The Lone Woman Diaries

Is That a Catheter in My Heart or Do You Just Adore Me?

noreply@blogger.com (Megan Coakley) — Sat, 20 Apr 2024 03:38:00 +0000

Hello, friends, I'm back from the other side! Just the other side of the cath lab table, that is, which I had to use a metal stool to reach. I could go on about the indignity of being a short woman, but I think they just set that sucker for the doctor's height and leave it because it's quite the assembly line of weary hearts wheeled in and out all day.

I spent all of about 20 minutes in the lab, which was 1/18th the time I spent in waiting and recovery. All of the nurses were kind and efficient, even the youngest one, who had the delightful duty of groin prep. Even though the plan was to snake the catheter through my wrist, the team likes to prepare for uncooperative radial arteries so this lucky RN was in charge of womanscaping. Naturally, Dr. Catheterization chose the moment of peak buzzing to enter my cubbie to explain the procedure. A quick survey of the scene, along with my "Sir, really? Right now?" sent him right back through the curtain and me to a one hour delay. I guess I should have crossed my legs and just talked to him (title of my memoir)!

When the doc came back and I signed all the consent forms, I was rewarded with a trip to the icy confines of Cath Lab 6, staffed with two Joannas, a Katie, Kirsten and Monika, plus my new favorite cardiology fellow, Dr. Chris, who asked why I was there because "You seem young for this procedure. You're only in your fifties!" Yes, friends, I'm living by Dr. Chris rules now: I will be IN MY FIFTIES until December! I'm pretty sure the flattery was a distraction because one of the Joannas immediately put me on oxygen and slapped a freezing gel pack on my flank, Monika swabbed my wrist and groin with chilled betadine, BFF Dr. Chris started injecting my wrist with lidocaine, and the other Joanna pushed the good drugs into my IV.

And then I woke up.

I was required to spend about three hours in recovery, during which the nurses gradually let out the air in my wrist pressure bandage while I dozed and sneezed. Eventually, Dr. Catheterization came to see me and the Captain, who had balanced on a rickety chair in my cubbie from post-prep through post-op. I was a little loopy but Dr. C explained that the LAD blockage was only about 30% so I hadn't needed a stent. The stenosis in the first diagonal branch was 70% but because it was a relatively small branch he wasn't concerned and thought it would be fine with medication. Cap quickly texted the good news to all the family and I sneezed some more.

When it was finally time for discharge, the IV nurse took me for a walk around the unit to make sure I was fit to go home.

"How long have you been married?" she asked.

"Thirty-four years," I answered (confidently cheating ahead by a few months).

"Wow! Thirty-four years! You're like newlyweds," she said. "You can tell he really adores you."

Now, it is true the Captain adores me. But I think she should have higher standards for newlyweds than a partner who scrolls instagram for kitchen hacks and chef reactions while patiently waiting to find out if their betrothed is dying from coronary artery disease.

Okay, that's a little dramatic. I'm not dying from CAD. But I do now have a diagnosis of non-obstructive coronary artery disease, or NOCAD, which is not nearly as exciting as NORAD, the folks who track Santa (and maybe bombs). And despite the initial relief about the not-as-bad-as-we-thought blockages, I'm still concerned about that diagonal branch. I may be overreacting, but shouldn't I want oxygenated blood to flow freely to the front and lower part of my heart? A family member told me two of her friends have this diagnosis and it's really just part of getting older. Sure, but as we all know I am only IN MY FIFTIES so that can't be the reason!

After my walk with Nurse Low Expectations I was given my discharge instructions: leave the wrist paddle on for 24 hours; don't lift anything over five pounds; don't bend or push on the wrist; if there's a hematoma call 911; if there's spurting blood after you remove the bandage call 911 (I think this should apply all the time); if your dog or children are bad call 911 (I made that one up but Barkley is still available); and follow up with your cardiologist. I thanked everyone on the floor and wheeled out of the unit, sneezing. Guys, this was the weirdest side-effect of the whole day. The sneezing and runny nose got progressively worse. I took Claritin, Benedryl and Flonase for the whole weekend and didn't stop sneezing until Monday! Naturally, I researched "sneezing after sedation" and found out I was either allergic to the medications (NOOOOO, NOT THE GOOD DRUGS!) or the nasal cannula for the oxygen. I guess we'll find out the next time!

Despite the rhinitis, I had a lovely brief recovery. The boys were attentive and caring (Two went to the florist AND Starbucks but both were closed lol) and Erin made them do all the lifting and carrying of things. The Captain captained, and friends and family reached out to check on me. I explained to all how women shouldn't ignore a NOCAD diagnosis because all the literature says it still means an increased chance of myocardial infarction! But I think folks want to hang on to the good news, and maybe I should, too. So I've stopped citing medical studies.

At least until I have the delightful Dr. Dutta trapped in a room with me, where she will be obligated by oath and Aetna to listen to all my concerns!

Stay tuned and be well!

Goodbye, Boston Creme

noreply@blogger.com (Megan Coakley) — Thu, 11 Apr 2024 19:58:00 +0000

Goodbye, Boston Creme

I fear I've known you all too well

But you've gone and clogged my arteries

And now I don't feel very swell

After many tests

It's time for the ultimate one

Where they snake a camera up my wrist

To ask my heart what's going on

And it seems to me

They should have guessed

It was the donuts all along

That made my legs weak

And my heart beat like a bird in song

I would have liked to know

When I was more a kid

Without a catheter and camera

Taking a medical vid

Yeah I would have liked to know

When I was more a kid

So I could make the appropriate diet and exercise changes to help my candle blow

Longer in the wind

Apologies to Elton and hello old friends! This installment of the blog brought to you by Plavix! Folks, I've got some good news and some bad news. I always take the bad news first because then there's a slight chance things will improve with the good, and because this is my blog you've got to follow along. The bad news is I can't eat donuts anymore. The good news is I've been diagnosed with coronary artery disease!

"Megan," you say to no one in particular, "that doesn't sound like good news." You are correct. It isn't great to find out you have significant blockages in two arteries BUT it's better to find out before said stenoses give you a heart attack! So, I'm ahead of the game. And on Friday, I'm going in for a cardiac catheterization where the team will take a look around and, fingers crossed, throw in a stent or two so my symptoms subside.

About those symptoms...

(title card: Three Years Ago)

At the beginning of 2021, I was on a business trip with the Captain (he was doing business, I was mostly enjoying the sunshine) and I stood up after lunch and felt my legs get weak and heavy. I was lightheaded and my ears were pounding so I stood still until I felt better and could start walking. This happened with enough frequency, sometimes accompanied by a high heart rate, that I went to see my primary care doctor. I had been assembling a crack team of female physicians-Medical Marvels, if you will-because all of medicine is based on male outcomes and it's biased and annoying. I chose Dr. Olympia Sophias first, not just because her name deserves its own Issue #1 origin story, but because she's routinely curious and diligent about my healthcare.

Dr. S launched me on my odyssey, which began with lots of blood work (rule out Lyme disease, rheumatoid arthritis) and continued with many other physicians and tests. We did an MRI of my brain and spine, plus electromyography (rule out MS); MRI of my pelvis (really, really looking at that spine); a vascular study of my legs (R/O insufficient veins); a two-week cardiac monitor, an electrocardiogram (R/O heart damage); a carotid scan; a heart CT; and finally, after switching cardiologists, an old-timey treadmill exercise stress test which showed changes in my EKG. That earned me one more fancy, schmancy test: a computerized tomography coronary angiogram ("It's really fun to take the CTCA, the CTCAay!") which takes a bazillion (256 per minute) pictures of your coronary arteries and lungs.

I'm going to digress for a moment to add that since 2019 I've gone to the ER three times for what we call "my fake heart attacks." My father died from heart disease when he was 55 so I've tried to be a grown up and pay attention to what my body is telling me. Three times my body said, "hey, this feels wrong" so I went to get checked out, most recently at the end of January. Each time I've gone, the staff does blood work, an EKG, maybe a CT scan and chest x-ray. The blood work comes back free of cardiac enzymes and the EKG looks normal because my heart rate isn't elevated. Everything was fine until they made me breathless on that treadmill.

My adorable cardiologist, the young and kind Anjali Dutta, actually felt bad ordering another test but I was excited to get some answers! I went to the CTCA lab at the hospital where the fun nurse (she was low-key playing the Sex Pistols at the unit desk) tried to get my hummingbird heart to slow the fuck down so the machine could get a decent picture. But John, the super-reassuring CT tech, said that didn't matter because the advanced scanner would compensate! He once again explained what the contrast dye would feel like (cold, metallic, like you wet your pants) because this time "we're quickly giving you at least three times the amount you've had." Thanks, John! I popped a nitroglycerin pill under my tongue (hot and spicy?) in one last desperate attempt to dilate and relax my coronary arteries and went into the machine. It was all over in less than ten minutes and I went home.

The Captain and I had an appointment that afternoon and as we entered the office he said, "If something was wrong they'd call, right? They wouldn't have let you leave the hospital, right?" And I said, "It was a technician with me. They aren't calling until the radiologist reads it." Five minutes later Dr. Dutta called.

"There are some abnormalities on the scan. You have some blockages, and one is in an artery we can't usually stent. I'm going to give you to my front desk so we can get you into the office to talk about what's next." Lesson: They WILL, in fact, call if there is something wrong.

