The Best Third

The Estrangement Puzzle

I have been thinking more about the journey of family estrangement and the potential long-term generational effects. As part of my journey to understand this phenomenon, I had to dig deep into my family’s past history in order to begin to understand the dynamics.

I can only speak to the parent’s perspective, and in the short term, the fallout is devastating. There is the process of grieving the loss of a person in your life, knowing they are still alive, but they do not want you to be part of their life. There is only one way through. It is accepting the situation that exists now, knowing that nothing is permanent, and continuing to build and live a life of which you can be proud.

There have been circumstances on both my father’s and mother’s sides of the family where estrangement has played a major role in cross-generational relationships.The first hint that my family had endured estrangement that echoed from the distant past came after my daughter took a DNA test through 23 and Me for a college class assignment. She matched as a possible second cousin for a gentleman named Peter who was in his sixties. She had no desire to communicate with an older man who she never met and never even knew existed, so she forwarded the contact information to me to try to put the puzzle together. What I found out was a fascinating case study in how branches of a family can be completely severed within a generation or two. Ties are destroyed forever for reasons that have been lost to time, and to the point where no one can put all of the pieces together because no one knows the other branch even existed.

Paternal Erasure

Peter reached out and introduced me to his sister, Mary Lou, the keeper of family history from his family. It took both Mary Lou and I to go on a journey of discovery, and even then it was difficult to piece together what happened. We figured out that the family connection started with my great-grandfather,my father’s paternal grandfather. The story I heard growing up was that he had a very difficult childhood. He grew up to raise a family in a solid working class neighborhood. He sold furniture, owned his own home, and raised two sons. The story was he was able to overcome all of the disadvantages of a difficult childhood.

From what Mary Lou and I pieced together, his father, my great-great grandfather, left his family, which was based in Vermont. He was the black sheep of the family and it was rumored that he had an alcohol problem. Whether he was asked to leave or decided to leave on his own is not clear. He ended up in New York City and in a relationship with a woman who worked as a domestic with whom he had two children, a boy and a girl. The older of the two children was my great-grandfather, born around the turn of the century. They were unable to care for the children and both children were placed in an orphanage. My great-grandfather was able to make a respectable life for himself, but it did not come without a cost. He never spoke of what he endured as an orphan, or even that he had a sister. What happened to her remains a mystery. He struggled with alcoholism for his entire adult life.

When Mary Lou found out that my great-great grandfather had two children that were abandoned, she was confused. If he had returned home, she was sure that his family in Vermont, who had the means, would have taken in both children. Whether out of pride, embarrassment, or fear, that never happened. The family in Vermont never knew the children even existed. A branch of the family tree was entirely erased.

Mary Lou planned a family reunion in Vermont which included a tour of the cemetery where my relatives were buried. I would love to say that the reconnection was a permanent one. That didn’t happen, at least in this situation. There was too much loss to overcome. There was no recent shared history, and the six relatives and their spouses who showed up came out of curiosity about distant family history more than a desire to connect with unknown relatives. Mary Lou was in her seventies when I met her ten years ago and recently passed away. Her gift to those of us who showed up that weekend was the opportunity to see into the past and meet a few of the people who share that past. She also gave each of the attendees a printed copy of the extensive family tree that she researched that I still have and cherish.

Maternal Reconnection

The falling out on my mother’s side was slightly more recent. My grandfather, Thomas, was married to Grace, my grandmother. Thomas was the middle child and the eldest son in his family. He was named after his father, Thomas Joseph. The argument came about because his younger brother, John and his wife, Winnie, decided to name their newborn son Thomas Joseph while my grandmother was expecting her fourth child. The brothers had discussed the decision and decided that they wanted the name Thomas to be passed down in the family, Thomas and Grace had three girls with no guarantee that their fourth child would be a boy. Of course it was a boy, and she felt the name Thomas was her son’s birthright, and it had been stolen from them. She forbade my grandfather to talk to his brother. The brothers, Thomas and John, both worked in New York City and would meet for lunch once a week behind my grandmother’s back. Ironically, neither Grace and Thomas’s son, Robert, nor John and Winnie’s son, Thomas produced a male heir. So the name Thomas Joseph McCarthy ended with my grandfather. The fight over the name was meaningless. Because Thomas and John valued their relationship so much, the rift was eventually repaired, but it left a scar. My mother took Grace’s side in the argument. This distanced her from her younger cousins and over time their contact whittled down to a Christmas card once a year.

