7 years ago today, my mom died of pneumonia that she came down with while on chemo for esophageal cancer.  She was diagnosed in December with this 4th round of cancer.  Every time before, she had mouth cancer, and she beat it, so I wasn’t even incredibly worried.  It was unfathomable to me that she would die.

It was the first time she’d been prescribed chemo.  I took her some Ensure on April 15th (easier for me to get from Presby downtown since I worked nearby) and I snapped a photo of her and Dad because they looked really cute and happy as I left their house.  It was the last time I saw Mom alive and well.  It was the last time I saw Dad really happy.

Mom’s death was the first significant loss of my life, and it spawned other significant events, most importantly that when Dad was diagnosed with glioblastoma almost exactly a year later, he decided after one round of treatment that he was ready to move on and join Mom (which to me also sounded like, leave Jenny and me behind).  Dad was diagnosed in April 2014 and died in January 2015.

Even before Dad died, he had decided to sell the house where he and Mom are pictured, which they had bought in 1977, where Jenny and I grew up.  His cancer surgery and treatments had caused some impairments, and so he sold his truck that he was no longer allowed to drive and moved in with Jenny.  The sale was finalized in February after his death.  Losing  both parents and our childhood home was a lot.  I still can’t go back to my old house, to that neighborhood, without a lot of pain.  I knew those losses would come . . . even as Jenny and I discussed keeping the house to rent it, we knew were just trying to hold on to the past, to our memories, to our treasures.  What made that place magical was the people who inhabited it and the memories we created there.  It was time to let it go and hope someone else would find the same magic in it we had known.  Knowledge that it was purchased to be a rental property and a few drive-bys to see how poorly the landscaping has been kept tell me that dream hasn’t come true (yet), but – it does still say “LYNN” on the mailbox, and that makes Jenny and me and the neighbors who also miss the days before we sold it smile.

Mom’s death also opened our eyes to how we deal with stressors and loss.  Jenny’s anxiety/panic returned with a vengeance; Dad was diagnosed with depression and started taking medicine for it (which I realized he should have been doing for…ever); and I discovered somewhere between the death of Mom and the death of Dad that I wasn’t coping well with stress and needed to talk to a therapist and consider medicine, also.  So far, I’ve managed with writing, talking (to a therapist), and over-the-counter aids, but I see a lot of Mom in me.  She had been on anxiety medicine when she died, and we’re both sort of helper/giver/overachiever types who tend to do too much, worry too much, and wear ourselves out.

It was actually during Mom’s last cancer diagnosis that I started writing for public consumption, on a CaringBridge page my sister created to keep everyone updated about Mom’s progress.  I found that writing helped me process my own feelings, and people seemed to identify with the things I shared.

Ultimately, I changed jobs, which I think was necessary for my quality of life, but that in itself was a stressor, and a loss, and something I’m still working out.  In the month that Mom was diagnosed, I remember working from home on a very difficult case, and my hands had started peeling and cracking.  I wrapped some Scotch tape around them and kept on going.  My husband had also started working in a different city earlier that year.  For years, I wore bandages on whatever fingers were affected and could never figure out if my hand issue was stress, diet, weather, or a combination of things.  My hands have been better for several months now, maybe a year or more.  No bandages.  I do credit some “potions” I put on them, but was it also a change in lifestyle/attitude/workload?

After Mom died, I noticed that I had less tolerance for certain things at work.  I think I took off a whole week or more for her death because she was in ICU and I was with her in the hospital, hoping she would recover, but then she didn’t, and then there was the funeral, and then I went back to work on a Friday so I only had to get through one day before I got a weekend to recover some more.  (This was wise advice from Mom’s cousin who told me once you go back, you need to be ready to BE BACK FOR GOOD.  Employer will expect that.)

With Dad, I remember planning to take off on a certain day to be with him and the hospice nurses when my sister called as I drove to work one day and said he had already started dying.  Of course I argued with her because I had not planned on this and I had court . . . but I knew.  I know what she was telling me was true.  I got to work, my friend who worked with me saw me crying at my desk as I was still trying to figure things out, and he talked to our boss and they got me out of there.  Dad was present enough when I arrived to reach for me.  And, like Mom, Jenny and I were with him when he passed.

I returned from Dad’s death in time to attend a hearing regarding a problem client.  On the way to the courthouse, we passed where dad used to work and I started to cry.  In hindsight, of course this hearing could have been done without me.  I’m not even an attorney.

When Pete went to work in another city, there were a variety of reasons why I didn’t immediately follow him.  With the death of my parents, two big reasons were gone.

And my perspective changed.

Work seemed less important.  Having a job, yes.  But having a job where I cried on my way to a hearing so soon after my dad died?  No.  Having a job where, when my mom died, one of the attorneys who attended her funeral had to explain to another problem client that my boss and I were not answering his emails because we were all at my mother’s funeral?  No.  I wanted a job where I felt less abused.  I wanted a job where I didn’t feel a need to work so defensively.  I wanted a job with less demand, less criticism, more trust.  But it took me years to get there because I loved some of the people I worked with and for, clients included, so very much.  And I recognized, after so many years, how much responsibility I had, how big my shoes were to fill.

