was nearly 6 weeks until she felt better, just in time to turn around and come back down to spend my birthday with us. One Sunday, we all woke up and began to prepare to meet my brother for brunch. As usual, I was the last one getting out of bed. I heard my husband scream my name and I went running to the family room.

My mom was shuffling down the hallway from her room to the couch, gripping her side, breathing heavily, and squeezing her eyes shut. When I asked what was wrong, she could barely speak. She was pointing to her flank area and trying to explain that she was in tremendous pain, the worst pain she had ever felt in her life. She could barely move without feeling like she was being stabbed. When it didn’t subside at all, I knew we had to go to the hospital. My husband managed to guide her slowly into my car. I flew to the ER about 10 minutes from our house, my mom’s left hand gripping mine, her right hand gripping the door handle willing the pain to stop. We checked into the ER and were put in a bay. Doctors ran tests, did scans, drew blood. Hours later, a surgeon came to the room and asked her questions: have you fallen lately? No. Have you experienced any trauma to your side? No. Have you been under extreme stress? Yes.

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The official diagnosis at the time was an adrenal hemorrhage. Given that my mom hadn’t fallen or experienced any sort of physical trauma, the doctors attributed it to intense stress. The last several months had been especially difficult with the passing of my grandmother, and she hadn’t been getting along with her brother. I had been unhappy at work and of course she worried about that; in true mom fashion she always wanted the best for me and wanted me to be happy. But this type of diagnosis indicated that she had literally stressed herself into the hospital. That weight she was carrying threw her hormones into chaos and now she had internal bleeding from her adrenals, putting her at increased risk for adrenal insufficiency, a life-threatening crisis where the body can’t produce enough cortisol. Horrible as this situation was, we hoped the experience would resonate with her and encourage her to employ some stress-relieving tactics or see a therapist. She had suffered with anxiety most of her life and the events of the last several months only exacerbated it.

Mom seemed to improve for some time. She was prescribed mild painkillers for the stabbing pains that would occasionally revisit but were not as severe as those initial ones. Not until the end of April when she was back home.

Then, they returned with a vengeance. The medication was no longer helping and other symptoms had manifested: extreme nausea, overwhelming exhaustion, an inability to keep food or even water in her body. The persistent feelings of sickness were taking a toll. My mom had always been a social butterfly; now, she had become somewhat of a recluse, staying in pajamas all day, much of the time in bed, and declining invitations from friends. There were many times she didn’t even answer the phone when we called which was a particularly bad sign. She always answered when we called and if she did for some reason miss the call, she would call back or text instantaneously.

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We were on the phone one day during the week and my mom sounded terrible. I could almost feel her pain enveloping me through the phone from 2000 miles away. Hearing her voice try to fight through it was excruciating. I told her if nothing was helping the pain she should probably go back to the ER. Finally, she acquiesced and her close friend, a former neurologic nurse, drove her. She was subjected to more tests, scans, visits from specialists.

The news came on Saturday, April 30^th, 2022. Under the pooling blood that appeared on previous scans as an adrenal hemorrhage was a tumor. Actually, two tumors, one on each adrenal gland. They spread there by way of the tumor in her lung.

That miserable day, my mom was diagnosed with Stage IV Non-Small Cell Lung Cancer.

The kind, female doctor who had been tracking my mom called me from the hospital room and broke the news to both of us at the same time. All I could hear in the background was my mom saying, “Oh my G-d. Oh my G-d.” I had taken the call in my bedroom and was walking aimlessly around my closet. My hands were sweating and shaking. When the doctor told me this, I grabbed the wall and sank to the floor. I didn’t cry right away because I wanted to hear what she had to say; but when I heard “Stage 4,” everything went to hell. My head exploded. My heart shattered. I felt numb, heavy, and hollow all at once.

The doctor had sounded as shocked as we were. My mom had exactly no risk factors for lung cancer, had never smoked a day in her life. She was otherwise completely healthy. How could this be?

