I'm Back, Back in the New York Groove

{title stolen from Back In the New York Groove by Ace Frehly}

Well hey there, Blogosphere! Is there even a Blogosphere anymore? 

So, yeah, it’s been five years since I published an entry. 

Here’s a quick update:

-My dad is still dead.

-My mom is still alive. She’s 78.

-I am not a workout enthusiast anymore, but I do Pilates and I try not to eat myself out of my clothes.

-I’m closer to 50 than I am to 40.

-My family survived the worst of the pandemic, and we all still like each other.

-I finally took a writing class. My classmates became my pandemic writing pod and we never missed our weekly Zoom meetings. Even when Ronni lost her mom to Covid.

-I never stopped writing. Now I have a writing coach who is making sure I never do.

-My brother Tim still has Primary Progressive Mulitple Sclerosis. He’s almost wheelchair-bound.

-My brother also has Schizotypal Disorder and engages in “magical thinking” which makes it difficult to help him understand that PPMS cannot be cured by strengthening his mind. 

-On October 12, 2021, I became a mother for the second and third time. I adopted an indigent 77-year-old and her 47-year-old disabled son. 

Yep, mom fell, broke her shoulder, and I instantly became a triple-decker member of the Sandwich Generation.

And man, does it suck! 

I have a full-time job caring and planning for my brother and my mother--who live together in Georgia--while simultaneously caring and planning for my child, who lives in my home. In New York. 

And since my parents never prepared for Tim’s future, the devil woman my dad married became his sole life insurance and pension beneficiary, and she kinda gleefully relayed that after Papa kicked the bucket. He’s so lucky he’s dead. 

My mom has a lifelong aversion to sound financial choices, so she and my brother literally cannot afford to live without each other. My brother has been infantilized by codependency. If they're lucky, Mom will never need long-term care. If they're unlucky, the state of Georgia will collect. In every scenario, my brother gets screwed. 

But! Some good, a lot of good, has come of this; I’ve spent so much time with my brother over the past year. I haven’t lived near him for 27 years; I left when I was twenty, and Tim was left behind. He's sort of a 1995 human time capsule.

So, I’m going to write. Not just about what a fucking nightmare it is to be in my position, the good stuff too. 

Formerly Fat Mom is in a good place so I’m leaving her behind (pun intended). I don’t need her anymore. 

Alison the sister and daughter is on shaky ground. 

Alison the writer needs an outlet. So here I am.

Here's a picture of Tim pretending he doesn't find me entertaining as hell.

Learning To Face The Path At Your Pace

(song: Watershed/artist: Indigo Girls)

Greetings from the coastal south! I'm in the beginning of my annual summer eat-a-thon, I mean, summer break in Georgia. My son is my traveling companion and he's a super one at that. We drove from Brooklyn to St. Simons Island with very few grumbles from the backseat. Modern technology makes two-day drives far more tolerable than the days of the license plate game.

Anyway...with the whole sick/dying dad thing, I've been a bit distracted but I have a few back surgery/nerve damage updates before I (mostly) unplug for the summer:

April was big month for my new back and me. I had one last follow-up with my surgeon, Dr. Rawlins, who informed me our relationship is officially over. Sad, right? But seriously, I told him how great I'm doing in PT and that my back doesn't hurt and he was all, "You're awesome." And I was all, "I like your accent." And then it got awkward so I asked him to take a selfie with me.



Hate to say goodbye but...hope I never need your services again.

Just kidding! The accent thing happened before the surgery. Really, he told me how pleased he was and that I'm good to go. (He had thought he may want a post-surgery MRI but that was based on how fucked up I was when he first saw me.) He agreed to the selfie if I agreed to write my story for the HSS website. Who could say no to that face?! Here's the story. 

The same day I saw Dr. Rawlins, I had another follow-up with Dr. Leung, my neurologist. She too was very happy with my progress. The only thing I still can't do is walk on my heels. Not exactly a life-limiting illness, but an indicator of remaining nerve damage. (I also trip frequently. Especially when I'm tired.) There's still numbness in my shins and "saddle area" but I'm fully functional, for the most part. She tells me to keep doing PT and schedules another follow-up for mid-December, which will be the first birthday of my new back. Upon my telling her that I slowly jogged a mile in March,  she reiterated that I need to be patient (the same advice she gave during my previous visit).  She tells me that I should NOT run at all. She's happy I'm not in pain but reminds me that my back surgery is just a few months old and that ideally I should give it at least a year to fully heal. I begrudgingly oblige. She's absolutely right, and I know it. We didn't take a selfie together.