Years passed and Pete and I decided we didn’t need the big house with all of its chores since we lived in two different cities and weren’t having children.  Another perspective changed.  One more tie cut.  I don’t know that I would have made this change if my parents were still around.  I don’t think they would have been super happy with the move uptown into the tiny apartment.  Pete’s and my house in the suburbs symbolized everything I was always taught to pursue, and it also had space for grandchildren.  But Pete and I have come to different visions for our future now, including how we want to spend our leisure time, and it isn’t yard work.

Mom and Dad would be happy that eventually, Pete and I reunited in the same city and don’t go back and forth every weekend.  Losing my parents made me question how I spend my time.  I remember Mom coming to my office one night before a hockey game we were attending together.  I was trying to finish things up and she had fallen on her way in.  There was a period where she was not being very careful and she fell a few times (something else I have noticed in myself – being distracted, being overwhelmed, not paying attention).  A friend of mine went to assist her because I couldn’t – DIDN’T – stop what I was doing just yet.  I find this unbelievable today, but it’s true.  And it’s horrible.  Nothing should have been more important than my mom arriving, especially if she was injured.  And because I put so much expectation on myself, I’ll never know if the job demanded it or if I willingly gave it over.

I’m reading a book now called Present Over Perfect by Shauna Niequist in which she talks about a job loss: ” . . . all the while grasping back to a job and identity that was no longer mine to grasp.”

In June, it will be a year since I left that job, and I still identify so much as a member of that firm.  I have written to people and identified myself as “formerly of ____” because I’m not sure the recipient knows me otherwise – and because I still feel part of a place that I am not.  This past year has been about learning to be a new employee, relearning how to be a full-time spouse, and learning how not to get so invested in a job, because the fact is, once you leave a job, you are gone . . . severed . . . out . . . even if some people do keep in touch with you here and there.  I need to quit referencing myself in relation to that firm.  It would be like getting divorced and printing up address labels that say, “Former Mrs. Pete.”

For the last 7 years, I guess I’ve been struggling with identity in a lot of ways.  My husband and I lived apart, then back together.  We spent all of the apart time explaining, “Yes, we’re still married.  Yes, we like each other.”  And my parents died, and my identify felt enormously damaged.  We spend so much of our youth fighting for independence and freedom, but then our parents die and we struggle to know who we are if not their children.  Of course I know I still am Tom and Betty’s daughter . . . it’s just very different when they aren’t around to tell anyone.  And now, for almost a year I am back in a city where I used to live, trying to make new friendships and revitalize old ones.  I like my job and I like my boss, but he’s had so much turnover that he often refers to me in writing as “staff” and my email address doesn’t even have my name in it.  And I’m trying to not get too invested since that turns me into a person who leaves her mother bleeding on the sidewalk.  Maybe we’ll find a happy medium somewhere.

Thank you for sticking with me (so far) as I continue to try to “find myself” and “be my best self.”  I’m pretty sure it won’t happen in a video chat, so . . . maybe on the other side of this pandemic.

I’m not alone.  I’ve seen other people post about how unusually tired they are since COVID-19 began taking its toll.  We’re tired from

• worry
• the extra effort everything takes now
• boredom
• separation
• loneliness
• longing
• searching for things that apparently no longer exist at a store
• waiting in line to enter stores, then feeling rushed to get out of the store so someone else can enter
• bagging my own groceries because my reusable bags are no longer safe
• unfairness
• unpredictability
• the people who know everything but don’t agree about everything they know
• the people who know nothing and make it very clear while being near us or in charge of us
• being people who know we don’t know everything and worry that we did the wrong thing(s)
• being in charge
• not being in charge
• inconsistency
• sickness
• death
• symptoms that may or may not be COVID-19
• no symptoms that still don’t mean someone doesn’t have COVID-19
• gimmicks to keep us entertained online
• a new surge in chain letters, which goes well with that senior class photo I didn’t post despite popular demand
• hoaxes
• unemployment
• being overworked
• lack of structure
• lack of routine
• wearing masks (but I am so grateful for the people who are making them!)
• washing hands
• carpal tunnel, insomnia, and crying (contributed by Holly)
• worry

I think it all comes down to worry.  For me, this is a fight with an invisible bug.  How the f*ck am I supposed to attack something I can’t see?  I know it shows itself sometimes, as in, when people show symptoms, or in a lab.  I know it exists.  But I’m wearing masks and washing my hands and trying not to touch people and trying not to touch things and it feels like I’m dodging (rather than chasing) an invisible Pokemon.  (Maybe this isn’t a good reference since I never actually played Pokemon.)

I lack control.  I lack absolute knowledge.  I lack enough people I can touch and spend time with.