The doctor gave the phone to my mom and I completely lost it. Through sobs, I remember saying, “Mom, you’re going to be ok. I am so sorry this is happening. You don’t deserve this. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. You’re going to be ok. I love you more than anything in the world.” She couldn’t reply. She didn’t cry. She said she was going to speak with the doctor and would call me back.

I sat, hysterical, in my closet. Guttural sounds escaped my throat but I couldn’t speak. My husband and Peanut sat next to me and hugged me which only made me feel worse because I consider myself a strong person and them seeing me reduced to a sobbing, helpless, vulnerable mess made me uncomfortable. I wasn’t yet ready or willing to expose my one-and-a-half-year-old to the horrors of adulthood, and I hated that she was seeing me so upset without me being able to contextualize it. She had just arrived in this world and I wanted her to see and experience love, happiness, humor, joy… certainly not sadness, tragedy, or grief.

I realized I had to call my brother. He had no idea the doctors had found the tumors and made a new diagnosis. I couldn’t stop my hands from shaking. I took a minute to acknowledge that this may be one of the hardest phone calls I’d ever make in my life. Though we’re both in our 30s, my brother is five years younger and will forever be my “little” brother. I knew telling him this would break his heart just as it did mine. Our mother is our everything.

When I told him, he replied with a deep breath and said quietly, disbelievingly, “What the fuck?”

He didn’t cry while we were talking but asked some questions and told me later the waterworks came fast and freely as the realization set in.

After we hung up, I crawled in bed, sobbed, and began to research.

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Sometimes you're flush and sometimes you're bust, and when you're up, it's never as good as it seems, and when you're down, you never think you'll be up again, but life goes on. [George Jung]

Over the last year, my world has been completely upended. I have sobbed harder and screamed louder than I can ever remember doing. I have laid face down on the ground and prayed. I have looked up to the sky, clasped my hands tightly, and simultaneously thanked G-d for small victories and silver linings while begging him - and any stars and angels I may have up there - to spare us any more heartache.

In mere months, my family was dealt blow after blow: the deaths of two family members on the same day, one parent falling severely ill, another parent receiving a life-threatening medical diagnosis, both family members enduring ER-MICU stays the same weekend, a work nightmare, a flood that drove us from home to hotel for three days, collapsing pool stairs, and the compounding expenses of repairing these things. Not to mention the mental and emotional toll this has all taken on the rest of our family.

In the beginning, I was angry. I wanted someone or something to blame for these horrible events, even though I knew there was nothing and no one. It was infuriating. I couldn’t think rationally and kept asking answerless questions. Nothing made sense. Nothing was fair. And nothing made any of it better.

How could this happen to me?
How could this happen to my family?
Why is this happening?
What have I done to deserve this?

I know these are normal-irrational questions. I know it's pointless to ask yet I am completely powerless to stop myself. I know there aren't any answers.

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If I’ve learned one thing in the last year, it’s that life truly is so short… and so unpredictable. Call it cliché, but for us, everything changed with two phone calls one Saturday afternoon. In an instant, we became the people we always felt sorry for. It’s somewhat of an indescribable feeling; personally, I still feel a lot of disbelief.

I feel as though I’ve been forced to grow up very quickly this past year. I’m facing challenges I never, ever dreamt I would. No matter how much I do or how hard I try, I always feel like I should be doing more and trying harder. While I’m grateful to be able to provide help and contribute to solutions, I hate it. All of it.

Before last summer - April 30, 2022 to be exact - we were flush. For the most part, things were great and we were happy. But on April 30, we received those two calls that changed everything and we waved our lives as we knew them goodbye forever. Suddenly, we were bust and questioned if we'd ever be up again.