"What's next" happens tomorrow. I'm scheduled for the cardiac cath in the morning and maybe they'll stent me and maybe they won't. I'll be under "moderate" sedation so I hope they ask my opinion because in the time between getting my results and talking to the doctor I became the world's pre-eminent non-academic expert on robot-assisted MIDCAB (that's minimally invasive direct cardiac bypass to you), which has the greatest success rate on women. You heard that right: someone actually took the time to find out what works best for FEMALE bodies! Bite me, male doctors! Except you, Dr. Man-who's-doing-my-procedure.

I'm not nervous about the catheterization. I hope it's successful and I get to go home the same day. My sister Erin flew in from Arizona just in case I, or the many people who rely on me, need help this weekend so I might really milk these blockages for serious naps. Wouldn't it be awesome if some minor coronary artery tweaking fixes everything? Sure, I have to give up animal fat but I've been slowly trending toward vegetarianism anyway (the cows and pigs are too cute to eat!) so the fam and I are going to learn to love our greens even more! Once I'm assured I won't die from it, I suppose I'll have to EXERCISE ugh, because I love my family and friends and wildlife and flowers and sunshine and the ocean and trees and my cats and music and poetry and the human condition. I want more of all that and I want more of YOU, so when I say listen to your heart, I mean the actual organ!

Stay tuned for updates and be well, friends!

Everything New is Old Again

noreply@blogger.com (Megan Coakley) — Sun, 02 Aug 2020 04:14:00 +0000

(For Two*)

I yearn to return

to what was before

the doors

opened

to set us all free.

When love was as desperate

as our longing to see

movies on screens and eat

styrofoam meals

set atop tables and plated.

Time inhaled and counted

in heartbeats and dread,

petty distractions measured and shed

in favor of factors to finally solve

life's prime, deep-rooted equation.

How quickly we shrugged off

the sunshine and trees

to buckle and mask-up for essential needs

that brought us no closer to closure from fear

nor farther away from disease.

Collective amnesia

has swallowed and spit out

our distilled

and clarified

bond.

Now frustrated, restless,

bored with our pain,

everything new

is old again.

(*this took me three hours)

The Truth is Out There

noreply@blogger.com (Megan Coakley) — Tue, 02 Jun 2020 05:25:00 +0000

May 10, 1998: I watch an episode of the X-Files named Folie a Deux. In it, Mulder encounters a delusional man who believes his boss is a giant bug monster--and decides to take an entire office building, including Mulder, hostage to prove it. The man is killed, but somehow, Mulder inherits his ability to see the boss monster. When Mulder sees the monster kill a woman and turn her into a zombie, he draws his weapon on the boss. His erratic behavior and rants about the monster land him in a psychiatric hospital. No one believes him, including Scully, who suggests he is experiencing a folie a deux, or psychosis shared by two. Mulder begs her to look for evidence of a puncture wound on the back of one of the victims as proof they were bitten by the monster. When she sees the bite marks she rushes back to the hospital. Mulder is restrained in his bed, watching as the giant bug monster climbs through the window and hangs from the ceiling over him. Scully arrives on the floor but the nurse won't let her in to see Mulder. As Mulder screams for help, Scully is suddenly able to see the nurse in her true zombie form. She pushes into Mulder's room and shoots at the monster as it is about to descend.

August 9, 2014: I watch as Ferguson, Missouri explodes with sorrow and rage over the shooting of Michael Brown, an 18 year-old black boy, by a white police officer. The police leave his body on the street, out in the summer sun, for four hours before they let his family see him. Almost immediately, the reports of Brown's size and behavior circulate as a narrative to explain the cop's behavior. Within days, there are military vehicles blocking the streets and police aiming their assault rifles at protesters. Businesses are burned, people are tear-gassed, and I am deeply affected. I am the mother of boys, and I cannot imagine the anguish of losing one of them. I have dear friends--black women--and I try to process what it would be like to worry for their nephews every time they go out. I am angry, and as the days roll on I begin to follow black activists on twitter. I read, and I read some more, and when I hear the phrase "structural racism," I begin to understand how all of our institutions-education, housing, healthcare, especially justice-favor white people and exclude black and brown people.

May 26, 2020: I watch as Minneapolis grieves the death of George Floyd, a 46 year-old black man murdered by white police officers. Initially peaceful protests turn violent as stores are looted and buildings set on fire. Demonstrations across the nation follow the same pattern. I am angry, but I am also sad that the stores will not be able to reopen. I have been listening as the Captain and his team have been planning the return of Macy's, and now they are watching the footage of their stores being ransacked and robbed. I worry for the employees who have been furloughed and now may not return for weeks because of the damage.

June 1, 2020: It occurs to me that my initial reaction was filtered entirely through a capitalist lens. I wanted the employees to get back to work because I have internalized that all of our structures-education, housing, healthcare, especially justice-favor the wealthy. Capitalism needs a steady stream of workers to turn its gears, and our economy needs consumers to feed it. But what if...we didn't?

I consider myself a life-long liberal woman. I have never voted for a Republican. I marched in the 80s to preserve abortion rights, and I stood in D.C. in my pussy hat and flipped off Donald Trump. But I have been so steeped in the chum of the economic status quo I couldn't even tell I was drowning. My awareness of the world and my place in it has not been a gradual awakening. My growth has been in fits and starts--jolted out of my addiction, complacency, or even idealism by outside events. I think about Folie a Deux often because that giant ceiling skittering bug scared the shit out of me. But it also filled me with hope. Scully always chose science, but she never abandoned Mulder and his outrageous theories. She allowed for the possibility that there were things outside her scope. Today I stand here like Dana Scully, with my eyes open to our national folie collective, ready to consider something outrageous. I am done watching. Let's kill the monster before it turns us all into zombies.

Empty Pockets, Empty Streets

noreply@blogger.com (Megan Coakley) — Tue, 31 Mar 2020 04:33:00 +0000

Five and I drove to Target today. I told him we needed to go buy seeds, but the truth is he just really needed to be in the outside world. He's been cooped up and sleeping a lot so I'm trying to ward off depression, mostly by driving around and letting him play music. Target sits in the outer ring of our local mall, which has been shuttered by its management company, Simon. It's strange to drive all the way around and see the vast expanse of empty lots. It's a stark example of what is happening all across America now as retailers shut down for an indefinite period of time.

The mall, however, is an impersonal chunk of brooding, barren architecture. Its miles of closed concrete walls allow for a rather distant, macro view of the crisis facing us. The individual toll comes into relief when driving through our small downtown. Businesses which have been open for decades sit dark, explanatory signs still in the windows. The liquor store, deemed essential, waits for customers to drive down our empty streets.

Retail directly employs 29 million Americans and supports 42 million jobs. Today, the Captain's company furloughed 90% of it's employees. We will not read about a rescue package for this industry, despite the staggering number of people affected by its decline.

I work at a supermarket. We are hiring. Three already works in my store, Two has an interview tomorrow, and Six has applied for a full-time position. We are busy because we sell food. But even that isn't guaranteed as supply chains struggle and more folks lose their jobs.

I'm not sure we're going to get through this together.

The Hulk Inside Me

noreply@blogger.com (Megan Coakley) — Wed, 25 Mar 2020 04:29:00 +0000

My sister, Erin, is sheltering with two of her daughters in their apartment outside Phoenix. Her other daughter lives with her in Fountain Hills, and she has a newborn baby as well as two young girls. For their safety, Erin is staying away as long as possible. She texted tonight to say she's started a YouTube fitness routine and she and my nieces are organizing their apartment.

I wrote back that I wished I was getting stuff done, but it's mostly been laundry and food.
And sanitizing.
And school work.
And fixing the internet.
And picking up and mailing medications to Cap's parents in Florida.
And monitoring the college kids and their needs.
And following up on their job applications because everyone is out of work.
And worrying whether The Captain will lose his job.
And going to my job, because I still have one.

And being angry.

I am not limiting my exposure to social media or the news, but I never willingly watch President Douchebag. I cannot stand the sound of his voice as he stands there and lies about every aspect of this pandemic. People are dying and his only concern is the economy. His cronies are suggesting we grind up our grandparents in the capitalist sausage machine, as if their deaths will somehow stop the utter collapse of our financial and healthcare systems.

I say this as someone whose family relies on a retail corporation to keep a roof over our heads and food on our table: this idea is evil.

The president is evil. His co-conspirators are evil. This government is evil.

"Evil" is an old-testament kind of word that gets dismissed as hyperbolic, but I am at zealot-level rage. I'm Bruce Banner's secret. As a person who was raised a Christian, I've been struggling to reconcile the directive to love my neighbor with my moral imperative to recognize and reject Satan and all his empty words. It's an actual promise we made when we baptized our children. President Douchebag is not smart enough to be Satan, but he's a conduit for his works. So shouldn't I wish him dead?

Satan and I have met before, most notably during my active addiction. I like to think I can recognize his coy whispering in the world. But if my profound sense of helplessness unmoors me to the point of wishful murder, then that sneaky motherfucker may be winning a little closer to home. I'm going to have to stick with my current plan to love the people near me A LOT and hope it radiates out to the world. Possibly like the Death Star. Hovering over The White House.

Arrggghh. Jesus made shit hard.