I have a job.  I’m so lucky – and yes, luck is about all it comes down to right now.  It’s not about being essential.  Hey, I’m delighted to booze it up almost every day of the week, but alcohol truly should not be essential, and there’s a problem when it is.  I was raised in AA and I can’t let go of that mindset.  (After posting this, I keep revisiting this thought and find it harsh.)  I don’t want the alcohol stores to close, though – I want all the businesses to open!  I want my theater friends and hair styling friends and personal fitness friends and all the other “nonessential” workers to get back out there and get paid . . . I want us all to go back to living outside our homes!  Haven’t we had enough time to figure out how to do it safely?  Skip a seat, skip 2, skip 3, skip 5 in the theater.  Skip tables in a restaurant.  I don’t remember ever having anyone next to me in the hair salon.  We can figure it out, people.  WE CAN.  I know so many people who don’t have jobs, and I constantly drive past businesses that are barely hanging on (https://mountainx.com/opinion/letter-a-plea-from-the-owners-of-an-asheville-restaurant/), some that have closed completely.  There is no fairness to it.  “You work.  You don’t.  You open.  You close.”  I’m sure there was thought put into it, but thoughts aren’t paying the bills and thoughts won’t fund all of the unemployment claims.

This guy has some good ideas: https://freopp.org/a-new-strategy-for-bringing-people-back-to-work-during-covid-19-a912247f1ab5.  I warn you, it’s a long read, but well thought-out.

I’m just tapped out this week.  I have little interest in anything.  There’s no end in sight and things seem somewhat hopeless.  I’M NOT SUICIDAL.  I have big plans for my funeral.  I’m not dying when only 10 or fewer people can come see me off.  If I pass during this thing, you folks wait and celebrate me when I can have a proper burial of 3-digit attendees.  1900 Mexican, Strada, and Little Caesar’s will cater.  (I haven’t asked them, but who can say no to a dead person?)

Thanks for reading my sad ramblings.  I know you all have your own feelings, your own struggles.  I know we’re all in this together.  I can’t wait until we’re out of it . . . together.

For starters, I don’t know if I have it…or have had it…or will have it.  Some people have been tested, and of the people who have had it, it’s too early to tell if they are forever immune, but that seems to be the hope, the educated guess (https://www.nbcnews.com/health/health-news/can-you-catch-coronavirus-twice-you-ll-probably-be-immune-n1171976).

I have been of the understanding that some people could have COVID-19 and never know it.  That part of the reason this virus is so widespread is its invisibility.  People genuinely believe they are fine and unknowingly spread it to others.  This article indicates that that situation is perhaps very rare (which doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen), but pre-symptomatic transmission is more likely happening: https://www.sciencealert.com/here-s-what-we-know-so-far-about-those-who-can-pass-corona-without-symptoms

It’s a practice of medicine, not a perfection all of the time.  This is a new, rapidly spreading virus that scientists, doctors, and the rest of us are still trying to figure out.  And as with seemingly every other important thing, there is not one consensus on how to approach it, how to stop it, how to manage it.  Do we or do we not wear masks?  Do we or do we not literally stay in our residences 24/7 until told it’s safe to come out?  Do we have enough supplies in our homes, in the hospitals, in the world, to get through this pandemic?  How bad will the financial destruction be?  How many people will die?

There have actually been arguments over whether it’s worse for people to die or for the economy to collapse.  I don’t even see these as comparable choices.  I want neither of them to happen and I recognize that both are happening and both are tremendously horrible in very different ways.  We cannot bring back the deceased.  That is for certain.  There will also be businesses that close (if they haven’t for good already), and don’t consider that as an “oh well” side effect until you’ve been the one to pour your heart and soul into something as your livelihood only to watch it disappear.  Now you have no income, and oh, you’ve had to let your staff go, too.  People have lost their jobs, either permanently or temporarily.  Every time someone I love announces a job loss, I want to send them money, and I remember that I can’t because my husband lost his job in January.  We lost our health insurance.  Who else has lost theirs now, during a pandemic?  Who’s trying to find a job in a pandemic?  Everywhere I go, I see signs of desperation in my community: stores closed, stores pleading for business, stores reminding us they are still open, stores telling us they hope to see us on the other side.  I can’t afford to over-tip every time I get takeout, and I can’t afford to eat out a lot anymore.  I can’t do enough on my own to keep these places going.  I see more panhandlers and more homeless camps than I did a month ago.

And I see these things because I leave my apartment.  I’m not sure if the “STAY HOME” mantras are meant to literally encourage everyone to stay inside their residences 24/7, but I think the answer is yes, some people really do mean that.  Some people are panicking and I can’t tell them not to because I don’t have better answers.  If you don’t leave your home and you don’t come into contact with another human, I think it is safe to say you will not catch coronavirus.  But how will you get food and supplies?  I know one household in my circle of friends who probably has enough to get through months of this thing.  They’re folks known as “preppers,” often mocked until something like this comes along and we start considering them in envy.  I can’t be much of a prepper in an apartment.  I always try to buy ahead, but I backed off a little given our current income situation.  Then a damn pandemic happened and suddenly there’s no toilet paper, no wipes, no spray, and the food starts disappearing at the grocery store, and I wish I’d hoarded and I miss my deep freezer and my sister’s farm.

But I’m glad I didn’t hoard, because that isn’t fair, and it isn’t necessary, and it isn’t my way.  We can get through this thing together, responsibly, not everyone for him/her/theirself.