After my mom passed away, one of the cousins reached out. From this came an e-mail correspondence that eventually turned into an invitation to Narragansett, Rhode Island this June for a family reunion. There were thirty five people who attended. They came from Massachusetts, Connecticut, New York City, and as far as Georgia. We had the opportunity to share stories, go through photographs, ask questions, and laugh. We have been in touch since, and I am hopeful that this has opened a door for a reconnection that lasts. It was a wonderful trip and it was encouraging to know that family can be found and relationships rekindled.

Once estrangement happens, there is a divergence of shared history. The people who hold the memories don’t speak of them. Relationships that aren’t tended, wither and die. The next generation inherits the fallout from this loss. The generation after that may not even know that another branch of their family tree exists, much less what occurred to cause the chasm. I know this sounds bleak, but it doesn’t have to be.

How does this fit into The Best Third? Relationships matter. It’s important to tend the ones that you have, repair them when necessary, and reconnect when it’s possible. Whether it’s a lost branch of the family tree, someone you lost touch with in high school, or a family member that you lost along the way,reaching out may reunite you with your family. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t, but it may at least provide history and context to how you became who you are. How someone reacts is out of your control, but isn’t it nice to know that hope is always an option?

Wedding Planning

We had gotten to the point of budget discussions.

“We can contribute $10,000 to your wedding budget, “ I offer. Very
generously, I thought.

“Does that include the rehearsal dinner?” Son asked.

“Yes. That includes everything. We can afford to contribute $10,000.” I
say with what I hope was and edge of finality in my voice.

“When can you get us the money?” Still no “thank you” I noticed, but I
would be patient. I was sure it was coming, right? $10,000 is still a lot
of money, isn’t it? I’m doubting myself now.

“Well, I’ll give it to you over the next year. The wedding is still over a
year away, and since your sister is in college, I’m sorry, Son, I do not have
a lump sum to hand over at this moment.”
“Oh.” Son says. A note of disappointment in his voice, resigned to his fate
of a parental easy payment plan. “Well, Bride’s parent’s have $14,000
they can give us today.”

My jaw drops. Thankfully not visible over the phone. I do the math
quickly in my head. $24,000. As a starting budget. For a one day event.
In my quick calculations this will not include my dress or my high school
and college aged daughter’s dresses that I will have to buy because they
have no incomes, but who are included in the wedding. And this is just
off the top of my head. Still no “thank you.”
“I’ll have to talk to Bride about this and let you know.”
“O.K. honey, talk to you soon.”

Why didn’t I say – are you fucking kidding me??!! How about a thank
you for the kind and generous gift? No, I did not say that. Yes, I was
thinking it, but I was hoping for a drama free wedding. I love my son
and really liked, at the time, his then fiancé e and his now wife. She was ambitious planner juxtaposed against his easygoing
neuroticism, the safe harbor for him in the storm that mainly
exists in his own mind.

Jump to a few days later – “Hi, Mom!”
“Hi, Honey, how is everything?”
“I talked to Bride about the wedding budget, and after she crunched the
numbers, we can’t include the rehearsal dinner in the amount you are
offering us.”

There really are no words to describe my reaction, so stunned silence
will have to suffice.
“Well, I guess we can probably swing that, but it’s got to be someplace
close to home, no place extravagant.”

I know, I know. This would have been the time to say, “I’m sorry son, but
I do not have to crunch the numbers to know I cannot afford a penny
more than $10,000 and if you give me a “thank you” right now, I’ll forget
this entitled conversation ever happened.

Again, I was going for family harmony. This was just the beginning.
Perhaps in the true fashion of the extorted, I thought if I gave them what
they wanted, they would be happy and peace would reign. Like anyone
who has ever been blackmailed knows, it never ends – they always come
back for more.

“Thanks, Mom, we really appreciate this.”

That’s all I wanted.

Adventures in Maine

Photo by Eky Rima Nurya Ganda on Pexels.com

One of my favorite things about traveling to Maine to work as a CRNA was the opportunity to experience a new place. I had never visited Maine before in any capacity, and living there for ten months while I worked out my contract was a way to immerse myself in different regional culture in the United States. It made me realize how blessed we are to live in such an expansive country with diverse populations and regional geography.