Tonight I asked Cap if I could paint TRUMP IS KILLING US on a tarp and nail it to the roof. He said no, because it's a new roof. We agreed I could paint a sign for the front lawn. It's a way to express my frustration without hurting anyone.

I hope my neighbors love me.

Groundhog Days

noreply@blogger.com (Megan Coakley) — Fri, 20 Mar 2020 04:58:00 +0000

Five asked me on Monday if I have ever experienced something like this pandemic.

"Not really," I said. "It feels a lot like 9/11, in that people aren't sure what's going to happen next. And we can't travel. And we're waiting for the next bad thing."

A few days later the vibe is more like Snowpocalypse 2011. My mother had just moved in with us so we could care for her as she battled pulmonary fibrosis. Coming on the heels of Hurricane Irene, the early October storm dumped over a foot of snow onto trees still laden with leaves. That night we could hear them snapping in the woods, followed by the pop of exploding sub-stations. We were without power for weeks until a utility crew from Illinois made it into our neighborhood. Schools closed, Halloween was canceled, and The Captain and the boys had to trudge up our impassable driveway every few days to carry oxygen tanks down for my mother.

We finally got a loaner generator from one of Cap's friends, which meant we could run a refrigerator and space heaters for my mom and Cap's parents. But that meant I spent most of the day driving to find gas stations that could fill my gallon containers. With the remaining daylight I had to take care of everything else-food, kids, laundry, mom. By nightfall, I was exhausted.

This feels like that.

Every morning I wake up much later than I should. I spray disinfect the light switches and door handles and peroxide wipe the bathrooms and kitchen. I bake muffins or make pancakes because I have boxes of those and it makes the kids happy. Then I usually have an errand to accomplish-lizards for the crickets, mailing medications to my in-laws in Florida, gas for the cars. Every day Four and I have to accomplish school work, which is stressing him out. I try and make everyone go outside in nature once a day, including me and Cap. There is laundry to wash, dinner to make, and occasional sewing. I've put loops on towels and given everyone a hook so they have a dedicated place to dry their hands. Cap and I try and get a grip on paperwork and bills. That gets more scary each day. I make us play a game at night so we share some laughs.

I have eleven people sharing bandwidth as we school, work, and play from home. Two days ago I went to BestBuy and bought whole house wifi. Tonight I spent an hour on the phone with a remarkably patient and kind tech who helped me figure out why the nodes weren't connecting to my modem. At the end of the process I had to name my network and create a password.

When my in-laws return from Florida and ask why they can't connect to the internet I get to tell them to choose the one labeled TrumpSucks.

In these trying times, we have to claim our small victories. Because tomorrow we do this all over again.

Love in the Time of Corona

noreply@blogger.com (Megan Coakley) — Wed, 18 Mar 2020 05:20:00 +0000

When Two returned home from Puerto Rico, he asked if he could stay in Brooklyn with his girlfriend and her cousin, mostly to catch up on sleep. It had been a stressful few days for them as the island began shutting down in response to increasing numbers of coronavirus cases. I told him it was fine, but we should talk soon because the situation in our area was rapidly changing.

Two called on Monday to talk options. He wondered if he should just stay in Brooklyn to avoid bringing home any possible contamination. But if he did make it to New Jersey, could T and her cousin E come with him?

This was a test.

My natural inclination is to mother. I have five children at home, plus Art Girl and Six, who have been living with us for the past two years. We've known Six since he was in kindergarten with Two. He's vacationed with us since he was 12, and we've tried to be a safe harbor for him when his home life was tumultuous. After his parents moved in opposite directions but his job and school kept him here, we offered him a bed downstairs.

Art Girl was in Two's BFA program and had visited our house a few times. She reached out to me shortly after her third time in rehab. Her family didn't trust her recovery so she had no place to live. The Captain and I understood the risk in taking her in, but we felt uniquely qualified to help. I had thirty years clean and Cap is very goal oriented. Within two weeks of her arrival she had a job, meeting commitments, and obligations. We're happy to say that two years later she's healthy and successful.

Parenting is our jam.

Except, maybe, during a pandemic?

I admit to hesitating when Two asked if we could increase our quarantine quota. We hadn't even met T; their relationship was new. But I could understand his reluctance to leave her. When Cap and I first dated we spent five straight days in my apartment, skipping classes, eating in the park, and watching The Young Ones. The coronavirus had the potential to separate them indefinitely.

I told Two to bring his friends here. It was more than the memory of yearning, young love that motivated me. It's easy to wish you could help, but hard to actually do it. It's easy to love from a distance, but hard to open your heart. It's easy to say you're a Christian, but hard to act like Jesus.

I picked up Two, T, and E from the bus stop on Tuesday, right before they instituted a tri-state 8 PM curfew. Cap and I welcomed them into our home with the understanding they may be here a while. Every day brings a torrent of new information to digest.

It's hard to process it all.

But it's easy to share the love.

Pandemic, Lone Woman Edition: Our Cake Pop Moment

noreply@blogger.com (Megan Coakley) — Mon, 16 Mar 2020 05:50:00 +0000

This week has been a helluva year.

My sister, Erin, flew out from Arizona less than two weeks ago. It was a rather spontaneous trip, prompted by the need to accompany her mother-in-law back to New Jersey. Although we knew there were risks to flying because of the coronavirus, she strapped on her N95 mask, packed her handwipes and landed on our doorstep March 3. I had to work during the week but we managed to find time to relax, binge a Netflix series (I Am Not Okay With This: highly recommend) and laugh with the Captain every night on the couch.

Those were a few good days.

By Saturday, we understood what was coming. We already knew the virus was active in America but it was clear that it would quickly spread unabated, as our government had done nothing to prepare or protect us. We knew quarantine was an eventuality, so we started shopping. Erin ordered a case of 80 rolls of toilet paper delivered to her house, along with tissues, paper towels and baby formula. My niece and her family live with Erin and her husband. There is a newborn in their house, and our early thinking was that the virus would act like influenza and place the very young and elderly at greatest risk, so Erin also managed to find Saniwipes online. I ordered peroxide wipes because they kill everything including norovirus, which felled my father-in-law last year. He has a compromised immune system so we were trying to keep him healthy. Did I mention my in-laws were scheduled to fly to Sarasota on the 9th?

On Monday, Four's school sent an email that they would close early Wednesday to discuss how to implement distance learning if it became necessary to close the school. We were officially fucked.

Every morning, Erin had been sanitizing all the surfaces in my home with Clorox wipes, and spraying the door handles and light switches with Lysol. She began disinfecting twice a day.

After much deliberation about where my in-laws would be safest, we put them on a plane and sent them to Pappou's in Florida. We figured there was a good chance some of us here would become infected, seeing as how the Captain works in New York and Three and I work at a supermarket. In Sarasota there would be sunshine and open space and only three old people in an apartment. It seemed the better choice.

The next day, I drove Two to the same airport for his trip to Puerto Rico. There were no reported cases on the island, we have family there, and he would only be gone for five days. What could go wrong? That afternoon I made another run to Costco to buy large bags of frozen fish and chicken along with shelf stable fruit and canned goods. It was the last time I'd be able to get through the doors.

Wednesday arrived and all of America woke up in a panic. Erin started investigating flights home, worried she might be quarantined in New Jersey. I went to work at 8 AM and customers were already packing the aisles. By Thursday there was nothing left on the shelves. No meat, no dairy, no canned goods. Pharmacy and paper products were long gone. Cap had a retirement dinner that night for a colleague and he texted me from the train. "It's over," he said. "Today's the tipping point. The world's gone insane." Granted, he'd had a few drinks, but he wasn't wrong.

On Friday, my store ran out of produce. That was also the day Five had what we've come to call his "cake pop moment." When I told him Erin and I were going shopping-hoping to find a few more supplies-he asked if we were stopping at Starbucks.

"No, honey, " I said. "We can't eat food made outside our house anymore."

He just stared at me. "What?"

"We can't eat anything that we didn't prepare. Because of the virus."

"Wait. NO MORE CAKE POPS?"

He was depressed and cranky all day.

Saturday, Four's school alerted us they would be closed until further notice. I worked from 8:00 until 4:30, stocking our shelves with what remained in our cooler. People bought pounds and pounds of cheese and, inextricably, caramelized nuts. How are they a necessity? We sold a lot of Kerrygold because it was literally the only butter left in the store. The Captain and Erin got me at the end of my shift so I could drive to the airport with them.

I ignored the CDC directives and hugged and kissed my sister good-bye, unsure when I'd see her again.

Today my town closed our parks and playgrounds. We know they will shutter our downtown soon. I told my job that I would no longer be able to work day shifts because I need to teach Four. Three continues to go to work every day. There are no scheduled food deliveries yet.

Two made it back from Puerto Rico, right as they instituted a curfew because of the escalating number of COVID-19 cases. Two is certain he was exposed.

I am worried for the health and well being of my friends and family. Businesses are going to close and people will be lose their jobs. Of the eleven people living in my house, I expect at least four of them to be unemployed by the end of next week.

This afternoon, Cap and I walked around Parks Lake. It felt good to be outside. We went home and finished cooking chili and rice, and after dinner we played Rummikub with the kids. It was nourishing.

Not as good as a cake pop, but close.