I work in an office with only 6 people and we all sit in different rooms.  I am grateful to have a job and although we have all been encouraged to work from home, we still go to work because it’s more effective and I appreciate the routine and the escape and not trying to maneuver around a work-from-home podcaster.  But I observe ways in which going to work puts us, and therefore potentially others, at risk . . . just like I do when I go to the grocery store, and the gas station, and get takeout.  I can’t even grasp how grateful I feel for the job I still have, because I feel like it’s all about to come to an end.

If you’re able to stay home 24/7, I’m curious about you and if you are able to be self-sufficient without requiring someone to deliver necessities to you, therefore putting them at risk.  To be clear, I fault absolutely no one for staying home 24/7.  It is so far the only foolproof way I can see to stop the spread (but I could be wrong: see title).  I’m not sure it’s realistic, especially as the shelter-in-place orders keep being extended.  Not realistic to save lives, you ask?  Yes.  Yes, I want to save lives.  Yes, I will work from home and have already been slowly stockpiling lots of supplies and food in case we reach a point where we are mandated to literally not leave our residences for a period of time.  And yes, I find the inconsistency from leadership appalling, confusing, and disheartening.  I’m still seeing reports of flights and cruise ships in motion, and I cannot fathom why these modes of travel weren’t shut down as soon as it was realized we had a pandemic.  Talk about not making sacrifices!  Subways are still running in NYC.  I know people depend on the subway, but I’ll be amazed if people are maintaining 6′ distances while maneuvering in the tunnels or on the cars.  Shopping malls only closed late last month, and I have mixed feelings about it, because in the same moment I think, “Duh, close the non-essential malls where people bump into each other and spread this thing doing their frivolous shopping,” I realize that said closure put so many people out of work.  I’m mad at the edicts that decide who gets to keep a job and who doesn’t, and while I think it’s necessary because there was plenty of news coverage demonstrating people who just didn’t grasp the seriousness of this virus, I also observe the stores that remain open and trust their customers to social distance and I think that’s really how it should be done, until I hear of someone sneezing on a salad bar.  We’re also a lot further along now, and I think the further we go, the more seriously people take it, and also, the more frustrated people become with lack of escapes and lack of income.  I have a friend who has started receiving unemployment and I am grateful for that.  I worry that there isn’t enough to go around.  The unemployment numbers are high.

I have seen requests for testing so that if a lot of the population has already had it and is therefore immune, they could return to work and we could start getting things back on track.  I like this idea, but I don’t know if it’s feasible since I think tests are in high demand and short supply.  I also don’t like watching the world on hold with halfway rules to curb this thing.  Halfway isn’t going to cut it.  But can anyone promise us that it’s over if we stay inside for 2 weeks?  Really, really over?  I haven’t seen that promise.

Easter is next weekend.  I’ll be spending it with my spouse and cat.  I’ll be missing my sister, brother-in-law, nephews, brother-in-law’s mother, and a couple of friends I was going to see that weekend.  I feel reasonably safe leaving my residence to drive 3 hours and be at their residence.  It’s my safe residence to their safe residence, see?  But those aren’t the rules, right?  And I don’t want to be “those people” who come down with coronavirus and added to our story is, “Well, they thought they were exempt and could travel to see each other for Easter.”  But frankly, it’s a hard sell to me that I’m any less safe doing that than I am at work or the grocery store . . . both of which are permitted, both of which are essential.  Tell my heart and mental health that time with family isn’t essential.

Whatever you are doing, however you are coping with this, so long as it doesn’t mean intentionally trying to spread coronavirus or being dangerously negligent, I hope you’re getting through it OK.  I hope we all are.

I joined a roller derby group this year at the age of 44.  To clarify, I have attended weekly practices since early January and will have to pass assessments to make the team.  On the application, under “level of skill,” I checked, “I haven’t skated since I was a kid.”  I figured if I could be that honest about my level of skill (or lack thereof) and if they were willing to let me in at that level, at least we both knew what to expect.

In my youth, I had quite the excellent reputation in my neighborhood as a speed skater.  I remember going down the steep hill in my neighborhood with knees bent to increase my speed.  (Turns out roller derby position is quite similar to what I was doing 30+ years ago.  I knew I should have patented my moves.)  I remember holding onto the back of my friends’ bikes and letting them pull me around the street after we saw Marty McFly do it on his skateboard in Back to the Future.  I remember that the Roll-a-Round was a happening place to be.  Sadly, today, roller skating rinks are about as scarce as film cameras.  I drive 40 minutes one way to the rink where we practice.

I remember a lot of things, but there are decades between today’s reality and those memories.  If my mom were still around to discuss this new adventure with me, she would remind me that she injured her finger badly enough to require medical attention the last time she tried to skate with us kids.  Most people reacted to me pursuing roller derby along the lines of, “You know this is violent, right?  That this is dangerous?  They will assault you on the track.  They will try to hurt you.”

I had some idea.  I knew it was a contact sport and that I was required to wear a helmet, wrist guards, knee pads, elbow pads, and a mouth guard.  The amount of gear indicated the amount of danger.