It was a season of personal firsts. The first time that I had ever rented a car by myself, and the first time that I was away from my husband and home for an extended period of time. The first thing I noticed when I arrived in early August was how late the sun set and how the beautiful pinks and blues reflected off of the high cirrus clouds for what seemed like forever until they melted into the blue hour of twilight. I could understand why there is such an outdoor aesthetic in the state known as Vacationland.

There were some interesting differences that I noticed right away that went beyond stretching myself personally. Maine is a state that is surrounded by Canada, specifically the Province of Quebec. I learned that it was common for people to speak both French and English fluently. The Quebecois migrated down to work in the factories in Lewiston and the surrounding areas when there were operational factories and before the decline in manufacturing in general across the United States. It was common to hear French being spoken in the hospital where I worked, or the grocery store. Our chief anesthetist’s first language was French. She learned English at the age of nine. Many directional signs are printed in both English and French. I noticed this when I took a walk on the Riverwalk Trail next to the Androscoggin River which connects Lewiston and Auburn. Two separate cities connected by the trail that I heard locals refer to as the LA of the East.

I learned that Irish last names were usually connected to factory bosses and that French last names were the progeny of the “immigrant labor”. I never got the hang of pronouncing the French last names. If I tried to pronounce it the French way, I was inevitably corrected to an Anglo pronunciation. If I tried the Anglo, it was French. As a nurse in Pittsburgh, I can pronounce Eastern European names, which are short of vowels and heavy on consonants, with no problem at all, but throw a French sounding name at me, and I would butcher it nine out of ten times.

There are several ways I would describe Mainers: independent, resourceful, and stoic. Being from Pittsburgh, I am used to smiling at people I pass on the street or in the hallways of a hospital and most times having that smile returned. In Maine, that gets you treated with suspicion. I had the impression that they thought there was something wrong with me. The proper way to greet someone was with a cordial “good morning”, smile optional. This will earn you a “good morning” back, a cordial nod of the head, and a modicum of respect. The smile has to be earned.

While I was there, my husband came up to visit and we headed to Quebec City. I was told where to stay – The Fairmont Le Château Frontenac – with a warning to start the trip with a full tank of gas. That area of Maine is a wild place. Literally. There are moose crossing signs on the winding two lane roads and very few towns or people along the way. The trees changing color under the fall sunshine and reflecting off of the clear, calm lakes in mid-October was breathtaking. It was almost enough to make you forget that if something like an accident with the above-mentioned moose or a flat tire, it may be hours before help comes along.

I live in western Pennsylvania.The area in the commonwealth between Pittsburgh and Philadelphia is very rural, and there are some wonderful natural places to explore, but the Pennsylvania turnpike, Route 80 and close proximity to other states makes it easy to find a gas station. I have never felt more isolated than I did on that trip in the Eastern United States. It was awe-inspiring.

After crossing the Canadian border in a small, rural border crossing, we adjusted to highways marked in kilometers and road signs in French and English and made our way to the first town with a gas station, Saint Georges, Quebec. This was three and a half hours into our drive, making me very grateful that we listened to everyone who told us to make sure we had a full tank of gas.

We arrived in Quebec City after a five hour drive. It was enchanting. I felt like I was dropped in the midst of a fairy tale. We spent the weekend exploring one of the last walled cities left in the world, giving it the feel of a medieval European city, eating at French restaurants and walking along the cobbled streets. It is indeed the closest to feeling like you are visiting Europe while remaining in North America.

After a magical weekend, it was time to head back to Lewiston. Crossing back into the United States was not as easy as crossing into Canada. The US Customs officer at the border was very nice, but extremely thorough. We were driving a rental car, and I had to show the rental agreement, which was not in the glove compartment, but was sitting on the kitchen table in the apartment I was staying in back in Lewiston. I could feel my anxiety creeping in, but before it was able to paralyze all of my muscles and brain cells, the gentleman said. “Check your email for the rental agreement, as long as you have already opened it. There is no cell service here.” I fortunately did have it on my phone and after he examined it, we were able to proceed.