And last, but not least, I finished my last round of physical therapy sessions at Hospital for Special Surgery. I'm officially doing my physical therapy on my own. My sweet therapist, Lauren told me on our last day, "You don't need me. You just come because you like me." True. And I like having another person holding me accountable. But I have the tools and determination to keep working till these floppy flippers of mine are completely back on line. 

From a wobbly cane-user to a master of Thera Bands in just 5 months!

Now that I'm "on my own", my network of support is more important than ever. In April I joined Achilles Brooklyn - my local chapter of Achilles International, a community for athletes of all abilities. Michael Ring, a fellow Prospect Park Track Club member, talked me into joining. As I mentioned here Michael has been fighting his way back from Acute Motor Axonal Neuropathy, a rare variant of Guillain-Barré syndrome, which nearly killed him about two years ago. Achilles Brooklyn brought me together with a group of kind people, with varying athletic abilities and/or injuries. We meet every Thursday evening and walk or run the loop of Prospect Park. We start as a group, and we leave the park as a group. Nicoletta Nerangis runs the Brooklyn chapter of Achilles and is the heart of our motley crew. She is a warm and bright spirit that made me feel welcome immediately. It was an absolute thrill to cross the finish line with Michael and Nicoletta at my first Achilles - Hope & Possibility 4-miler last month. 

When I walk with my Achilles family, I'm not thinking about my former pace or any of the races I've run in the past. I focus on the joy of being in the moment with a like-minded group of active individuals who accept me, floppy feet and all. I've found a place to heal my body and spirit. My only goal is to keep getting better. I'm so happy to be a part of the Achilles community; I can't wait to pay it forward.

That's Michael and Nicoletta in the middle. I'm the extremely excited one on the far left.

  

Now I Can Find Relief. I Grieve.

(song: I Grieve/artist: Peter Gabriel)

My therapist told me to write. Doctor’s orders.

My dad died. 

Every time I write it or say it, it still feels like the first time. 

My dad died. 

My dad is dead.

My dad was old. 

He was one of those “he had a full life” cases. 

He was 86. 

My dad died when he was 86.

My dad started 24-hour oxygen in June of 2015. I spent the last 8 months traveling back-and-forth from NY to GA to spend as much time with him as I could, except January when I was under strict orders not to travel after my back surgery. I called my dad the morning of my surgery and demanded he stay alive until I could fly again. We laughed but we knew that neither of us got that choice so we said goodbye every time we talked.

 

Feb. 2016 - We both survived my surgery, and for awhile were cane twins.

I was lucky because I knew he was dying. I knew that every conversation I had with my dad was one chat closer to the last. I audio-recorded our conversations and made short videos of him telling stories and jokes. I wrote parts of his eulogy while he was still alive so that I could share my memories with him. I knew the end was coming and I know how lucky I am to have been able to say goodbye over the course of 9 months. I mistakenly believed that this gift of time and knowledge would make things easier when I became a member of the Dead Parent Club.

But, no. It still came as a shocking blow to get that call on May 12^th. I had been willfully ignoring the impact that the end-of-life experience with my dad would have, and how abrupt the end would feel even though we knew it was coming. In some ways, the past 9 months with my dad was more meaningful than the collective 41 years I had with him. In every way, right now.

I feel broken. I look normal on the outside but I am hollow on the inside. I'm so angry. I want to go for a run, but I can't. I still can't fucking run! Even if I could run, I feel painfully awkward when I'm outside of my home. I feel so different right now. I have all the textbook grieving stuff going on – intermittent waves of sobbing (occasionally in public), constant fatigue but inability to stay asleep, forgetfulness, guilt, self-loathing, weight gain, anger…lots and lots of anger. In short, I'm a mess. 

I just want to hide. And that's exactly what I'm going to do when I go back to Georgia for summer vacation. The last trip of the year. Time to unplug and take care of me. 

Have a great summer, y'all. See you in September.

Let the healing begin.