I never played organized sports growing up, and my job is quite sedentary.  As happens with most of us, the years go up and the metabolism slows down.  I look in the mirror and see lots of jiggles and bulges I don’t like.  Maybe this is a midlife crisis, or maybe I will succeed.  Maybe both.

On the first roller derby practice, they taught us how to fall.  I had been quite proud of my ability to stay upright on the skates.  I was gliding around the rink, wondering if the derby vets noticed what I believed to be a semi-fluid flow and were making notes: “Red helmet has not fallen.  Red helmet is a possibility for making the team.”  And now they wanted me to FALL ON PURPOSE?!  I could not make myself do it.  It was counter-intuitive to my self-protection to fall.  An instructor yelled, “Fall!” and I remained upright…more than once.  So, one of the derby vets came over, literally took me by the hand, and helped me fall.  Her support is what I needed to let go, to trust, to finally give in and fall down.  I still don’t do it as gracefully as the more experienced skaters, and I got a bruised knee and a skinned elbow despite the pads, but I can fall on demand now.  Getting up without using my hands is another story…

I have also learned to stop, although I still prefer to just skate into something or slow down gradually, and when we took those assessments last week, I even jumped – for the first time ever at roller derby school – over the tiny cones they put on the ground.  I am really terrified of jumping over actual objects.  I’ll do hops on my skates and jump over lines.  I’ll lift one foot at a time if something is in the way.  And I saw a girl at a roller derby match on YouTube who appeared to leap frog an actual person to get out of a jam, so I understand why they want us to jump.  But there is a mental block called FEAR every time I approach an object on the ground, and I freeze.  I think I had something like 6 opportunities to jump at assessments, and I jumped once.  I was elated and the assessors appeared unimpressed.  Of course, they warned us beforehand that they would appear unimpressed about everything, which I appreciate.  It’s a good way to stay neutral and try to keep us who were being assessed from over-analyzing their every reaction.

Overall, I think I did well at assessments.  I will definitely have to redo some things (I skated a 13-second lap in 14 seconds; I had worse balance on my right foot than a drunk person taking a field sobriety test; I was very generous with my rotations and also forgot that 180º does not mean making a circle – which reminds me why I hate organized exercise and dance classes; and, see above regarding the jumps).  But if you had shown Week 1 in January Me Last Week in February Me, she would have been pretty damn happy.  And, I was.

I am also sore.  I fell last weekend trying to practice jumping over a 2” tall shoe (we’re supposed to jump over something 6″ high) – although, I did get over the shoe a few times, thanks to another kind derby vet who took time out of her weekend to skate with some of us derby hopefuls and help us improve.  Much to Pete’s frustration, I refused to go to the doctor since I could move enough to rule out a broken arm (but maybe not a fracture), and it has healed pretty well over the last week.  Early days included not being able to touch my face, head, or opposing armpit with my left hand; inability to cut food; inability to put on and remove some clothes by myself.  Now I just have occasional pain from certain pressure points.  My butt also still hurts from where I landed.  And since I had 1 arm down when our personal trainer came on Monday, she choreographed a helluva leg workout that crippled my thighs and left me almost unable to get off the floor Wednesday when I did the knee taps and double-knee falls at assessments.  I’ll be redoing those tasks again.  You’re supposed to tap one knee and really not stop skating; fall on both knees not quite simultaneously and sort of slide as if you’re a cool person playing guitar and wearing sunglasses.  I tap one knee and get up…eventually, and I think I had to make several attempts NOT to use my hands.  When it comes to double knee falls, I’m just glad nobody was underneath me and I didn’t crack the floor, given the force with which I landed.  And again, there was no speedy rise.

But I am surrounded by great skaters and the more I skate, the better (and more comfortable) I get.  I’m pretty sure when I got my first pair of skates at Dovetail Court, I didn’t head straight for the huge hill on Fieldlark Trail…even if that is basically how I remember it.  In derby school, I fear things that have hurt me (such as the jump-fall, or a whip maneuver that caused my breastbone to hurt for 2+ weeks every time I sat up, coughed, sneezed, burped, basically moved at all).  I fear falling.  I fear permanent injury.  I fear failure.

But I have already done better than I actually thought I would.  And I am surrounded by other skaters to inspire and teach me how to keep doing better.  I watch them jump and I know I can.  I see them fly without a care in the world and I wonder how I can get a little bit of that.  And today, I keep thinking of this:

There is freedom waiting for you,
On the breezes of the sky,
And you ask “What if I fall?”
Oh but my darling,
What if you fly?
― Erin Hanson

It is a wonderful feeling to accomplish something that I am not sure I can do and to conquer something that frightens me a little.  I do a lot of things that are not very challenging.  I think it’s time to see if I can fly a bit.

If you read my last blog and found it to be hopeful, full of optimism about the coming year(s) in Asheville, then you have permission/are encouraged to feel sorry for me now.

My husband lost his job yesterday, just days shy of what would have been his 8^th anniversary at WWNC 570AM.  He was one of approximately 1,000 people let go in a nationwide reduction of force, something that happens when you work for a corporation.  I’ve seen it happen to clients, heard of it happening to strangers, and I’ve now seen it happen twice to my husband – both times after a successful ratings period.