Do-Over Dreams

noreply@blogger.com (Megan Coakley) — Fri, 17 Aug 2018 04:54:00 +0000

Every week I attend a 12 Step women's meeting. It had been a long time since I spent time in the rooms, but I told a young woman I'd help her so I'm back. And it's great! Women, in general, are awesome and it's a real joy to be surrounded by so many of them working to make themselves and the world a better place. I'd recommend that everyone find a group, except this particular one requires you to be an addict. And lately I'm struggling to endorse addiction as a path to enlightenment.

Yesterday was a lonnngggg day of work and errands and doctors, so by the time I got to the meeting I was feeling overwhelmed. I shared that sometimes I wish I could sit down and have a glass of wine at the end of a bad day, like normal people do to unwind and deal with stress. To be clear: I didn't want to ditch my clean time because I had a tiring day. I just momentarily desired to not be an addict.

A little later another woman pushed back on this concept, saying she would never choose to be "normal" because her journey has brought her so much insight and strength. The comment stung and I let her words loop around in my brain for a few hours, making me wonder if I didn't have enough gratitude for my recovery.

But that's bullshit.

The 12 Steps taught me how to live a clean and rewarding life, and those lessons have served me well as I've navigated my way through the last 30 years. But I definitely would have traded that path for one without this disease, and I think anyone who disagrees is lying. My active addiction deeply hurt me and the people I loved, and I was lucky to survive it with only shame as a reminder. I would gratefully rub that stain off my permanent record.

Likewise, I certainly don't believe people with autism are flawed but I would absofuckinglutely remove that impediment from One's life. I'd clear a path for him toward a good job and a loving life partner, instead of setting up a trust fund to help his brothers care for him after we shuffle off this mortal coil.

While we're at it, I'd save Three from his multiple concussions, and Two from the crippling sadness of his friend's death.

I would wish away Four's mood disorder.

And Five's bout with depression and anxiety.

I'd smother the pain that the Captain and his family are feeling right now over the loss of his cousin.

As a bonus, I'd bring back my parents and erase my father's alcoholism and my mom's pulmonary fibrosis.

How far back could I travel to change the course of my life, to swerve right instead of wrong? If I did all that, would I be a different person? Happier or alone? More or less empathetic? Capable or afraid?

Who are we if not the sum of our experiences? What if my life was a different equation?

On vacation I saw a sign that said "Don't look back. You're not going that way." I remembered that driving in reverse was the one thing I failed on my road test. All these miles later, I'm still learning that lesson. I am where I am because the universe sent me this way. No amount of hand wringing is erasing my damn spots, and my wishes have yet to produce different horses to ride. The saving grace is I get to gallop through the pastures with my favorite people. And maybe my time in the saddle on this specific trail will help them avoid the potholes that almost consumed me.

It's not new math, but I can reconcile it.

Throwback Thursday: Suite Togetherness

noreply@blogger.com (Megan Coakley) — Thu, 09 Mar 2017 17:56:00 +0000

Yesterday, I went on strike. That means today I have twice as much work to do because, naturally, no one jumped in to pick up the slack! As such, there is no new diary entry this week. However, because Two is home this week on spring break, I am reposting this ode to sharing space with all my children. Enjoy.

18 July 2012

Out West, Part Three: Suite Togetherness

One should not travel with five children.

I think we can agree that, in general, it's just a little loony to have five kids. Then again maybe you, dear reader, have seven or eight and five doesn't seem at all strange. Good for you! You are in the minority.

The world is not equipped to easily accommodate a family of seven. We fill every seat in our minivan, which is ostensibly crafted to handle our brood. However, judging from the strangulating seat belt reserved for the rear middle occupant, KIA doesn't think anyone is really crazy enough to procreate with such abandon. And if they do, that last kid must be a mistake, right? So the parents probably don't care whether the three-point restraint allows for normal respiration. To be fair, on occasion they're right.

Hotels share this philosophy. Not that my children should suffer, just that I have too many of them. One cannot legally book seven people in one room, even if it's a "suite" which, for the majority of hotels, was defined as many beds in one room, not separate living and sleeping areas. Despite this design failure, hotels charge more for "suites." So, to save money I only booked us one "suite" per hotel. Yes, folks, we all slept in one room. Actually, six of us slept together, because most nights M.I.L and F.I.L kindly housed One.

From the get-go we established that Four and Five would sleep on the pull-out couch. If there was one king-sized bed and one queen, we gave Two and Three the king so they had a better chance of avoiding contact with one another. The Captain and I bunked together, which is why One got shipped out. He was perfectly happy with this arrangement, even though he missed all the nocturnal fun.

Sharing a room with six men is akin to sleeping in a barn. There is snoring, farting, kicking, cursing, and tooth-grinding. For added humor, the Captain brought along his newly acquired bi-pap machine. He recently found out he has central apnea, which means his brain stops him from breathing in the middle of the night. Essentially his brain is trying to kill him. He's now locked in mortal combat with this cranial traitor, and the first line of defense is the bi-pap machine. It makes a pleasant white-noise hum while forcing jet-powered air into his lungs, unless the mask slips off his face and breaks the seal. Then it emits a high-pitched squeaking sound, like a runaway helium balloon, or a dying duck.

A typical night in the suite, as observed by moi, who hasn't slept in nineteen years anyway:

Four and Five fall asleep on the couch. Twenty minutes later, Five sits up and flops over onto Four, where he will spend most of the night attached to his back, earning him the nickname "Tick."

The Captain straps on the bi-pap machine, and we shut off the lights. The room remains illuminated by the electronic glow of the iPhone and iPad as Two and Three read facebook and the details of the (failed) attempt to acquire Dwight Howard for the Nets.

An hour later, the Captain's mask slips and squeaks. Giggles from the next bed. Cursing and
torn Velcro from ours.

Hours later, "Three, move over!" Grunting as Two rolls his brother to the other side of the bed.

Hours later, the clicking sound of Three grinding his teeth, and snoring from the Captain, who has ripped off his mask in frustration.

"Oh my god, Three, move over!"

Snoring, clicking, shoving, flopping.

Dawn arrives, and a cacophonous crescendo of farting signals the growing consciousness of the roommates.

"Doorknob!"

"Safety!" *

I always said I wanted a farm, so I have only myself to blame.

* Explained here for those of you not fortunate enough to live with gaseous young men.

Throwback Thursday: Dances With Wolves

noreply@blogger.com (Megan Coakley) — Thu, 09 Feb 2017 19:07:00 +0000

Life is full of challenges large and small, and each day presents another opportunity to accept what we can and cannot change. This is a core tenet of twelve-step programs, but also useful when parenting. I believe our kids join us in the world with their personalities fully formed, but The Captain--bless his heart--places a lot more stock in his ability to shape them. Today's throwback post illustrates that central conflict.

31 January 2011

Dances With Wolves

Raising so many boys is like managing a pack of dogs. Obedience training is essential, and speaking in short commands works best. Every pack has an alpha dog, a title I assumed was mine because I am most often dealing with the litter. But when The Captain is home, the whole structure rejiggers. It's the testosterone. The Captain is our dominant male but, lately, the older pups have been questioning his authority.

Normally, say, if this were a bunch of wolves, the alpha would squelch a challenger and the others would fall in line. But our pack is not so homogeneous. We have a mix of breeds, from lap dogs to Leonbergers. Each one requires a specialized form of discipline. This is a challenge for The Captain. Especially when dealing with Three.

Three is virtually untrainable. In fact, I would go so far as to say Three is a cat. He's happy to live with us because we feed and pet him, but he's not willing to do anything for us in return. He's almost pathologically self-centered, which can be...irritating. And when you point this out to him, he looks at you with a mixture of disbelief and disdain, which can be...infuriating.

So, The Captain and Three had one of their dog versus cat fights this weekend. Lots of hissing and snarling, claws out, teeth bared. It ended with Three asking if he could go live with his best friend, which would actually be a good fit--they're cat people. But because we aren't allowed to give away our children (I've checked), I threw some estrogen on the fire and smoothed things over. The Captain apologized, and we went back to our daily dance, which lately has been less box-step and more cha-cha: one step forward, three steps back. We're going to keep Three, because we love him, even if we don't understand him. We're dog people, and he's one of our pack.

Turning the Lens

noreply@blogger.com (Megan Coakley) — Wed, 08 Feb 2017 05:34:00 +0000

I don't believe everything happens for a reason. I think the universe proceeds along quite tidily following a set of rules that govern the important aspects of my life, like gravity, with no interest in meddling beyond the chemical reactions that formed me. Everything after that first division of cells--where I grew up, the schools I attended, the friendships I formed--has been a series of random choices and consequences that got me where I am today. To wit: I got accepted to several universities but chose county college, where I met a girl who followed a local band. I got in a fight with my mother, moved in with the groupie, got a fake ID from her sister, frequented a local club, dated the queer bartender and started hanging with his friend who went to Rutgers. A year later I transferred there, moved into her apartment, and joined the co-ed fraternity where I met The Captain.

Basically, I married The Captain because I got a fake ID and dated a gay mixologist.

Sure, there were a few more steps involved--several break-ups and a stint in rehab--and I didn't even mention the part where I got pregnant by the band's drummer because it seemed too outlandish. Either way, it wasn't exactly a master plan.

Consequently, I've also decided to abandon the "I wouldn't change a thing, because it got me where I am today" metaphysical trope. I would ABSOLUTELY change several things, perhaps starting with that pregnancy (*reminder to use birth control, young women readers*). I wouldn't necessarily opt out of the drug addiction, but that's coming from a place of recovery which has given me real insight and strength. I'd prefer my father had lived beyond my nineteenth birthday, thus perhaps slowing the pace of my addiction. I wish I hadn't hurt so many people with my reckless self-absorption.