We again went through Saint Georges, Quebec, stopped for gas and made what I thought would be a quick stop at a McDonalds. This is where things get interesting. The McDonalds was located in a French speaking city and not a tourist town where most people are bilingual and speak English to accommodate American tourists. This McDonalds experience was eye-opening.

As an American, I have ordered from McDonalds for as long as I can remember. As a special treat when I was growing up, my dad would go through the drive through and order a dozen cheeseburgers on a weekend to share with all six of us children. It was a hangout in high school in my local community, a place where I took my children to celebrate birthdays and play in the ball pit when they were little. In other words, a place with which I was very familiar.

We walked in to order, and the menus were in French. I have been trying to learn French, but Duolingo does not have a lesson about ordering fast food. My husband was with me, but his knowledge of the French language doesn’t go past polite greetings. Everyone around us was French speaking, they were yelling order numbers in French. People were greeting each other and having conversations in their native language, as they should, but I felt out of place and intimidated. Thank goodness there are picture menus at a kiosk, and I didn’t have to embarrass myself at the counter trying to order in person. Understanding a language doesn’t necessarily mean you can speak it in any meaningful way, and I am still at the state where I have to translate in my head.This also makes it difficult. As I am translating the first few words in my head, the rest of what is being said has timed out of my short-term memory. Thankfully, at the very bottom of the touchscreen menu was a button that said, English. Relief washed over me, and I set the menu to English and ordered our meals. I probably could have ordered it by picture in the French menu, but being the “other,” the one that didn’t fit in, was so anxiety-provoking that I didn’t even feel comfortable trying. We placed our order in English without incident. I had time to translate our order number in French and was able to recognize it when it was called, pick it up at the counter with a quick merci, and quickly head back to the car.

My point is not that the rest of the world should speak English to accommodate me. My point was that if you come to the United States and don’t know the language, you should be given respect. Ordering from a McDonalds during a quick drive through of an unfamiliar town in a foreign country was intimidating and anxiety-producing. People who come here who learn the language, go to school at any level, and find jobs should be celebrated and treated with dignity and compassion.

After leaving that McDonalds, I vowed that I would stop and help any visitor who was in this country and needed help navigating someplace when a language barrier existed. I remember once when I was in Key West, and I saw a French couple attempting to use an ATM in the lobby of the hotel where we were staying. There was only an English and Spanish option. They were struggling, and I almost stopped and helped, but at the time, I was only armed with two years of high school French. I guess I thought they would make fun of me, or resent my intrusion. Looking back now, I regret that. I realize now that I didn’t have to have the perfect accent or all of the correct words. All I needed was a sincere desire to help someone who was struggling and we probably would have muddled through. It is a mistake I will never make again, and I hope that if I am traveling and find myself in a situation where everything is unintelligible to me, that someone will stop and help me.

That is why we are here, isn’t it? To recognize the humanity in each person, and respond to that, not our own egos, preconceived notions or doubts. We are here to respond to each other’s humanity and lift each other up. Yet another personal lesson I learned while on a travel assignment in Maine.

Menopause and Grief

There is no doubt that menopause heralds a new stage of life. There are the physical and hormonal changes that are the hallmark of this stage of life, thus the euphemism that my mother and her generation used to describe it: “The Change.” The basic definition is the end of reproductive years, but that is too basic. This has always annoyed me, especially when some seem to think that is the same thing as saying, “the end of one’s useful life.” As much as I enjoyed becoming a mom and raising a family, it was not the sum total of who I am as a person.

Menopause is a very difficult time of transition for women. In addition to physical changes, there are myriad other changes that mark this time of life. Children leave home and start lives and families of their own. Parents are aging and become dependent, become sick, and pass away. Many women retire or at least contemplate retiring from careers that they worked and sacrificed to build. Face time with a spouse increases, and this is a time when fissures in a relationship can take hold and form unbridgeable cracks. This list is not exhaustive.There are many things that can happen, and all of these things involve loss.

Why am I here?

This sense of loss can lead to existential questions and also grief, the natural emotional response to loss.