In my career, I have not worked for corporations.  Other than one fairly large law firm, I’ve mostly worked places where the total number of employees was in the single digits.  My longest job was at a company where we had maybe 20 folks, but it was still a very personal place to work.  I find that to be a blessing.  It’s given me job security because of human connections and therefore human loyalty.  I’ve never had a Wizard of Oz call from afar to say, “We need to eliminate x-number of positions at this time,” putting someone who cared for me in the gut-wrenching position of having to choose between axing me versus someone else he or she cared for.  I can understand that corporations are successful because they make sound financial decisions rather than sound personal decisions.  But the corporation that let my husband go was in bankruptcy, so I’m not heralding their financial choices, nor am I looking for ways to feel better about the person behind the curtain who put something into motion that ended my husband’s employment (and that of 5 others in his studio) and is now likely going to cause us to relocate just months after I moved back to Asheville.

I’ll be grateful they let us get through Christmas.

BUT I JUST GOT HERE.

7 months into my new job, I am making new connections, reestablishing old connections, and getting into a good grove with my work and my boss.  I am feeling more confident, less uncertain.  I less often refer to myself as the new person.  I have rapport with clients, attorneys, and at least one judge I was delighted to see this morning (we used to work together).  I have routines.  I joined the Blue Ridge Roller Girls.  My husband and I hired a personal trainer (which is now on the list of luxury expenses to slash as long as we have only one income).  I finally accrued PTO at my new job.

And now it looks like Pete (oh, yes, husband has a name) and I both get to resume our job search and build these things all over again – because he loves what he does and he’s great at what he does, and he cannot do it here.  Unlike my job, where there are lawyers a-plenty who might wish to hire me in a given city, there are not talk shows a-plenty – at least, not on radio.  Sure, there are podcasts.  And if you want to hire Pete for a podcast and pay him at least five figures a year, please contact him.

We knew it was a risk for me to come to Asheville, and for Pete to stay in this industry.  That is part of why I stayed in Charlotte so long.  And while I have made it known that I cannot do this particular recent cycle of events on a frequent and regular basis, I am not quite yet ready to tell my partner, who has a talent, that he needs to stifle his dream, his passion, and his gift to…do what?  What job is there that promises not to fire someone?  There are more secure jobs, like mine, but there are no guarantees.  For now, at least, we work in an at-will state, and as far as I understand it, that means we can quit and we can be fired at will.

I also acknowledge that part of the sting at this moment is not just that Pete lost his job while doing it fantastically and that we likely must move, but that I just quit a job, I just started a job, and I JUST GOT HERE.

It broke my heart the first time I left Asheville, but returning to Charlotte introduced me to Pete and to the longest job I ever held, which gave me a lot of great relationships.  Returning to Asheville freed me from that job, which I held too long, and showed me that I can still be a tremendous paralegal – which likely is my calling – without feeling as though I am sacrificing myself.  It reminded me that there are different ways to practice law, and to be a boss.  It brought me back to the beautiful mountains, to people and places I had missed.  It gave me new perspective.

As is my nature, the first person I spoke to after Pete told me he had been fired was my boss.  It might have been premature, but I told him it is very likely we will have to relocate.  Whether it be a relationship of 11 years or 7 months, I do not like letting people down.  I have done some good here, but there is good left for me to do.  And maybe I will get to do it.  Nothing has been decided yet…except that WWNC 570AM is off the table.

I am encouraged by the support that Pete immediately received from listeners and other potential employers.  Thanks to all of you for your kind words – some of which even included me.

We’ll keep you posted.  2020 is still my – now, our – year to grow.

Pete and I briefly caught part of one of the NYE shows last night, and there was clip after clip of Barbara Walters saying, “This is 20/20.”  I didn’t make the connection right away.

Then I started writing this post and I thought about hindsight being 20/20, and I realized that there are probably going to be a lot of poignant and punny references to the current year.

Which I keep writing/saying as 2010, for some reason.

Even for someone who doesn’t generally relish change (me), a new year represents a chance to do things better and to reflect on what happened – and what was done – in the last year.  Among Pete’s 2019 highlights was his struggle with debilitating vertigo, which he continues to be reminded of when things just don’t feel as steady as they used to.  For both of us, me moving to Asheville was a significant event.  It was a change to our relationship that had become long-distance; it was a change of my job and to many relationships I had in Charlotte; and it was even a change to some of Pete’s Charlotte relationships in that there are people we won’t see as often in Charlotte because more of our time is now spent in Asheville.  We miss our queen city, but we love the mountains.

For me, 2020 is a good opportunity to put the agony of 2019’s change behind me.  2019 was half a year leading up to leaving a job I’d held so long and moving away from Charlotte and back to Asheville – so, half a year of anxiety, planning, worry, goodbyes – and then half a year of mourning that change and trying to embrace my new life while learning a new job, new routines, new places.  (Or sometimes, being happy to return to old places I hated leaving behind in 2005.)  I think I spent the last half of 2019 throwing spaghetti at every relationship I have to see where it sticks.  Does Charlotte remember me?  Does Asheville welcome/remember me?  What about this group family chat…what kind of response do I get there?  What about this husband I’m moving back in with…how are we getting along?  What about my sister and family I’m now 3 hours away from and now I can’t go to the nephews’ sporting events or have a random Schwesti Day?  Do I need a therapist in Asheville, or can I just see my therapist in Charlotte sometimes?  Will I love my doctors in Asheville as much as the ones I have to leave in Charlotte?  I’ve definitely been searching, and it hurts, and it reminds me far too much of insecure growing pains I thought I left behind in high school…college…my 20s…

But, it’s me.  It’s me who always shows it and knows it when I love a lot.