I wish my children weren't autistic.

I'm probably not supposed to say that one out loud. But the world favors the able and is cruel to people who are different, and my boys face a daily gauntlet of challenges that exhaust them and me. I must be their champion every day--in school, in public, even within their family--ignoring judgment as I cajole or drag everyone forward. This is more daunting when the autistic behavior is particularly douchey, as when Four chose "Go to Hell, bitch" instead of wishing me goodnight.

I have five boys. One has cerebral palsy, two have autism, two more struggle with anxiety, and we're waiting to see if the other one turns out to be the addict statisticians say we're owed. I used to believe God sent them all to me because I was strong enough to shepherd them through life. Now I think it was more science than faith. The Captain and I were brought together by a series of fortunate events, but I can't say our gene pool benefited from the collaboration.

I think of the universe as an ordered world--perhaps even divinely inspired--but then left to its own devices. The Captain and I weren't fated to be together, but we are still sharing a life. My children weren't sent to me because of my fortitude; rather, they've taught me to be resilient. Loss hasn't depleted me. It's worn away my edges, leaving me softer and more forgiving.

I think things happen for no reason other than to prepare us for when they happen again. We are given building blocks and rudimentary directions to design our own life, which more often than not becomes a kaleidoscope. With each twist, the colored bits of paper are pushed and pulled into shapes we never imagined. Chaos becomes beauty. And that is reason enough to keep turning the lens.

Throwback Thursday: Diorama Edition

noreply@blogger.com (Megan Coakley) — Thu, 02 Feb 2017 17:19:00 +0000

Today is Throwback Thursday over there on Twitter and also here on the blog! The Diaries have been sitting on a shelf for a while, so I've decided to dust off some of the old chestnuts for new readers. Or old readers, who may wonder if things have improved. Please don't ask me that.

I hope you enjoy this classic Diary page, one of The Captain's favorites.

25 October 2011

Death by Diorama

I was going to write a profound, philosophical post today because lately I've been doing some deep thinking. But I decided to rattle this one off instead, because it combines two of my favorite topics: my complete exasperation with my children, and my shortcomings as a mother.

I had to drive Two back to school to get his lunchbox and planner, because he ran around at lunchtime getting teacher signatures on a permission slip. He didn't make it back to the cafeteria, so his friends grabbed his stuff. He's had the permission slip for two weeks. It was due yesterday. We retrieved his planner, and I explained how it was, indeed, his fault that his planner got left at school. He debated all the way home.

As we walked to the front door, he said, "Hey, do we have any paint?"

"Why do you need paint?"

"I have to make a diorama."

I opened my mouth to speak, but there were no words. I think I may have looked like a robot with a glitch, as I sputtered incomprehensibly.

"When is the diorama due?" I finally asked.

"Tomorrow."

I don't know why this still shocks me. Two is the King of Procrastination. Three is the Prince, and he can use ADHD as an excuse. Two cannot.

"TOMORROW??!! Fuck you, Two. You suck." Yes. Those are the words that finally bubbled up and out. "I cannot whip up a diorama in an hour."

"You don't have to. Just tell me where I can find a shoebox and some paint. It doesn't even have to be that good. Some guy in class made his out of Play-doh."

Blinking like I was having a seizure, I went to the kitchen and opened my laptop.

"What must your diorama depict?"

"The Siege of Yorktown."

He wanted to whip up a fucking SIEGE in the hour before he had to go back to school for chorale practice.

A Wikipedia search revealed TWO battles at Yorktown.

"Which battle--Revolutionary or Civil War?" I asked.

"Uh...the one in the 1800's?"

He was wrong. It was the one in the Revolutionary War. Or at least I hope so, because we painted a bunch of our World War Two plastic army guys red and blue, to distinguish between the British and the American forces. Sure, the French were there, but they got lumped in with the Americans. I was lucky to find watercolor paint at all, so I limited the number of figures.

We found one slightly bent shoe-box, because I no longer keep diorama supplies on hand. It's usually an elementary school project, so, WTF high school history teacher? I shoved the box into shape, and we cut up the lid to create "Redoubt Number 10" which was basically a platform that we smeared with dirt and grass and surrounded with toothpicks. We perched our Redcoats up there, and glued the blue G.I. Joe/Revolutionary Forces in the grass below. The intent was to show how the Americans defeated the British via stealthy trench-digging. Or, in our case, their superior 1940's firepower. Historically accurate it was not.

All the while I was helping, I was bitching about how Two needs to plan his time. He knew he had to have his permission slip signed; he knew he had a project due.

"Yeah, Mom, it's my project, so just let me do it."

"I'm helping you because I need you to graduate, get into a decent college, AND LEAVE!"

That's the truth, people. I love him, and perhaps I'm coddling. I'm sure I'll miss him when he's gone, but he needs to get out of this house in two years. He can fuck up in college, fail out, go get a job, as long as he doesn't come home. My efforts are focused on getting him through high school and out the door.

To that end, I'm willing to glue toothpicks until my fingers bleed. Because he's killing me.

Pussy Power: A Return to the Diaries

noreply@blogger.com (Megan Coakley) — Tue, 31 Jan 2017 06:39:00 +0000

I follow a young woman on Twitter named Ashley Ford. As is the way with Twitter, I don't know Ashley, and I found out about her from another woman I don't know, Roxane Gay. Roxane shared that Ashley's grandmother had died and there was a fundraising page to cover funeral expenses, because in today's shaky economic reality nothing--not even one's funeral service--is a given. My mom had died about a year earlier and the grief of that was still a barely scabbed wound, so I felt very strongly that Ashley should be able to honor her grandmother and mourn her loss without further worry. I contributed to the fund and continued to follow Ashley because she is a writer and a young person--two of my most favorite qualities in others--and because I had become protective of her. I had a head start on my grief and knew from unfortunate familiarity with the process that I would survive the loss of my mother. I hoped Ashley would do the same.

A few weeks ago, Ashley tweeted that she missed reading personal blogs, the ones where you get to know someone through the details of their daily life. I think we seek our own place in the world through our connection to others, and social media is a pathway toward self-knowledge for many of us. We are reflected in the algorithms of Twitter, Facebook and Amazon, as they recommend who we should follow, friend or read. Sometimes those assumptions create a virtual echo chamber, and our personal growth gets smothered under a comfy blanket of similarity. But most often, the mathematical winnowing clarifies who we are and distills what we believe, and we are left with the digital representation of our soul.

Last week, I stood in a crowd of nearly 500,000 women in Washington D.C., brought together by technology for a variety of reasons. The speakers were as diverse as the platform, but the unifying force was womanhood. I have never doubted my female power, especially after I became a mother. Raising my boys has required stamina, sacrifice, patience, and unwavering focus. At the Women's March, my individual strength was reflected and amplified by a sea of pussy-hatted compatriots, the streets a literal echo chamber as our cheers rolled down the avenues toward the White House. Surrounded by so many righteous voices, I had never felt more confident and capable. I emerged from the day affirmed in my beliefs, committed to fight for our future, and at peace with my choices.

This blog was my way of examining and navigating my life and it helped me make sense of tumultuous times. Sharing my experiences with you--ridiculous, infuriating or heartbreaking--has been the greatest gift. Life was challenging for a while and I didn't have any energy to spare, so the Diaries went dormant. I'm reviving them now because I truly believe in our shared humanity--that instinct to help Ashley--and I know we're stronger together.

The pussies proved it.

December 30, 2015

noreply@blogger.com (Megan Coakley) — Fri, 08 Apr 2016 01:49:00 +0000

The phone rang underneath my pillow. I reached for it, waking just enough to realize I had switched beds with Four in the middle of the night. I squinted at the screen.

Three. 7:30 a.m.

I knew I had to pick him up from Chappy's house in the morning, but I couldn't imagine he meant this early.

"Hey, do you need me to come get you?"

"Yes, I don't know. Yes." He was crying. I thought maybe his girlfriend had broken up with him. But why would she do that at 7:00 in the morning?

"What's wrong?"

"Mom, didn't you hear? Connor Cummings is dead. He fell off a building in New York and he's dead."

The next fifteen minutes were panic and nausea. I had to wake the Captain without stirring the boy sleeping beside him. I ran my hand down his arm and whispered, "I need you."

He took one look at my face and sat up. "What is it?"

"I need you to come with me." I led him to the living room and choked out the words, my fingers across my lips in instinctive defense against the horror, as if keeping the truth trapped would change it. The Captain pulled me in, held me, exhaled the fear that had gripped him from the moment he saw me at the side of the bed.

"It's not Two or Three," he reassured himself.

"But it's going to kill him," I said. "I don't know where he is. He's not answering his phone." Two had gone out the night before and probably slept at Anthony's. I decided to go look for him, but when I turned the corner of the house I saw his car in the driveway.

He was home.

We were going to have to wake him up and tell him his best friend had died.

We walked downstairs and pushed open the door to the darkened room. I sat on one side of the bed with the Captain flanking Two on the other. I brushed the hair off his forehead and rubbed his back until his eyes flickered.

