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  • Still Dealing with It (Unedited)

    (This isn’t a review on The Pitt, though I might do one at a later date. Anyway, I just wanted to state that at the start.)

    When my daughter was born, I discovered that all of my emotions were right at the surface. It didn’t take much to make me cry; my baby girl holding my finger, or falling asleep on me would cause a gush of joyous tears out of me. But I also began to notice that commercials that had to do with parents and kids would make a big softy outta me. I even cried watching a Simpsons when Marge sang a lullaby to Bart. I wouldn’t call this state sensitive, nor thin skinned, but it was a state where I felt that it was very easy to tap into what I was feeling. Maybe everything didn’t make me cry, but I was able to feel everything. I learned to control it, but “control” isn’t the right word – I learned to work with it, might be a better description.

    The only other time I felt that way was when my mother was in the hospital, and the fear of her death made me and my whole family exist without much of an emotional filter. When the doctor confirmed that she was, in fact, going to die and there was nothing that could be done to save her, what littler filter we had dissipated. One moment we would be normal and having a conversation, and then something would snap, and we would just explode in tears – just loud painful sobs. Then it would pass, only soon at any moment we would again break in sobs, tears of grief. After she passed, we all dealt with her death in our own ways; each person’s mourning was their own. We were there for each other, but we all took different paths in dealing with it.

    For me, I just tried to plow ahead. I had a kid to take care of and a family to provide for. I was left feeling sad all the time for about two years. Not so many tears after that first year, but on special days, holidays, birthdays; the sadness would return, but anger started showing up for me as well. I have been trying to work through my anger and sadness. I through myself into art, creative outlets, and putting a few additional pictures of my mother up around the home. It’s been almost seven years, and talking about her doesn’t hurt anymore, which I know is a sign of progress.

    But there are a few areas that I know I have been avoiding, or not processing well. One of the oddest manifestations of my avoidance is that I pretty much won’t watch medical shows. Anything with doctors or hospitals, I will come up with a reason not to watch it. I won’t even watch reruns of M*A*S*H or ER. And I know 100% why, and it’s because I don’t want to relive any of those feelings of watching my mother slowly die in a hospital bed.

    But I am a huge ER fan, and curiosity got the better of me and I started watching The Pitt, and sure as shit there is a story line about an elderly father not wanting to be intubated to stay alive, and his adult children over rule his wishes. The show didn’t shy away from showing the pain and discomfort the father was in, as well as showing the confusion, guilt, shame, and fear of having to make end of life decision for your parents.

    The situation in the show was not exactly like the one me and my family went through with my mother, but it was painfully close enough. And as I watched the story unfold, the vice in my head kept telling me to shut it off, it was late, go to bed, you have an early morning, reliving your pain won’t help… But I pushed though it. I let myself go back there. Feel it again; the fear and pain, and numbness and rawness and confusion – sometimes not knowing how I was going to survive this. How was I going to keep living without my mother? How was I going to live with this loss, this pain, all of this that will never go away?

    I sat on my couch at 1am and just cried for a while. I don’t even know if the show was that good, but I know I let something out that I haven’t been acknowledging existed in the first place. I have been dodging that final week of my mother’s life. That week where she was in a hospice bed with a morphine drip, and it was my mother but it wasn’t. She wasn’t there, and we just listened to her breathing with everything and nothing passing through my head. I sat there watching her dying, and we all spoke to her, but she was never going to respond back to us. I just wanted my mom to touch my hand and tell me that she loved me, but that moment had passed. All I could do was watch and wait, and it was so painful.

    I am still processing, and a dear friend did say to me that we never stop processing losing a parent; it just becomes a part of who we are. I think they’re right, and I love them for their honesty with me. I still have places and emotions I need to work through. Recesses that refuse to come into the light of day. I know where they are, and what they are. Just not always ready to deal with them yet.

    I will.

    In time.

  • Another Rainy Monday

    Another Rainy Monday

    You know, exactly two weeks ago, I was sitting at home on a rainy Monday, writing about it being a rainy Monday.

    And it’s another rainy Monday.

    Just like I did two weeks ago, I pushed through the wet weather, and did the family laundry. It’s a chore that I agreed to; my part of the deal in being the stay-at-home dad. It’s not my favorite thing to do, but needs to be done. I folded laundry while watching MST3k on PlutoTV. The act made me want to take a nap, and gave me pause to reevaluate my conclusion on the latest season of the show. Perhaps I was too critical.

    The sky is still gray, but the rain has subsided. The temp is mid-forties, and I have a sweater on. I should be reading a book.