And today, I have a new year.  A year that isn’t touched by two cities or two jobs.  This year is Asheville.  This year, I water those roots again.  “Bloom where you are planted,” said the Bishop of Geneva, Saint Francis de Sales (1567-1622).

Watch me grow.

Happy New Year.

People fascinate me.  That’s probably why I started college as a psychology major.  I like to know why people do what they do.  But I wasn’t great at the school of psychology, and – or maybe because – I spent a lot of my time in class writing poems and musing over song lyrics about relationships, usually of the unrequited romantic variety.  I remember being really into similes and metaphors.  I looked to other situations to understand my own.

I’m still fascinated by people.  I’m puzzled, intrigued, amused, angered, enamored, appalled – I’ve probably experienced all of the emotions throughout all of life’s experiences.

I’m now 6 months into my move from Charlotte to Asheville, and as expected by my own timetable based on other moves and job changes, I am pretty comfortable.  I’ve gotten better at my job and even have at least one client I’m pretty sure feels good talking to me.  I have a friend at work who invites me to lunch pretty regularly, I see some of the old friends I hoped to see when I returned to Asheville, and I’ve met some new folks, some that might even be budding friendships.

And I am grateful.

But I will likely forever be troubled and confused by some relationships I left behind that seem to have fizzled the moment I changed zip codes.  I realize that there is no sense in trying to understand why some people don’t keep in touch, why some people don’t care, why some people maybe just actually don’t like me that much, as it turns out.  (But, see opening paragraph.  I always wonder about people.)  Maybe some of the relationships WERE just employment, not friendship.  And, there is a reason everyone knows the phrase “fair weather friend.”

But man, it stings sometimes.  To have put 11+ years into a single workplace and find out I’m gone like a fart in the wind, to quote Shawshank Redemption – well, if I’m honest with myself, I probably knew it would happen, and that might be one reason I hung on so long.

Some people don’t actually need or want you if you aren’t doing something that benefits them.  Some people are so aloof they can’t be bothered to respond to messages.  A lot of people are really good at staying in touch only if you make it so easy for them that you show up at their workplace five days a week.

I realize as I read this over that I sound like a disgruntled employee, which isn’t how I feel or what I mean to portray.  I cared so much about my last job that I lived apart from my husband for seven years to stay there.  I worked with people who felt like family.  I cared deeply for and about management, staff, and clients.  But then I left – and the world that was that job kept on spinning without me.  It’s like breaking up with someone and saying you want to stay friends.  The one who doesn’t want to break up is never going to appreciate the offer of a platonic relationship from the person he or she was enjoying being naked with.  In other words, while I thought we were family…I was actually an employee.  And I should have understood that and left sooner.

Eventually, I will abandon my desperate attempts to stay relevant to those who have made it incredibly clear that I am not.  I’ll hear from them again when I win the lottery, and I will read this blog and force myself not to respond.

Every single day, the holes of those who used to be is filled with the attention of whose who still are.  Those who have communicated, who have visited, who have made me feel that regardless of miles or employment or a number of other changing factors, we will keep finding each other and sending those random, “Hey, this made me think of you,” messages if nothing else – because we do think of each other.  And when you’re thought of, it shows.  When you aren’t, it shows.

People will show you how much they care – myself included.  While this blog is written from the perspective of a wounded, jilted person, I have also been the wounding, jilting person.  It happens.  Sometimes, people’s lives just don’t mesh.   Thank God I learned to like myself.  That’s a huge bonus.

Thanks to all of you who have cared for me.  I love you bunches.

I drove to Mint Hill yesterday for the “celebration of life and resurrection” in honor of Amy Sue Terrenzio Madden.  She was only a few months younger than me, just shy of her 44th birthday.  Amy woman was so loved that when I arrived at 2:00 (which was when the service started, despite my best efforts to pass slow-pokes on Hwy. 73 and speed more than my usual 5 mph over the limit on 485), I had to park down the road from the church, and when I got to the church, I found that there was standing room only . . . outside.  I’ve never seen anything like that!  I was so pleased for Amy that she had such an outpouring of love.  I took a photo to capture the impressive crowd of supporters.  Even more people showed up after I took this photo.

We could hear some of the service.  We shyly sang along to “Amazing Grace” and listened to what we could.  And then we went to the gym (a/k/a “Family Life Center”) and celebrated Amy’s life by visiting with others who miss her, looking at photos of her, listening to music that I presume she enjoyed, and wishing she was physically there with us.

As she should be.