"Two. I need you to wake up." He frowned and tried to focus. "Something terrible has happened and I'm almost certain it's true." In the few minutes it had taken me to go downstairs I had convinced myself it could all be a horrible mistake. Three had gotten the information from a friend, but he was just a teenager. No parent had called me. There was room for error. "I don't know if it is true, maybe Three got it wrong, but I don't think he did." Two was fully awake now. "I'm so sorry, honey. Connor was in New York last night taking pictures. He was on a roof and he fell. I don't know how it happened, but Connor is dead." I climbed up on the bed and covered him with my body, wrapping my arms around him until I felt the sobs.

The rest was as horrific as you can imagine. Shell-shocked boys at my house. A devastated community. Thousands of people at the funeral home. It took the Captain and me two and a half hours to make it through the line to pay our respects, to bend down to Connor's mother, empty-eyed in one of his bucket hats, and hug her just long enough to say, "We loved your boy" before being ushered out.

And we did love him, like he was one of our own.

On Christmas night, Three was invited to join Two and his friends at Anthony's house. It was kind of a big deal for him to be included in the group of close-knit boys, many of them friends since grade school. Three called for a ride home at midnight, adding, "Come inside for a few minutes. Mare wants to see you." In all the years I've been picking kids up at Anthony's house, I can count the times on one hand I've gone inside to say hello to his parents. This wasn't lost on the boys, who were so excited to see me outside my kitchen they buried me in a giant group hug. Warmed by all the love, I joined them outside to watch Connor try his skill on a hoverboard. He successfully avoided the pool and the shrubs and came to stand next to me.

"You can be my new mom, Mrs. D," he said, draping an arm across my shoulder.

"Nah, you already have a great mom," I answered.

"Okay, then, you can be my second mom."

"Fair enough." My heart swelled a little with pride, because Connor didn't really need me. Even though I'd offered advice, tended his wounds, fed him and ferried him about, he walked his own path. Connor shared his plans more as a way to include us, not to get our approval. I stood on my toes and hugged him good-bye, reminding him to join us for our annual Day After the Day After Christmas party. He said he'd try.

That was the last time I saw him. And since then, nothing has been the same.

Before Connor died, I was excited to start writing the blog again, if only once a week. I was running almost every day. I was cleaning out and selling things on eBay. I felt good about the future, like I had a plan. But words are useless, hollow sounds pitted against the maw of death. And no amount of running or money outpaces relentless, suffocating waves of grief. What good is a plan if our babies, our literal future, can be stolen from us?

The last three months have been a struggle to maintain a footing because I no longer trust the geography of life. It's like viewing a map of the world where Africa is the center. Everything is shifted and off-kilter. But even though it's disorienting, I'm not entirely sure I want to go back to America in the middle. America is fifteen more years of the Captain working in New York, the commute slowly killing him if the terrorists don't. America is me worried that One will never live independently. America is Four and Five struggling within a rigid school system incapable of seeing beyond their challenges. America is tiring.

I want to live my planned future now. I want to gather my family and move somewhere warm. I want my creative, kind, funny children to explore what interests them. I want them to work at what they enjoy. I want us to rise with the sun, feel the earth beneath our feet, tire in the fresh air and sleep soundly at night. I want to live smaller so I can love larger. I don't want to wait.

I know this isn't realistic. Despite how I feel, likely nothing will change in my daily routine because my life isn't entirely my own. I belong to six other people, most of whom count on me to help them navigate this world. So I must be the rising tide that lifts all boats, the proof that we can survive disaster. And I can, honestly and without reservation, preach that message. Life is worth the fight. I just wonder if, after the storm passes, we should stop treading water and swim for a new shore.

Breaking Up For the Holidays

noreply@blogger.com (Megan Coakley) — Fri, 04 Dec 2015 18:21:00 +0000

As Adele says, "Hello. It's me. I've been wondering if after all this time we should break up because social media is making me weak." No, really. That was her first draft before she decided so many syllables screwed up the flow.

Adele and I are simpatico in so many ways. She's blonde, as am I (or was, before the grey initiated a hostile takeover). She's a mum, I'm a mom, let's not quibble over vowels. (But I will fight you over "Zed," you crazy Brits.) She has a tortured past, as evidenced in song. I have a tortured past, as evidenced in rehab. She rocks the eyeliner, I rock the eyeglasses. Close enough.

What we both understand deep in our souls is the need to occasionally disengage from the world. Adele needed to replenish her creative wellspring. I'm just trying to make it through Christmas. So I've decided, for the sake of life-flow, I must temporarily remove myself from social media.

"But, Megan," you ask, "aren't you engaging in a form of social media right now? Won't you post the link to this page on Facebook and Twitter?"

You are not alone in recognizing the hypocrisy, my dear friends.

To clarify, I'm disengaging on my terms. Which is basically how I do everything. Ask The Captain. This means I need to drop the razor and stop snorting Twitter. I've become the late-night fiend who, hopped up on injustice, can't stop retweeting even after everyone has gone to bed. I'm losing sleep, friends, and money. Raise your hand if you recognize me from college!

There's something to be said for railing against the inequities of the world, and I consider it to be a core tenet of Meganism. But my personality tends toward obsessive distraction, which can be dangerous. I fall down the virtual rabbit hole and lose sight of the way home. And, lately, it's dark and depressing in there, full of wearying reminders of the casual cruelty of mankind. It's enough to make a girl want to give up and sit on the couch eating brownies all day. Or Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.

Hypothetically, of course.

So, for this holiday season, I'm breaking up with the little blue bird. I've decided to follow the example of one of our greatest revolutionaries, Jesus, by rejecting the noisy allure of the technological world. Yes, I know J.C. didn't have an iPhone, but just as I came to recognize cocaine as the devil's drug, I'm pretty sure Jesus would see Satan in the iOS. They both make it too easy to escape from the demands of the real world. And I've learned over the years that I wasn't put on this planet to have it cushy. I was put here to do drugs, get clean, marry The Captain, and raise a passel of kids with special needs.

There have been challenges but, just like Adele, I made it to the other side. That's mostly because I came to understand I'm here to change the world with love. And loving the folks right in front of me works even faster than the Internet.

One last tweet: Go be a revolutionary. Love someone.

Running For My Life

noreply@blogger.com (Megan Coakley) — Wed, 11 Nov 2015 22:15:00 +0000

Hello! Welcome to a clean page in the diary and a new chapter in my life. As always, I have a lot I want to accomplish and, as usual, it will be a modern miracle if any of it gets done. This is the endlessly frustrating truth of my life. I don't think of myself as a particularly ambitious person, but I make a lot of plans. And these plans are often derailed by the actual work of each day--less glamorous work, less creative work, the nitty-gritty of child-rearing and house-running--all of which butts up against The Big Picture.

The Big Picture is where I really want to live. The Big Picture flickers away on the horizon in idyllic IMAX, full of rolling fields and distant mountains, log houses and land, children gathered around the fireplace before they go out in the snow, me busy writing because it's vacation and I don't have to be in my bookstore or on location (in The Big Picture I've returned to making Movies).

You can see how this might be distracting. In reality, my house is a tangle of daily mess and unfinished projects, my children keep playing crisis hot potato, my finances are freaking me out, and every so often I have to beat back a leaden wave of grief. For a time,The Big Picture was a refuge, an idea to get me out of bed, a future without anxiety. But lately it's more akin to a paralyzing siren, summoning me to death by inertia.

So I'm running for my life.

In an attempt to control one very small part of my existence, I began an experiment. I wanted to see if I could put my addict behavior to good use and get compulsive about fitness. I'd like to say I was motivated by my mother's battle with pulmonary fibrosis, or the fact that recent bloodwork revealed alarming levels of Boston Creme coursing through my veins, but the truth is more cinematic.

I want to become an action hero. Like these guys:

My sister Erin came to visit and we fell down a Strike Back wormhole. It started innocently enough, with me watching Blindspot and falling in love with the main character based on one scene. (It was a Really Important Moment, when the mysterious tattooed girl touches his face and he pulls away to recover because she obviously reminds him of his Tortured Past and that's why he's so closed off to Love and can only be saved by The Right Woman. I immediately volunteered to be That Woman.) I made the Captain pause the DVR so I could scream about WHAT A PERFECT SCENE it was and then I searched for everything related to Sullivan Stapleton, star of Blindspot, and my new TV boyfriend.

I'm a drug addict, folks. This is how I roll.

The Captain thought I was nuts, but Erin totally understood when I made her watch the show and that particular scene two more times. When I told her Sullivan Stapleton and that cute guy from The Player were in Strike Back together, she sat right next to me and settled in for thirty shows in twelve days. This was no small feat. It took dedication and a willingness to immerse ourselves so completely that at the end we could communicate using only hand signals and simple phrases like, "Going left," and "Move! Move! Move!" When the last episode aired I wanted to be able to run farther, drive faster, and have super-muscled arms like Philip Winchester.

Running farther seemed most achievable.

Currently, I run seven miles every day. It's on an elliptical which, ironically, means I don't really go anywhere. And I'm certainly no closer to the Big Picture, but I've got snapshots of what I want to achieve this year, for me and the boys. Spinning in place doesn't have to mean I'm stuck.

As they say in Strike Back, "Going up!"

