November 2024 – Dev on Running

My mother-in-law Greta used to shower us with gifts like I’d never experienced before. At Christmas, piles of presents carefully chosen, wrapped and scrawled with our names awaited us under her perfectly decorated tree. Opening gift after gift felt almost dizzying. I was used to my parents asking me what I wanted and sending them Amazon links—a light variation on simply shopping for myself. Greta never asked what we wanted but always seemed to know, and then added a few more things on top of that just because.

Now that she’s retired and we’ve all collected more things than we could use in our lifetimes, she’s shifted her gifting strategy to experiences: ballet tickets, cooking classes. They are things we can keep in a way that don’t collect dust around the house. Things we can revisit again and again in our minds, remembering the way we dressed up in velvet and high heels and shared a special holiday outing, or remembering the smell of freshly whisked chimichurri and steak sizzling on a grill. They represent togetherness, memories—things we want to hold onto forever.

Greta treated me to an incredible Argentine cooking class for my birthday this year.

I liked her strategy so much that I wanted to give my stepdad an experience gift for his 74th birthday. I came across the concert lineup at Chateau Ste. Michelle, a winery in my hometown that hosts a popular series of outdoor shows every summer, and saw Jon Batiste was coming to play the week of his birthday—perfect.

I was in awe of Jon Batiste after listening to him on Armchair Expert and watching American Symphony, a documentary that follows him composing his first symphony while he experiences professional highs (winning a Grammy for Album of the Year) and personal lows (the resurgence of his wife’s leukemia). I watched American Symphony for a second time with my stepdad and we both connected with Jon’s unflinching attitude in the face of life-threatening illness. “You have to confront the brutal reality,” he says, “but at the same time, have completely unwavering faith.”

I sprang for great seats—all part of the experience—and my stepdad was thrilled. He even called his brother in Virginia to brag about how close to the stage we were. We arrived when the venue opened and had plenty of time to eat dinner and share a bottle of crisp white wine in plastic cups. My stepdad started singing Bill Withers’ “Lovely Day,” and it was—a balmy, cloudless evening in early June.

“Mom would be so proud of us,” I said. The past five years have been filled with crushing stress and grief. My stepdad is completely devoted to my mom and continues to work a physically taxing job in order to offset the massive cost of her care. Other than working, visiting her and taking care of their house, he doesn’t go out, socialize or do anything enjoyable for himself. He was long overdue for some fun.

With an hour to go before the show was set to start, we bought another bottle of wine—and why not? We were celebrating! My stepdad kept refilling my cup as we waited and chatted with fellow concertgoers. When the start time came and went, we bought a third bottle—not a great call, but not disastrous yet. And a few songs into Jon Batiste’s set, I saw my stepdad making his way to buy a fourth bottle as I stared at him in disbelief and shook my head, “Nooooo!” It’s the last thing I remember.

Before the blackout.

Past midnight, I woke up on the living room floor of my mom and stepdad’s house with my cheek nestled in a spray of vomit. My stepdad wasn’t doing much better. I staggered over to the kitchen sink, washed as much sickness out of my hair as I could, then chugged some water and went back to sleep in an actual bed. When my phone alarm woke me up at 6am, I was still drunk.

I’m thankful we got home safely—we assume security dumped us into an Uber—but I was horribly sick and hungover for the entire next day. I repeated “I’m never drinking again” over and over, and I meant it. I felt ashamed that I missed so much of the concert I’d been looking forward to, and embarrassed that I got blackout drunk at age 37. In my early 20s, this would have been just another night out—something to laugh about with my friends—but as a full-blown adult and mother, I thought I was well beyond that level of poor judgment.

“Mom would be so ashamed of us,” I said as my stepdad drove me to my car after we sobered up.

It scared me to lose control like that. So many terrible things could have happened. I’m lucky the worst of it was feeling sick and full of regret over ruining and missing what was supposed to be a memorable night. If Alzheimer’s has taught me anything, it’s that memories are beyond precious.

