Full Circle

It hasn’t been an easy couple of weeks, let me start with that. The process of moving things around at home to make for a safer and more comfortable living situation for Mom and Dad was a daunting task. I tapped the next generation for help and those youngins delivered. Our dining room has shifted into the living room, the living room couch shifted into our den off the kitchen, Mom’s “office” (a basket to the right of the stove) has also shifted to the den, and we gave Mom’s minivan away to the highest bidder. Just kidding, Mom. I know you’re probably not reading this but I couldn’t resist. “YOU BETTER NOT SELL MY MINIVAN!” she said on a call yesterday from Shady Pines oops I mean Harbor House. We both laughed and I told her I wouldn’t dare touch her white chariot.

The family was scheduled for a phone conference on Friday with Harbor House to discuss the plan for Mom’s release. She knows that we are caring for Dad and the Irish Catholic in her feels guilty and wants to be, at the very least, another body in the home. We, her children, just want her body to be in the tip toppiest shape when she does return and have urged her to treat Shady Pines like a brief hotel stay albeit with terrible food. Her roommate is 96, Irish, from Dorchester, and also a hot ticket. They have gotten along famously as you can imagine, an unexpected social connection in this “revolting development” as Mom likes to call it. With all her desire to get the heck out of rehab, she barreled into the room for the family meeting and got tangled up with a man in a wheelchair and fell to her knees causing a bit of a scrape. Nothing serious, mind you, but just enough for them to cancel the meeting and push the release date up a bit. As you can imagine, Mom was ripshit. When I talked to her I told her that maybe she shouldn’t have tried to take someone out on our way into the meeting. “I didn’t take him out! He had his legs way out into the hallway!” she protested. “Ah, it was his fault then.” I said. “YES! It was.” We laughed because, you have to admit, it’s funny. Poor Mom. Two times after I got off the phone with her, she called me back thinking I was Visa. She had accidentally hit her last call on her flip phone and got me instead. “Why is it you?” she asked. “I don’t know but I wish I were Visa! I’d be a lot better off financially.” Hello Netflix, this needs to be a series. Who do you think should play Mom? Me? Dad? Isaac? Maire? Just so very rich. We’ll call it Everybody Lives with Mary.

With everything going on with Mom and Dad, my family and I have reentered the school year with all the nerves, stomach issues, Covid concerns, and fevers that that implies. J.D. started high school and is on JV soccer. He was a wreck on that first morning but slowly settling in. I kicked him up to a few honors classes because I know he’s capable but the transition is jarring. “So, I’m supposed to bring my summer reading book into school tomorrow.” he told me on Thursday. The problem is, he never did a LICK of summer reading and of that I am not proud. I know. I know. Don’t judge. “Well, this is a good opportunity for you to level with your new teacher and be honest yet make a solid commitment to upping your game hereafter. You can even add that your Mom is a little cray as is our house to gain some sympathy points.” On second thought, maybe he should just direct her to read this. On Tuesday, Maire woke up burning hot with a 101.8 fever and about 4 of the symptoms on the Covid checklist. Given our living situation, I knew I had to have her tested and also knew this would mean no Open House and no first day of school for her. “I want to go to Open House but I’m just sooooo hot!” she cried. Poor kid was the only one of the three genuinely ecstatic to return to school. Whatever she had, she tested negative and was 100% better by the next day, forcing me to give her tough math problems to help prepare her for school.

Isaac faced going into 7th grade with less gusto than any of them and claimed that his stomach was making him unable to walk. Luckily, Jorge was there that morning and I stepped back and let him handle it. He didn’t want to get on the bus and was driven instead. When he got home that afternoon, he had the very same fever Maire had the day before and felt like crap. Rapid test for Covid said negative so I pumped him with Motrin and by nightfall he was fine. The next day he was all duded up for picture day and had achieved full recovery. Meanwhile, Barb has taken an FMLA and is helping get the kids onto busses and care for Dad. I started my first two days of school, have had a couple stomach issues as a result, had a minor blowout with Maire on Friday over god knows what (she’s a tough one and takes after her grandmother), and got my period despite my daily prayer for menopause to take pity on me and accept me in to its warm embrace. It was a perfect storm of a week and my stomach is still grumbling in protest. I know everyone hates us teachers for being so footloose and fancy free during the summer but these transition days suuuuuck and there’s a lot of energy that goes into our jobs making summers off an absolute necessity in my opinion. I can’t believe that the school year has already begun but as one of my besties always says “You better get your believer fixed!”

One of the benefits I have found to living through a crisis is that it helps my brain fire on all four cylinders. Most people who know me know that I’m pretty chill, a little ditzy, and a not so great driver (I hug the right and am untimely with oil changes). When shit hits the fan, I seem to get more shit done. I don’t know why this is but I’m going to roll with it. I have yet to schedule my next appointment with my therapist and part of me wonders if I need to. The past four years have been tough to say the least; I am very far from perfect and my life goals are not yet in reach. With all the crises that have happened, I have been challenged to grow and I think I have. What I lack in many departments, I make up for in self-awareness and owning of my shit. If I fuck up, I will apologize to you and most likely will be able to point out the many different ways that I fucked up. This has actually worked against me over the years and I am now aware of that too. So, I don’t know what I’m going to do with therapy but I do know there are many who need it and aren’t able to get in. I am certainly not “cured”, the journey to mental health wellness is never ending and I know I will always need a little SSRI to keep my serotonin kicking around between my synapses. OCD saps your serotonin and Prozac prevents that from happening. I owe so much to my therapist who, after session 6 or 7, I realized was the Mom of one of my former students. She has encouraged me to take up space in my life, to stand up for what’s right for me and others, and to stand up to what’s wrong as well. Most importantly, she has taught me how to stand up for myself and my family. I am on stronger legs today because of her guidance. Yet, I know that the ultimate goal of therapy is for patient to become their own therapist and I think I’m close enough. Luckily for me, this publication is not written in stone so I can easily eat my words next week and admit it to you all. You too have given me therapy over the years by allowing me to share my journey and encourage me with every step. Thank you. Now, Dad is up and will soon be needing juice, breakfast, and entertaining television. Another beautiful day in this life of mine begins.