Honest Anniversaries

noreply@blogger.com (Megan Coakley) — Wed, 22 Jul 2015 16:25:00 +0000

Around this time of year, there is a great convergence of anniversaries. The Captain and I just celebrated twenty-five years of marriage and I checked off twenty-seven years clean. To keep things simple, Cap and I got married two years to the day after I made that fateful trip to rehab, so each June 9 we (figuratively) toast our accomplishments. This year we traveled to Sanibel Island to properly bask in the ~~searing Florida heat~~ glow of our enduring love, a fire fed primarily by friendship.

Today I head into New York City for the annual Romance Writers of America conference, an anniversary of sorts. It's been four years since I first attended, having newly designated myself a writer, excited to learn about my craft and meet the rest of the pre-pubbed, and I wasn't disappointed. I met real romance titans--Jennifer Crusie! Susan Elizabeth Phillips! Anne Stuart!--and listened as new friends shared their industry stories. It was energizing, galvanizing, and it helped me finish my book. But I return this year slightly less starry-eyed and I'm trying to figure out why.

So, I've been thinking about what makes a good relationship great. I've now been married longer than most of my relatives, many of my friends, my own parents. I've been so secure in the superiority of my own relationship that when it hit a bump a few years ago I was genuinely shocked. Like, HOLY SHIT THINGS COULD GO VERY BADLY HERE HOW DID THIS HAPPEN shocked. And it took about three years before I could examine it with the proper degree of honesty and gain some clarity.

But, you know, honesty is relative. It's based on how much truth you want to see.

Just saying my relationship hit a bump is false. That's like blaming the deer for hitting your car. Relationships and cars don't drive themselves. But when you cruise the same roads everyday, you learn where the deer like to hang out (my neighbor's yard). You have an expectation of when you will
see them (early morning and dusk). You get a little complacent, or cocky. And then one night a ridiculously large animal bolts across the wrong road and caroms off your quarter panel. You could blame the buck (damn deer!) but that seems a tad unfair.

So it is with the people we love--our partners and, perhaps even more so, our children. We have notions, many of them preconceived. But at least when you start dating someone you acknowledge them as a separate entity, a person with a past that didn't include you. Not so much with kids. Because you know them from the zygote, there's a certain proprietary instinct that kicks in. An idea that because you created this being, it will be what you want. A Bionic Man/Frankenstein mash-up: faster, smarter, more successful than you. And this becomes the foundation of your House o' Parenting. But after a while--or pretty quickly, if you have a passle of young 'uns--you start to notice you've jacked your shack up on some crummy cinder blocks and the termites are gnawing the wood.

Your holy theories are just hole-y.

As much as we'd like to go all Christian Bale and scream at the kids for ruining our carefully lit PARENTING: Scene One it's not their fault. The sight lines were unrealistic. It's unfair to saddle someone with the burden of fulfilling your dreams*, especially if they've gotten a little fuzzy with time. And it's impossible to be honest about our children--or our partners, parents, friends, or jobs--if we're not first honest about ourselves. And that requires some digging, possibly with something stronger than a sand shovel.

So, today I return to the Romance Writers of America, unsure of our relationship status. Checking the structural strength of my dreams. Trying to be realistic about what I want, and why. Wondering if we'll celebrate another anniversary.

I'm renting a backhoe.

*I hereby release you, Chris Pratt.

The Worry Within Me

noreply@blogger.com (Megan Coakley) — Fri, 05 Jun 2015 04:34:00 +0000

Four and Five are both away on overnight class trips. Four and The Captain departed for Washington, D.C. on Wednesday morning, and Five left for The Wetlands Institute this morning. I've been out of sorts all day, feeling like I'm forgetting something. It's been strange and delightful to have no one to answer to, no one to pester about homework or bedtime.

But I still worry.

Four's class had another sleep-away trip this past fall, but we all agreed he wasn't ready to go. He'd just started at the new school, didn't know anyone, and I wouldn't have sent him without parental supervision. Luckily, when this trip was announced, The Captain agreed to go as a chaperone. They've been hoofing it all over our nation's capital and everything seems to be going smoothly.

But I still worry.

Worry is my default mode for Four. I pray every morning he'll have a good day at school, and I hold my breath until I pick him up. When the phone rings I glance at the screen, hoping it's a short name (Cap) and not a long string of letters (Charter School). It's taken most of the year to get him on track academically, and the process has been bumpier than Jersey roads after a hard winter.

Four's smart, but he doesn't want to do the work. He's never met an assignment he couldn't complete in one paragraph instead of three. His speaking voice is loud and he's quick to be defensive. This does not endear him to teachers or classmates. His small-group instructors have more success with him, but not all his classes can be taught in that format. So, it's been a learning process for everyone: the teachers, the administrators, and Four. I'd like them to appreciate him the way I do, to see the kindhearted boy beneath the bluster. I'd like him to make a friend at school.

Naturally, I worried about the trip.

The Captain says Four is doing well despite the really long days and extensive walking. He's been a real trouper and hasn't lost his cool once. He's talked with classmates, although that's where he really struggles. He's managed to go all day with no electronic devices-a true miracle! The whole trip is really going as well as could be expected.

But the worry lingers. All the time, like post-traumatic stress. I can't shake it, even though it's short-term fretting. Interestingly, I don't have the same concerns for Adult Four that I do for Adult One. I truly believe Four will overcome his social deficits and go out into the world one day. It's just getting him there that's exhausting.

I know I should be celebrating the fact that Four and Five are both away on school trips (!!!) and focusing, as Cap reminds me, on all that we've achieved this year. Both boys attend school regularly. Five gets out of the car and walks into the building without me. Four is in a public school after spending years out of district. THESE ARE ALL GOOD THINGS.

So when will I stop worrying?

Still Searching After All These Years

noreply@blogger.com (Megan Coakley) — Wed, 27 May 2015 01:02:00 +0000

For the past six months or so I've been thinking a lot about my time left on this earth and how I want to spend it. I wouldn't say I'm in the midst of a mid-life crisis because, frankly, I doubt I'll live to be 100, plus it's hard for me to recognize an actual crisis when my daily life already buzzes with near constant elevated-threat-levels of stress.

So I've been searching. Searching for motivation, examining my choices, trying to reconcile why I think I'm here with what I want to accomplish. Trying to find the soft spot between acceptance and failure.

This is nothing new. My mother always said my favorite word was "why," which I hoped was a comment on my inquisitive nature but was, more likely, a belligerent stall tactic. Mine is a restless addict brain served with a side of creativity, so for most of my life I've been struggling to strike a clear path through the world. I've had jobs, ideas for jobs, exciting opportunities even, but most of those plans have derailed or, more accurately, sputtered and succumbed to the realities of my life.

So I've been examining. Examining my ideas of success, questioning my self-perception, deconstructing the myths of happiness. Trying to be at peace with who I really am, or think I am, anyway.

This is not easy. It's not that all this reflection is revealing a side of my personality I'd rather not hang with, but rather that it's forced me to get to the core of things. And what I've learned is that the gooey center of my world is...small.

This mundane realization has been a little soul-shattering because my restless/creative addict brain really thought I was destined for greatness. And with that in mind, I've set out on most of my recent endeavors. But the truth is, I'm not that spectacular. There are better writers, more creative artists, even superior mothers. That's not to say there hasn't been interest in my writing. Last November an editor asked for my full manuscript, and the request filled me with dread. Not because the manuscript isn't worthy, but because the thought of revising it again and then committing to produce MORE BOOKS made me nauseous. I even asked the kids for their help.

"Boys, I'm going to have to really concentrate on editing if I want my book published. Can you help me by doing what I ask, like going to school, getting your homework done without arguing, and helping around the house?"

One, Three, and Four: "No problem. We've got this, Mom."

Five: "Sorry. No guarantees."

Even though his answer made me chafe against the yolk of motherhood, I wasn't even angry. These past two years have been really difficult and I've tried, to the best of my ability, to not completely lose my mind. Except for a few questionable decisions, I think I've succeeded mostly because Four and Five really needed me. I have, quite literally, saved their lives. There's honor in that.

"Of course there is, Megan!" so say you all.

Well, it took me a while to realize it, to stop comparing my success, to think about my wins in individual family units. It's helped me focus on what's most important to me right now and what I've been great at for the past 27 years: not doing drugs, being married, and raising kids. And, in the only version of trickle-down theory that works, this approach has pretty far-reaching implications. Entire generations of people will be affected by my decision to not do anything else!

It's been liberating to contemplate getting small (shout-out to Steve Martin), shedding the ideas and concrete clutter of a life lived mostly in my own mind. But, as is my way, now I want everything to be smaller: my obligations, my possessions, my house. I want to flee social media, shed friends, remove relatives. I want to be Little House in the Big Woods small (shout out to Laura Ingalls Wilder), to be free of all distractions on my new and narrow byway!

I want to be BOLD in my smallness.

The wrinkle in my plan to be entirely self-contained is that it's, well, a little self-centered. As much as I want to chuck ballast into the sea and sail off for an island, there are more than a few landlubbers on board hoping my latest cruise is really just a three-hour tour. What I think is freeing they might consider isolationist. It's a thin line between "lone" and "alone," and I'm not sure I want to walk it.

Sigh. I think I'm still searching.