Just to review the stages:

Denial
- Bargaining
  - Depression
    - Anger
- Acceptance

These stages are not linear; there is no time period assigned to each stage. This means that you can get to the acceptance stage, but that doesn’t mean you are finished—you can go backwards and experience the other stages at any time. If you have ever experienced the loss of a loved one and months or years later, you are leveled with a feeling of loss and sadness that seems to come out of left field, this is an example of that.

Loss is cumulative. Children leaving the nest, downsizing, retiring, or the death of a parent may all be normal life events, but they are all large losses and they all happen in a relatively short period of time. This rapid fire of huge changes can take its toll. In my situation, I also have the added grief of a very painful family estrangement.

Grief needs to be worked through. The emotions surrounding loss need to be acknowledged and felt. Talking things through with family, friends or a therapist, and journaling all help. The most helpful thing is the tincture of time. A loss is still a loss, and something that is lost cannot always be replaced.

For me, this weekend was an example of the way that grief which you thought you had processed can come back and knock you back down to your knees.

The news broke that Brooklyn Beckham went scorched earth on his parents to his 16 million followers. As the mom of a son from whom I am estranged, all I could think about was his poor mother. I have nothing in common with her except that we are both moms, but everyone on the internet seems to have an opinion. This situation is difficult enough to navigate in a small town. I cannot imagine the pain of a family misunderstanding being fodder for gossip on two continents. When you have spent your entire life loving your child and doing your best to support them, and the response is to be cut off, I don’t know whether it matters if 6 people know or 16 million.The pain is unbearable.

“Recollections May Vary” – Queen Elizabeth’s response after the Harry and Megan Oprah interview

Estrangement is currently the way to handle any type of conflict. Start by calling your parents emotionally immature, then tell victim stories about your upbringing, get a few friends and then even a therapist to tell you how brave you are, and your victimhood is alchemized into a hero’s journey. Is your story the absolute truth? Probably not. Were your parents perfect? No. Did they love you? Yes. Did they have the mental health resources that you had at your fingertips? Absolutely not. This is an example of you holding your parents to a set of standards that didn’t exist when they were raising you.

There is no room for grace, for acknowledging your parent’s humanity, or for any nuance. So they did their best. It wasn’t good enough? Fair enough. It’s up to you to heal. If that healing involves cutting off your family, just be aware that when the wheel or fortune turns, and standards have once again changed (and they will), you may find yourself on the other side. A side where you are no longer the hero, but the villain.

As a mom, I am left grieving a child who is still alive and lives five minutes away. If you are a parent and are also lucky, you may find the support of friends and family. There are still those who will tell you that “good” parents don’t get cut off. Where there is smoke there is fire. If you attempt to explain or defend, then you are being manipulative. You find yourself distancing yourself from people who say things like, “You have to listen to his side,” or “His perception of what happens is ‘his truth’ and you have to accept that.” I am and always have been willing to listen and have a discussion. I am not willing to set aside my reality and grovel to anyone. Especially for a history that was re-written without my input. Finally, to save yourself and your sanity, you have to find a way through. That entails building on the foundation that you have already established in life so that the grief becomes more manageable.

Building on Your Existing Foundation

This can come in so many forms. Grieving the past is necessary, but it’s also necessary not to get stuck. In order to build as you move through all of the stages and feelings that grief brings on, get help if you need it. There are no bonus points in life for unnecessary suffering. The next step is to notice the glimmers. These are the beautiful parts of life that are always present, but when we are in the thick of things, we forget to notice. A sunrise, a cloudless blue sky, a warm cup of coffee that you linger over in the morning. The tiny things that help to get you through a day. Stop and notice them. No, it won’t fix everything, but what it will do is focus your attention outside of yourself and on to something beautiful. Even if it’s only for a few moments.

The next thing is to do something different. This does not mean “pull yourself up by the bootstraps” or any other useless cliche that well meaning people throw at you. It’s trying something different. Generally speaking, you have more time on your hands. One of the best tips I can give is to have a list of things that you want to do or accomplish ready before your children leave or you retire. That may be picking up a hobby that you set aside when you were younger, or learning something new—possibly both. I always wanted to take a work travel assignment. I took the opportunity to travel to Maine as a CRNA after my children left home and after I became estranged from my son. It helped me become more confident in my self and my skills. It also helped me process my grief in my own way.