But life does indeed go on, and we only get one. The small victories seem a little bit bigger. We try to appreciate the silver linings, in our case, resources. Working in healthcare, I have access to physicians who can help our parents. I have a trusted team of experts and friends whose advice I value. I know what questions to ask. I know what to look for in facilities. These things are priceless - it is not lost on us how very fortunate we are that I just happened to spend the last decade of my career at NPOs and health systems. But at the end of the day, none of it is an actual cure. There is no cure for the pain that comes with acknowledging the fact that two people we love - my mother and father-in-law - are now completely different versions of themselves. I call them Mom 2.0 and Dad 2.0. And there are no cures for what they each have. That fact has carved out a home in my brain and comes knocking every single day.

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We went to visit them for a few days over New Year’s and witnessed firsthand what appeared to be a manic episode. As we pulled into the driveway late at night, we found him sitting under the massive tree in their front yard staring up at the Christmas lights, holding a stuffed dog and rambling. It was disconcerting, made more so because this man is a top doctor in his field, a brilliant researcher with countless awards and achievements to his name. His typical demeanor is thoughtful and controlled. Witnessing him in this reduced state was very troubling – and scary.

The very next day his behavior was nearly normal again. We toasted the new year and stayed up late making jokes, laughing, talking about everything from science, medicine and academia to politics, sports, and weather. These were the conversations I always enjoyed with him. His breadth and depth of knowledge on a variety of topics always made for interesting talks and thought-provoking questions. When his behavior didn’t revert to a consistent state of normal over the next several weeks, we embarked on a journey to find help. Crisscrossing the state to meet with renowned specialists, everyone seemed short on answers. An initial diagnosis of dementia was walked back after imaging returned clean brain scans. Our family tried to adjust to this version of him, offering support and encouragement as he cycled through several medications and tried different therapies to help him both physically and mentally.

The sudden, mysterious onset of his condition was extremely stressful for my mother-in-law. Just like us, her life was turned upside down with no warning. The man she married and raised three kids with had disappeared. In his place was someone unrecognizable, unpredictable. Not only did my father-in-law change intellectually but he lost a significant amount of weight. He admitted to feeling self-conscious and insecure, two things he has never, ever been. His face was mostly expressionless, void of smiles. He seemed older, frail. My mother-in-law no longer had a partner to take walks or ride bikes with, accompany her to the theater on Sundays, go out to dinner with friends, or travel, one of their favorite things to do. For a period of time, she was unable – and uncomfortable – leaving him alone at home only to get her hair done or go to the grocery store.

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After New Year’s, he was in and out of the ER. One morning, my sister-in-law found he had pulled his mattress on to the floor, ripped off all the sheets and blankets, and thrown the pillows off. He was sleeping on just a mattress on his bedroom floor. My mother-in-law had been staying in the guest room because he hadn’t been sleeping and was waking her. That morning my father-in-law shredded his bed, his wife and eldest daughter insisted he be examined at the hospital. He was having bouts of catatonia, was agitated, uncooperative, refusing to take his medications or eat.

He was admitted to the ICU (the very same weekend my mom was also) quietly for privacy protection, given that he practiced at the hospital. A week-long stay ensued, a slew of tests were ordered, and he was monitored for erratic behavior or mental status changes. He had a temporary feeding tube inserted to prevent him from losing any more weight. Once released from the hospital, he was very weak and went home with an aide. He did physical therapy for several weeks and got strong enough to again walk on his own, though eating still posed problems.

Retirement was inevitable and appeared on the horizon by Spring. To practice medicine again would require passing a neuropsychological exam and unfortunately, he was nowhere near capable of doing so. Coupled with his age (72) and the doctors’ inability to predict improvement, he was forced to acknowledge that his office needed to fill his position and he needed to focus on his health. This was a devastating decision made worse because it was made for him. He thought he’d work another ten years, though was planning to cut back to part-time. In fact, everyone teased him that he would never actually retire… it was his biggest fear. His parents suffered from Alzheimer’s dementia and he has always been terrified of losing his mind. His attempt to ward off the same fate was by keeping his brain active, engaged in the topic he’s most passionate about: medicine.

He’s seeing a psychiatrist and his internist and they’re trying to find an effective medication regimen. So far, nothing has fully eliminated his symptoms, though thankfully, he hasn’t had any more manic episodes.