I’ve had 160 alcohol-free days to process this experience, and I now give a lot of grace to two deeply hurting people who were just trying to have some fun amidst so much sadness in their lives. Wine gave us a glorious, weightless feeling; we just wanted to hold onto that as long as we could. The problem is that one bottle wasn’t enough to ease the excruciating pain of losing my mom. 100 bottles wouldn’t be enough. Rather than trying to erase the weight of this hellish journey, we need to hold each other up, help shoulder the load.

I put a lot of work into keeping myself afloat and not sinking into depression. I work out, eat (mostly) well, talk to a therapist and write, but I still feel like I’m always teetering on the edge of a cliff, vulnerable to being knocked over the edge by a single blow. Misusing alcohol felt like giving up all my hard work and throwing myself off the cliff. It was not compatible with who I want to be and how I want to live.

Since this experience, I have not once wanted to drink alcohol again. My choice to stop drinking has freed up so much mental space. I no longer have to think about whether or not I’ll drink in any given situation; how much I’ll drink; whether or not I’ll be able to drive; whether or not I’ll feel sick or hungover afterward. I thought I’d miss the social lubrication that alcohol provides, but I haven’t at all. I’ve actually enjoyed going into situations 100% as myself, summoning my own courage to be friendly and talkative and interesting around people I don’t know very well.

I don’t describe myself as “sober” since I do like to take half a cannabis gummy—to relax or to enhance a funny movie, not when I’m sad—a few times a month. I say I’m “free from alcohol” because that’s exactly what it feels like.

I have enjoyed this freedom during a girls’ trip to Las Vegas to see Adele in concert; during a 50-mile bike ride that included several stops at dive bars; at a wedding with an open bar; at dinners, birthday parties and still more concerts where alcohol is flowing all around me. I have no problem if others want to drink and am happy to be the designated driver. I have discovered a new appreciation for sparkling water, root beer, iced tea, non-alcoholic beer and some really tasty mocktails. I have never felt left out. I have never regretted not drinking.

At 37, I know myself quite well. I know what is for me and what is not for me. It feels really great to cut things out of my life that are not for me, making room for all the better things. There are so many better things.

In early September, my stepdad and I returned to Chateau Ste. Michelle to enjoy a Gregory Alan Isakov concert free from alcohol.

Someone blames me for what happened last time.

It was another lovely day. We sat near two-time Oscar-winner Hilary Swank! I remember it all, I drove us home, we weren’t sick. A fun memory firmly in the bank.

Mom would be so proud of us.

I am so proud of us.

Today marks five years since my mom’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis and the second time I have quit my job in pursuit of a dream.

The first time was in 2011, when I quit my proofreading job at an ad agency to travel around the world solo. My trip ended after three months when I badly sprained my ankle in Thailand. I came home, reunited with Aaron, got a job as a copywriter at a tech startup and got engaged. Things were starting to sour at that job by the time Aaron and I got married in 2014, and when we wanted to start trying for a baby in 2015, I knew I had to find a different job first—one I’d actually want to go back to after maternity leave.

My former boss—who had already escaped the sourness—actually found the Nordstrom job listing and sent it to me: “You’d be perfect for this.” I started my new job writing product descriptions for Nordstrom.com in July 2015 and was pregnant by August.

Around my daughter’s first birthday, I moved to the marketing team to write web campaigns and emails, which is what I’ve been doing ever since. My career at Nordstrom has spanned Evie’s entire life, including in utero. Until now.

I wrote in March about feeling destabilized after layoffs impacted many of my co-workers and I was moved to a different team. It happened at the same time my mom was kicked off hospice, and both sudden changes left me feeling helpless and abandoned. I tried to focus on being grateful I still had a job and dove into my new role, but it quickly became clear it was not a good creative fit for me. I starting looking at job listings and even applied for some, but mostly just wished I could go back to my old team.