Keep in mind that there are no rules. Feel free to pivot. I will never regret taking a travel assignment, but I realized I am a homebody and once was enough. Other options are to take a class, or go to your local library and check out a book which you now have time to read. Libraries are hidden jewels in most communities that offer courses and lectures for all age groups. I joined a book club at my local library. It gives me the opportunity to spend time with other people and have meaningful discussions about the books that are assigned every month.

Which brings me to the next suggestion. Find your tribe. Community is so important to happiness. Find the people who are supportive, and who share your values. Become more deeply involved in your community. You now have the time to attend a local school board meeting or a town council meeting. Find out what is happening in your community. If you have raised your children in the same community in which you currently live, even better. You have that experience to draw on to help make decisions for the next generation. Become informed. You have the time to find out what is going on in the world and the experience to form intelligent opinions about what is happening and the time to act. As a woman past menopause, you are in a unique position to work with other women and be an agent of positive change in your community and in the world.

Take the experience that you have acquired and use this time to take what you have learned and teach it to others. I am using my nursing background to put together a class to help other women going through menopause manage this major life transition.

The important thing to remember is that you are not finished. That two things can be true at the same time. Deep grief and sadness can be experienced at the same time as contentment and even joy. As you enter into another cycle in your life, there are still beautiful things to learn and experience. It’s up to you to find those things, act on them, and be open to the wonder and surprises that are still left for you to experience.

Resolutions vs. Boundaries

“Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.” Ferris Bueller

I love starting the New Year, although how I have welcomed the New Year has changed over the years. When I was young, I enjoyed toasting the New Year with parties, friends and champagne. Then, after I had children, I loved watching their excitement as the ball dropped in the middle of New Year’s Rockin’ Eve as we listened to the fireworks go off outside in our neighborhood. Now, I love to have a quiet toast at home, using the New Year as an opportunity to reflect on the past year to see what has changed and what I have learned and accomplished. As we collectively turn the page on 2025 to look forward to the clean slate of 2026, I am contemplating the role of resolutions and boundaries in my life.

Resolutions Past and Present

Resolutions are easy. At least, easy to formulate. I don’t know of anyone who doesn’t want to try to be better, to grow and become a better person. Resolutions are simply a list of things to change or aspire to in the next year to achieve growth. They are easy to write down in a list form. I choose to look at my resolutions more as personal goals. For example, I changed my resolution from losing weight to being healthier. I started with a personal trainer and have built strength and improved my balance. These are two very important things for the post-menopausal body, and I am proud of myself for successfully incorporating this into my life. There have been a few bumps in the road. There was the time I landed wrong and broke my third metatarsal on my right foot, so I am still a work in progress when it comes to balance, but I have successfully kept that resolution for three years. This year, I have decided to keep that resolution and add to it. I’m going to try a vegetarian dinner once a week and add cardio to my established exercise routine. I am incorporating small changes rather than huge sweeping changes that I know will not last a week. Adding things slowly, year by year, as my body and my life changes has built confidence and added happiness to my life. There is also the added benefit of keeping up with my twin grandsons.

Resolution number two is better time management. I already keep a Google calendar that my daughter and I share. Incidentally, moving from a paper to an electronic calendar was a resolution from last year that was another success. She puts her work schedule on the Google calendar and shares it with me, and I can make appointments and plans that she can see so we can make sure that childcare is covered with no gaps. This year, I am going to add blocks of time to the calendar to write and work on my professional projects. That is just for me, nothing I need to share, but something that will keep me accountable to myself. I have goals that I want to achieve, and the only way to do that is to consistently set time aside to work on them.

My third resolution is spend less time on social media. This goes hand in hand with better time management. If I block time on my personal calendar to work on professional endeavors and exercise this will keep me from mindlessly scrolling. I find myself constantly reaching for my phone when I am bored, and before I know it, an hour has passed. It sucks my time as well as my soul. I have found more and more AI in my feeds and it is getting more difficult to tell the difference. I want to focus my time on being a creator rather than a consumer. I want time to read an actual printed book, take a walk and touch grass and smell the flowers. I want to be present and focus on reality. Life is good, and it’s good to stop and appreciate that once in a while.

I feel pride looking back and seeing that I can build on resolutions from the past. One of the resolutions from last year is still a work in progress. That is my work on establishing boundaries.

Boundaries? What are Those?