I miss our conversations. I miss his distinctive laugh where he would slowly close his eyes and throw his head back, smiling with his mouth closed. While I continued to grieve November’s losses, I was unprepared for yet another one. The sadness compounded. The small bits of anger and disbelief that had dissipated came surging back ten-fold.

Although she had been on the decline for awhile and her passing was not a total surprise, nothing ever prepares you for loss; I often still reach for my phone to call her. Sometimes, I randomly burst into tears because I miss her so much I can physically feel it. She lived far from us, and we had just been to visit her before she passed. My family didn’t return in-person for the funeral, but it was streamed and we watched online. Something like 50-75 people attended; apparently it became a “standing room only” event. I wrote the eulogy and while I’m uncomfortable saying I’m proud of a piece with such sad purpose (I don’t subscribe to the “celebrating life” ideal when people pass. I love my people and I want them near me, with me, forever! Selfish?) I’m proud of it in the sense that I truly believe it captured who my grandmother was. I like to think she laughed when she heard it, and probably said something like, “G-d bless you, sweetheart, I love you.” That was how she always signed off our calls.

I unwittingly saved her voicemails from at least seven years ago. I delete most voicemails without listening to them, but for some reason, I always kept hers. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to replay them, but I’m strangely comforted knowing I can hear her voice if I want to. I am certain she hears mine when I pray or speak aloud to her, tell her how much I love and miss her.

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Hours after she passed, another tragedy struck. One of our dogs wound up in the vet ER. This dog was my “firstborn” – my furry little everything. My husband rescued him in Virginia at college, and he really became my dog when we moved in together. He was an exceptional family member, soulful, understanding, the epitome of unconditional love. I took him everywhere with me: the grocery store, shopping, restaurants, boats, hotels. He walked down the aisle at our wedding. I treated him like a human and was mercilessly teased (and remain unapologetic). But he had been through a lot in 2020 with some freak medical issues, and whatever he was battling this time – we still aren’t quite sure – he simply couldn’t fight off. He was 12 and I know we gave him the best, most fulfilling life any dog could wish for and he would agree. I just always expected he’d go on his own time, peacefully, with us. Losing him how we did was traumatic. He deserved so much better than the stark lights of a bare clinic, hooked up to IVs, sedated. We were eventually forced to make the unfathomable decision to let him go. I hyperventilated, wrought with pain from the news of my grandmother hours earlier, in disbelief that the universe could be so cruel to take two loves of my life in such rapid succession. My husband went to be with him in the ER, but in my hysteria, I simply couldn’t. I keep his collar on my dresser and often tell him how much I love and miss him, too, and hope he isn’t upset with me for not being there at the bitter, bitter end.

Until now, I was truly blessed in life to not have experienced loss like some of my friends. My grandfather passed in 2012 which was terrible, though also not entirely unexpected. My great-grandmother passed in 1997 and while I was very close with her, my young age (11) and underdeveloped emotions shielded me in a way from the painfully numbing realization that I would never see or be with her again. She passed at home and the glimpse I got of the coroner removing a stretcher with a black bag from the house is forever seared in my mind. I wasn't as close with my paternal grandparents and though I loved them, our relationships were very different, especially given that my parents were divorced. We saw my dad's parents much less frequently.

I've wondered if this is the universe's way of catching up with me. I know it sounds cynical. But I just haven't been able to wrap my around the cruelty that was November 27, 2021. In the middle of the holiday season, nonetheless - I love the holidays, just as my mom does. My grandma's birthday was Christmas Day and for years, we always had a big dinner celebration at her house... though we're Jewish, we celebrated Hanukkah on Christmas Day when the whole family could be together. My grandma and I baked peanut blossoms every season, using her “vintage” avocado-colored mixer. I loved watching her open gifts. I loved putting up my dog's stocking, squeaky toys peeking out the top.

Little did I know, the agony that resulted from that one horrible day was just a taste of more unexpected loss to come.

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