In May, my old team was struggling—they’d lost me, but not my workload—and reached out to my new team for help. I talked my way into being loaned back to my old team to help out through the busiest time of year. When I was told I had to go back to the new team at the end of September, I thought about how unhappy I was doing work I didn’t enjoy and how relieved I felt when I resumed the work I do enjoy. The only thing running through my mind, over and over, was Kamala Harris’ campaign slogan: “We are not going back.” It was time for me to leave.

There were many conversations about my decision over the course of a few weeks, but my gut reaction remained the same, and I submitted my resignation in mid October. I knew in 2015 that a big change was necessary, and I knew it again now. Back then it was so I could become a mother. This time, it’s so I can become a mother again, but to a different kind of baby: a book.

In January, I started writing a book proposal and researching the process of querying literary agents. I started to believe I could actually do this big, scary thing I’d always wanted to do, but never felt confident enough to try. Then everything flipped upside down in February and I put the project on the back burner. But all year long, that book has been tugging at my brain. I’ve been shaping the narrative and writing chapters in my head. I’ve been dying for the time to finish the proposal and start making my dream a reality.

I’m tremendously lucky to have Aaron’s support in leaving my job and throwing all my energy into writing this book and getting it published. When I asked him if he was okay with the idea, it took him about half a second to say, “Of course.” I think he and my close friends are sick of hearing me talk about it and thrilled that I’ve finally got the guts to do it. Their instantaneous and unwavering support has been invaluable. The hardest part of all of this has been giving myself permission.

Just as in 2011, it was incredibly difficult to walk away from the security of my job. If I hadn’t been moved to a different team, I probably never would have left. I believe in signs from the universe and feel the move put me at a crossroads and forced me to make a choice: Follow the path of safety and regret, or forge a new path of uncertainty and personal fulfillment.

Before I submitted my resignation, I took the dogs on a long walk so I could think about everything. We took a different route than usual and happened upon a house with several painted rocks nestled in a planter next to the sidewalk. My eyes went straight to this one.

I later returned to claim this rock, and I’ll keep it next to my laptop as I write and face uncertainty and write and deal with rejection and write and hopefully get a big win eventually. I know in my bones I’ll never regret trying, and that’s enough for me.

So what’s the deal with this book? It’s a memoir about my mom, of course, and about me as well. I’m far from the first person to feel compelled to write about a dying or dead parent, but I’ve struggled to find a book that captures the unvarnished experience of early onset Alzheimer’s. And five years into this, as I continue to sort through hundreds of her photos and letters—my mom kept everything—I’m learning more about her life in the only way I still can.

She hid the most tender parts of herself even when she was well, so I only knew the tough exterior she chose to show the world. A lifelong quilter, she spent thousands of hours stitching her stories with fabric and thread—a language I don’t speak. I’ll share what I learned when dementia began to unravel the truths she sought to keep hidden. I’ll also recount my own truths I’ve never written about before. If the ravages of Alzheimer’s await me, I want my daughter to know who I really am.

It’ll be a memoir about autonomy won and lost; about self-determination, resilience and the power of the mother-daughter bond; about all the joys and sorrows that are sewn together to tell the stories of our lives—and make them worth remembering.

I have no illusions that this will be a quick, easy or even profitable journey. Luckily, I’m well trained in mental and emotional endurance. My plan is to put my head down and write, write, write through November—which, coincidentally (or not?), is National Novel Writing Month—and see how the story takes shape, then finish my book proposal and start querying literary agents in the new year. I only need a few sample chapters to send out with my memoir proposal (whereas novels require a completed manuscript), but I want to get into the habit of writing every day and honing the best material.

It would be so chic and cool to not tell you about any of this and then suddenly post about signing with an agent or scoring a book deal, but my biggest wins come from declaring I’m going to do something that feels scary and impossible, then using the adrenaline from making my goal public to power through and actually do it.

And I could really use your support and belief in me. I know a number of you have been following along with my story for more than a decade. I hope you’ll come along as I write the next chapters.

Month: November 2024

Experience

A New Path