People traveled from various cities and states to honor Amy – people who had worked with her, been her friends, been her family . . .  Although I didn’t know Amy well, it was what I expected, because every time I encountered her, she struck me as a quality person.  She seemed liked someone I would like to know, someone I would enjoy knowing, someone who was kind, loving, and fun.  Everyone I spoke to vouched for that.  You can tell something about people by the people who surround them, and the people who came to mourn Amy yesterday were a solid bunch.  I loved meeting her family.  I found out that Amy and I had a friend in common that we never even knew about.  These connections delight me – more ways to remember her – more people to talk about her with.

My nephews take credit for introducing me to the song “Glorious” by Macklemore, and some of my favorite lines are these:

I heard you die twice, once when they bury you in the grave
And the second time is the last time that somebody mentions your name

We are Amy’s legacies now.  All of us who love her, who knew her, who miss her, will talk about her and make sure the world knows her.

When I left, I realized how far away I’d parked.  Because, as I said, it was a full house and then some.

On my way to Charlotte, I updated the flowers on my dad’s brother’s grave, and on my way out of Charlotte, I updated the flowers on my parents’ grave – and ran into our neighbors of 38 years at the cemetery.  I thought that was really perfect.

I had dinner with my family.  I saw friends.  Yesterday was a celebration of life . . . of remembering those who have passed and enjoying time with those who haven’t.

Much love to you, Amy.  We’ll meet you on the other side.

I find that this “f*ck cancer” phrase isn’t even powerful enough anymore.  It doesn’t hurt cancer.  It doesn’t kill it.  And it doesn’t make me feel better.  Cancer comes in so many forms with so many words, and sometimes people survive it, and sometimes they don’t.  Those are the facts.  And I am so tired of all of the different stories.  I’m happy for the ones that include words like “remission” and “survivor” and “cancer-free”, but they all still involve cancer to begin with and therefore, I think, a quiet, far-away fear that maybe it will come back.  There is a wonderfully insightful song by Melissa Etheridge called “I Run For Life” that well describes the scars, the haunting, and living as someone who has had cancer.

I went to high school with a guy who was always a really solid guy.  Good to know, someone you could count on, funny, honest.  He came from a good family, we went to the same church, and I don’t recall a bad thing I could say about any of them (the guy or his family).  I guess it’s fine if I say his name, because none of what I am going to say is a secret.  His name is Joel, and he met and married a super nice gal named Amy.  I never got to know Amy very well because we lived in different cities when they got married, and then they had kids – Joel is a couple of years older than me and I guess Amy is around that age, and their sons are close to the age of my nephew who is 10.  So, you know, we’re all grown up and busy and sometimes I would see them at church and my sister said Amy was FANTASTIC and I agreed that she seemed nice, and I knew Joel would only have married someone very nice, and I always liked seeing them twice a year when I went to church during a home visit.  We even scheduled a triple-date once with my sister and me and our spouses and Joel and Amy, but then life interfered and it never happened.

For as long as I can remember, Amy has had cancer.  Her CaringBridge site (https://www.caringbridge.org/visit/amymadden/journal) was created in 2010 when she was first diagnosed with breast cancer, which – if I understand and recall correctly from reading the posts – metastasized, sometimes showed signs of improvement/steadiness, and has now spread to a point where they have decided that this young, lovely, mother of two, wife of my friend, daughter, daughter-in-law, sister-in-law, and friend of many, is not in a position to fight any more.  I hate writing it that way, as if she is a quitter.  She isn’t.  There’s nothing but fight in a woman who has so much to live for, and a woman who’s spent the last 9 years trying to live a full life with cancer inside of her.  I can only imagine (imagine all I’ve done since I read the post) what it’s like to (1) be diagnosed with cancer, (2) have a cancer you know won’t go away, and (3) be told the day has come where your successful treatment options have ended.  Today is the day you talk about hospice and – with more finality – about how long.  Today you look at your family, including those children you were meant to raise, and you know there are things you will leave unfinished.  How?  Why?

I was thinking tonight that one of the ways we honor those who are leaving us is to acknowledge all of these losses.  I will think about everything Amy should be able to do and cannot.  I will think about everything her children and husband should be able to do with her and cannot.  I will think about the milestones she will miss.  I will think how impossibly hard it must be to be a young child without a mother, and a father without the mother to his young children.

I don’t think God wills these things.  When people are healed, we say, “God is good!” and, “He answered our prayers!”  What do we say now?  That He denied us?  That He found some benefit in taking this precious life?  Absolutely not.  I know He is more powerful than cancer and I don’t know why this is happening…again.  I know that’s where faith comes in, but sometimes faith feels like letting a lot of stuff slide.  I know God knows we’re angry and hurt.  I know He understands.  I wish He could make me understand.

I hope you read Amy’s CaringBridge site and get to know her and Joel (the writer).  I hope you find a cure for all cancers.  But one of those is more realistic than the other, so please get to reading.

And pray, or send good vibes, or ask me where to send a card, or do whatever it is you like to do for people who are probably the saddest they have ever been at this moment.  (I’m referring to the Maddens, not me.  But that is not to say there aren’t some tears in my keyboard right now.)

Thank you, as always, for your love and reading.