    Or I should be contemplating about the coming of Spring?

    Or I should contemplate the strange desire I have to put on shorts, but still wear a sweatshirt? That look, it makes me think of New England Summers. It warm and cool at the same time. It might get up to 76, but when the sun sets, it drops down into the 50’s. That sounds like an ideal summer to me.

    Yet, to get there, Summer that is, I have to make it through this Spring. And it is Spring around here. All the trees have started to bud, and the daffodils have popped out in the parks. It even feels a little more upbeat around the neighborhood. Like a slightly better mood, or maybe people are being optimistic to the change in season.

    For now, I have a gray sky and an under-construction condo-tower to look at. I would like that nap, but I have to get the kid from school, so no rest for the lazy.

  • ODDS and ENDS: Dog Haircut, Covid Conscious, and Just Doing What I’m Doing

    (They tried to kill him with a forklift…)

    My dog needs a haircut. Some might call that grooming, but I find that word problematic; grooming. She gets a cut every three months, so being that we just crossed into April, we’re right on schedule. Yet, the dog is hairier and shaggier than she has ever been. And she stinks. The wife does bathe the dog regularly, but the hair is so long, it just traps in the smell. I guess what I am really saying is that the dog is a mess. And she knows it. She looks at us, at least I assume as the hair covers her eyes, in a most pitiful fashion, saying, “Please sir and madam, may I have a haircut?” Again, that’s an assumption.

    The wife has Covid. Not very server, more like a mild flu. I’m taking care of her, and making sure she’s resting and being taken care of. Sadly, I didn’t get my Covid vaccine this year, so I have set myself up for a possible infection. If I’m still healthy by Sunday, then I know for sure that I am in the clear. As such, I’m being very cautious and conscious of my contact with other people. Mainly, this is my excuse for not going to the gym this whole week. You gotta be safe, and I like having an extra hour to drink coffee on the couch while watching DREW.

    So… the world might be going to hell or ending soon; who can tell these days. For that reason, I’m just going to keep doing what I’m doing. I’m not giving up, and I will still see you at the March.

  • Earworm Thursday: In Honor of Val

    This is one of my favorite U2 songs. Also, a reminder of the passing of Val Kilmer earlier this week, as this song was part of the Batman Forever soundtrack.

  • Short Story Review: “Marseille” by Ayşegül Savaş

    (The short story “Marseille” by Ayşegül Savaş appeared in the April 7th, 2025 issue of The New Yorker.)

    Illustration by Virginie Morgand

    Old friends are the best friends you can have! There, I said it, and I am willing to die on this completely uncontroversial hill! See, I know that my old friends, some that I have known since grade school, have made my life better, funnier, and have given me perspective in immeasurable ways. Mainly because we have grown older together. Reading “Marseille” by Ayşegül Savaş reminded me of the virtues of having old friends.

    Here’s an Overly Simplistic Synopsis: Amina, who recently had a baby, goes out for a weekend in Marseille with two of her old university friends, Alba and Lisa.

    I try to keep an open mind, and not to jump to conclusions when I start reading a story, but by the time I made it to the third paragraph, and read that this was going to be a story about three old friends going away for a weekend, the cliché and trope sirens started going off in my head. And I can admit that I was totally wrong for doing that. Though, I feel that this “red herring” of a situation was part of Ayşegül Savaş’ plan all along, lulling us in to the story.

    The story’s opening paragraph describes how Amina and her husband have been trying to give each other space and time away from each other, in an attempt to reclaim their lives, “which had been on hold since the baby was born.” So, from the start, the premise of the work is reclaiming one’s self, even after change has occurred. And as we follow Amina and her friends around for these few days, that theme is repeated, in which change is coming, or has already occurred.

    And Ayşegül Savaş handles this theme very smartly. Again, so many times this story could have fallen into the land of middle-aged people tropes, but it never goes there. For one reason, our three characters aren’t that old, perhaps just entering into their thirties. The other way this theme is handled well is that Amina comes into contact with three women, two in the setting of the story and one as a memory, over the stretch of the piece; the first is a new mother on the train out to Marseille, the next is an older woman that explains that desire goes aware after giving birth but will return, the third is a young woman on the ferry ride. It’s as if Amina encounters her present self, her future self, and her past self – these interactions don’t represent warnings of the future, or regrets of the past, but are more like mile posts signaling the changes that happen in life. But what I appreciated most that this was a story about three friends who discover that they have changed by getting older, and still remain friends.

    In the end, “Marseille” is a story about that moment that we all know is coming – that moment when we get the first hint that we aren’t young anymore.