I Love The People Of My Village

(song: People of My Village/artist: Rusted Root)


New York City can be a hard place. It's expensive, it's fast, and everyone is busy. I have to schedule my son's play dates weeks in advance to work around the sports/Mandarin/chess lessons of his over scheduled 8-year-old city kid counterparts. When disaster struck without warning and rendered this staffless housewife unable to fulfill her daily duties, there was a slight panic. I don't often find myself wishing I still lived in my hometown, but this was the exception. I needed my pretend-mom, my cousin, my core girls, my people. I needed help.

Pretend-mom and cousin: my go-to girls.

Because I still struggle with the whole self-worth issue, I'm not the kind of person that expects help. In fact, I'm the kind of person that feels weirdly uncomfortable when people do nice things for me. (I know, totally fucked up. Just one of many things I'm working on in therapy.) But then, something incredible happened, people helped. My mother-in-law stayed with my son and husband during the week I spent in the hospital. One sister-in-law took over the pre-Christmas duties; chief among them, taking my son to see Santa. Another sister-in-law took time to come sit with me at the hospital every day, and she advocated for my room change when my first roommate proved to be an epic nightmare. When I came home, friends delivered homemade meals and groceries, parents from my son's school pitched in with pick-up and drop-off, and invited my son for play dates so that the disruption to his life was minimal. Friends and family near and far sent goodies, flowers, books, magazines, DVDs, and loads of supportive and kind messages. I was overwhelmed by the kindness and support.
 

My Georgia girls know that chocolate covered Oreos advance the healing process.

During my first post-hospital week, my husband worked from home. He was incredible; juggling his busy work schedule while caring for our son and helping me do EVERYTHING - dressing me, helping me use the bathroom, standing guard while I showered so I didn't fall, walking me around the block for my doctor-ordered daily movement, and doing the household chores. (I had to teach a 44-year-old man how to use a washing machine, but I'm willing to overlook that given he listened to me weep endlessly. But honey, feel free to run a load or two anytime the mood strikes you.) 

I didn't ask, people just did. And it means the world to me to know that kindness  and selflessness still exist in our increasingly busy and self-entitled world. It inspired me to reevaluate my own behavior and make more time for friends and family whose presence in my life I often take for granted. If these are the values Ted Cruz was talking about, then I am proud to call myself a New Yorker.

Thank you to everyone that called, messaged, visited, sent provisions and gifts, helped my family, helped me.  

Food, flowers and laughs. The perfect recovery trifecta.

Those Lazy Days of Summer Are Here

(song: Dry County/artist: The B-52s)

Hey y'all! Greetings from hot and humid Brooklyn, NY. I've just returned home after six weeks in my even hotter and more humid hometown of St. Simons Island, GA. As most of you know from my last post, I've been having a tough time figuring out who I am and what I want as I move forward in this new decade of my life. Being home with family and friends, and connecting with those who've known me most of my life was good for my soul. I'm still feeling lost, but not as afraid. Baby steps.

In addition to taking in some southern love, I took in a lot of southern food...

Country buffet, anyone?

and quite a few cocktails.

I arrived in Georgia with all of my healthy staples - almond butter, Vega protein smoothie mix for post-workout fuel, coconut milk, supplements etc. I left Georgia with a whole bunch of unopened almond butter, Vega protein smoothie mix for post-workout fuel, coconut milk, supplements etc. Seriously, I ditched all of my healthy eating habits and I ate with reckless abandon.  I could not get enough fried, sweet, or processed food into my body. And if I'm being completely honest, I didn't give a damn. Let's just add it to the "mid-life crisis" column. But now I'm home and so are my good habits. Almost 5 years into this lifestyle, I find it so much easier to get right back on the wagon. My experience with Whole30 helped tremendously. I don't make excuses anymore, I just do it.

The one good thing I did for my body (and my mind) in Georgia was run. 16 runs in 6 weeks. And I needed every damn one of them. Not just to off-set the garbage I shoveled into my mouth every day, but to help  clear my mind. Such great therapy. In fact, I registered for a half-marathon in October. I signed up ages ago but never announced it because I had already told myself I probably wouldn't do it. Fuck that. I'm not quitting. My ankle isn't as strong as it once was, and I'm not as fast as I was in 2013 but I'm not in any pain and even if I have to walk most of it, I WILL FINISH THE RACE. (And now it's on the Internet so I can't back out.)

 

Sure I felt like I was going to die, but I looked good.