Dear College Freshmen

noreply@blogger.com (Megan Coakley) — Tue, 06 Jan 2015 20:31:00 +0000

Greetings from winter break--it's fantastic to see you! I worried about you all semester, my heart breaking as I read your September tweets, so full of longing for family and friends as you struggled to adjust to an entirely new life. My stomach churned as I followed your transition to full-time studenthood, complete with entirely too many accounts of parties and sketchy situations. I crossed my fingers as you began finals, and smiled at the pictures of your giddy reunions.

I am so happy you survived!

Now I'm going to tell you a secret: College isn't the most important thing you will ever do. I don't know what the most important thing will be, because life is a series of events strung together, sometimes deliberately, sometimes desperately. You can have the next four years mapped out and it can all fall apart in four months. For some of you it already has, and I want you to trust me when I say it's going to be okay.

Most of you are eighteen years old, adults only in the eyes of the law. You're stuck in an uneasy place between your parents' imagining and your own creation, and it's making all of us twitchy. As a mother, I feel confident in telling you to ignore us.

Your parents love you with a depth and breadth that is unfathomable. It's like first love to the nth degree. The problem is, when you create a human being you tend to get over-invested. Sometimes the line of delineation blurs and we forget that you are a separate, fully formed individual whose thoughts, dreams, and voting preferences may be different than ours. We look at you as a vessel, waiting to be filled with inspiration, education, and clearly superior Democratic principles. Now is a good time to hold up a mirror to show us our true reflection, and go confidently into the future!

Except I don't really mean that last part. How can you go confidently when this is all new? I hope you're making mistakes, and it would be awesome if you learned something from the process (please, please, especially the ones that harm you), because you aren't supposed to know everything yet. And if you've decided that your university, or the college experience in general, isn't right for you then pat yourself on the back for figuring it out so quickly. You just made a savvy business decision to save 20/30/40 grand while you calculate your next move!

I'm so excited to see what you're going to do next, and, if I'm lucky, for many years to come. I hope your journey is as hilarious, heartbreaking, joyous, scary, and unexpected as mine has been so far. Now go do the most important thing of your life--live it, and make it uniquely, unequivocally your own.

Love,

Megan

Weary

noreply@blogger.com (Megan Coakley) — Wed, 27 Aug 2014 05:34:00 +0000

I'm not a particularly open person. I don't really like to tell anyone what I'm feeling. I'm almost pathologically averse to taking anyone's advice, and when I'm overwhelmed it's too emotionally draining to share.

That's why I love the Diaries. I can type what's happening and send it out into the ephemera that is the internet, devoid of actual conversation and tear-stains. Sometimes kind people read a post and offer encouragement or insight which I can heed or ignore, but I'm always bolstered by the mere act of writing. I think it's a little like praying.

I'm posting tonight for the first time since February because I'm very sad. And reading my last post made me cry a little more because I feel like I haven't made any progress at all. In reality, that isn't true, because I was spending this week getting all my children ready for school. One returns to college on Thursday, Two moves into his dorm on Sunday, Three begins junior year next week, and, miraculously, Four and Five agreed to attend the charter school in my county. But today I got a call from the special education coordinator there saying they couldn't accommodate Four's needs.

I'm wrecked.

Originally, it was our intent to try and enroll Five because the school is geared to so many of his interests. But after attending an open house and speaking with their director, we decided to submit an application for Four as well. During vacation I received the call that Four was admitted, but Five was still third on the waiting list. I was very hesitant to enroll only one of them, so I was thrilled when two students withdrew and Five got accepted as well! I really felt like the Universe was yelling at me, assuring me it was the right decision. I took the boys for a tour, nervous that Four would be critical, but at the end he was the first one to say it seemed great. I was so happy they would be attending together, bolstering one another, sharing the experience.

Today the coordinator explained that she didn't realize Four had been at a private school, in small classes with support. As a small charter school they don't have those resources; they don't even have aides in the classrooms. They do have small group instruction in some of the subjects, but they are very concerned that Four won't have the support he needs to be successful. Tonight, when I told Four about the school's concerns, he said, "I can adapt. I can deal with the larger class," and I had to explain that the school still might not take him. "Figures," he said. "We finally find the perfect school and I can't go." My heart almost broke. He wants to try and I want to give him that chance, but I know the school is going to say legally they can't provide the right supports, and I have to decide whether to fight.

My last post was about how much Four hated school, and this one is about how much he wants to go and can't. We haven't even told Five yet because I have to mentally gird myself for his reaction. He may not want to go if Four can't, and then we're back to square one. Why does everything have to be so hard? Every time I get through a crisis another one flares. These last three years have stripped me bare.

I'm weary. Weary of placing my faith in others. Weary of soldiering on. Weary of holding everyone together. Weary of believing everything will be okay.

I know it exists, but it's hard to see the happy ending right now through the tears.

Homeschooling

noreply@blogger.com (Megan Coakley) — Wed, 26 Feb 2014 22:05:00 +0000

I've been thinking about homeschooling Four and Five. I'm intrigued by the idea of challenging what we know as "education," and I'd like to find a way to make my boys enjoy learning again, because they hate school.

THEY HATE SCHOOL.

They don't just moan about going, or grumble about the work load. They feel bullied, unappreciated, and overwhelmed. Less than a year ago, Five's anxiety about school was such that he wanted to die rather than go there. He threatened to throw himself out of my moving car. I had to hide the knives in the house because he begged to stab himself.

To be fair, there are other factors that may have contributed to his anxiety. My mother had recently died after living with us for over a year, and genetics had gifted him with a nervous disposition. But when your nine year-old would prefer to commit suicide rather than attend elementary school, I don't think the system can be held entirely blameless.

After medication and therapy, Five is better. He is no longer suicidal or highly irrational. But he still only attends school about 70 % of the time. Each day is a negotiation to get him to the school, and a separate discussion about staying for the entire day. Four leaves more willingly, but gives greater resistance about homework. I must supervise, encourage, and, in some instances, instruct in order to get it done every night. It's a long day for all of us.

Now, before you think "well, maybe if you took away their electronics/games/cards/free time they might be more inclined to do what you want," let me assure you that we have tried both negative and positive reinforcement. I am good cop and bad cop every morning, first offering encouragement/pep talks, followed by reminding them that staying home will be VERY BORING, to downright frustration and anger.

I don't want to be frustrated and angry with my children. I love them. I want them to educated in a place where they feel special and appreciated for what they have to offer. I want them to be excited about learning, about exploring what interests them. No offense to Bill Gates, but I don't think everyone needs to learn more math and science. I think it denigrates the importance of the arts to suggest our society will only survive if we spend more time in structured learning, force-feeding the same subjects to all.

I am a product of a public education, taught in schools that I did not hate. But I'm not sure the system works for everyone. And yes, differential education exists to teach to the children with different learning styles. But it exists within the same structure that's been around for over a hundred years. Sometimes the system needs to be overhauled or abandoned. I mean, I'm pretty sure everyone thought child labor was a great idea at the time, or segregation, or denying women the right to vote. It takes bold thinking to change the world, one person at a time.

I want to be bold. I think my children's lives may depend on it.

Slippers

noreply@blogger.com (Megan Coakley) — Wed, 19 Feb 2014 19:19:00 +0000

My slippers went missing.

This is highly inconvenient at this time of year. The slippers are necessary for early morning wandering to the bathroom because that floor is COLD. They're the happy alternative for my tired feet at the end of the day because I, literally, wear shoes from the moment I get dressed until I sit down on the couch sixteen hours later. The slippers are indispensable for transitioning between my outdoor snow shoes and my indoor sneakers, and, believe me, I've been switching shoes a lot for the past few ridiculously snowy weeks. Seriously, it's like I live in Minnesota--all the weather without any of the cute Nordic descendants.

The slippers are not beautiful, nor high quality. I got them at Target about three years ago and it shows. They have an imprinted fair isle sweater pattern, faux leather soles, and the fuzzy insides are pilling. They don't even fit really well, sliding slightly with each step, sounding a shuffle as I scuff down the hallway. And that is why I will never replace them.

When my mother was living with us there came a point when she started dying. Her spirit was still vibrantly alive, but her body just stopped playing along. In a matter of months she went from being able to walk down the hall on her own power to being pushed from room to room in her "red chariot" wheelchair. When it became too difficult for her to leave her room, we would help her back and forth between her reclining chair and bed. Finally, it required both my sister, Erin, and I to position her comfortably on her adjustable mattress so she could breathe through the night. Mom would sit on the edge of the bed and we would swing her legs around so her body was in the middle. Then we would recline the bed, lift her on a draw sheet until her head was just above the top of the mattress, and raise the back and feet for optimal airflow.

Invariably, Mom would slide down in the middle of the night and have to ask us to help her. Erin gave her a walkie-talkie to push instead of calling out, and since Erin was basically just levitating instead of sleeping at that point she always bolted out of bed at the first squawk. Then she would open my bedroom door and I would pull on my slippers and walk toward Mom's bedroom light.

At halfway down the hall, Mom would say, "Here comes Meggie! I hear those shuffling feet."

I'd lope into the room, disheveled and semi-conscious, and Mom would smile, and Erin and I would start the repositioning process. When she was settled, she'd say, "Thank you, girls," and I'd kiss her forehead and go back to bed for another three hours, before pulling on the slippers to officially start another day.

I found my slippers in the kitchen yesterday, under a bench by the back door. Although it was the middle of the day, I took off my sneakers and slid my feet into the flattened fuzz. I shuffled down the hallway and thought of Mom smiling at me in the middle of the night.