For all the high achieving eldest daughters, how is your career in healthcare going?

A popular internet meme, but also true. Eldest daughters are the caretakers of their parents, their younger siblings, then their husbands and children…oh, and also their husband’s family, their friend group, their work place, and their patients. Did I choose a career as a nurse and then CRNA, or did it choose me? It’s all they—we—know how to do. We take care of others. Then, one day something happens and we need some type of emotional support—and everyone is…well…busy.

“Hey, the holidays are hard for me this year, do you have a few minutes to talk?”

“I’m really sorry, I know this is a difficult time of year for you, but this week is busy because of, you know, the holiday. We’ll catch up soon.”

The thing is, I very rarely need anything from anyone—another eldest daughter trait. So when I ask, I really need support. It is so hard for me to ask. I feel like it’s a personal failure. I give emotional support freely, and when I ask for it in return—crickets.

If the above does not define someone with a huge boundary problem, I don’t know what does. It is a problem of my own making. I am there for others to help solve problems, to help emotionally support them and to be available. I always seem fine. I handle my own feelings, my own emotions. I keep them to myself, with very few exceptions. The expectation of others is that I am fine, that I have always been fine, and I always will be fine. Forever and ever, world without end, Amen.

When someone needs me, I try to support them. I know life is difficult and sometimes you need to lean on someone for support. I was raised being that person. That is my role. It comes to me as easily as breathing. Other people seek me out for this purpose, but the problem is, it’s extremely one-sided.

When I ask for help it’s not a priority for anyone, because my role is to be fine in perpetuity. If I am not, the balance is skewed and I become burdensome, needy, reactive, and my all time favorite, irrational. Something happens, and all of the pent of feelings and emotions that I have been apparently “handling” bubble to the surface, and not the cute kind like champagne bubbles that tickle your nose on New Year’s Eve. Actually, I wish they would just bubble. It’s more of a volcanic eruption, specifically the explosive kind. In other words, not good for anyone.

So, back to boundaries.

The rule of boundaries is that they are rules that you make for yourself (so far, similar to a resolution) but they are rules that you make for yourself in relationship to other people!

That is the mind-blowing part. I didn’t know you were allowed to do that!

I don’t have to accept being treated badly? I have never, ever had to live this way. There was no rule that said, “Chris, you need to accept all of the nonsense the world piles on you and you have to take it.” I have always had the power to change this and I didn’t know it!

Thank God for therapy. I now have the opportunity to figure this out.

So my first boundary of the year is this, and it is a silent one. Another rule for boundaries is that it’s not necessary to always communicate them. I realize that I am announcing it now in this forum, but I don’t have to tell anyone that I am doing it when I’m doing it. It is a rule that I have made for myself.

I have always felt that it is on me to reach out to my friends and make plans. A duty of mine. After all, if I didn’t do it, it wouldn’t happen. It caused me to spiral into resentment. Why am I the only one whoever plans anything? And the more toxic, What’s wrong with me? Why don’t people want to spend time with me?

So my boundary is as follows: If I want to see someone, I will reach out twice. It’s a soft boundary – in other words if the person seems like they are really trying to come up with a time to meet, it may take more than two texts. If I get a noncommittal “I’ll look at my calendar and get back to you,” then I will reach out one more time. If nothing comes of it, I let it go. I don’t have any resentment because I tried and there are so many reasons that someone may not be able to make plans that have absolutely nothing to do with me. I no longer question my worth or value.

The ball is in their court. I’m not going to badger someone. Could it be that they don’t want to spend time with me? Maybe. Perhaps they are dealing with something of which I am unaware? Also possible. I place no blame on myself or others. No resentment, no hard feelings. I have peace knowing that I reached out, made the effort and their lack of response is simply not my concern.

This one small change has made my life better. It made me happier. I have discovered that most times, I eventually hear back. I do get together with them at a time that is convenient for both of us. I don’t have the resentment of feeling I am taking on the entire responsibility of the relationship, so the resentment I felt before melts away in the process.

My friendships have become less one-sided and more reciprocal. This was totally an internal change. I did not make a huge announcement on the friend group text, just an internal decision that changed my perspective and improved my relationships. Some friendships have fallen away,the ones that are there for a season, and that has made room for new ones to form.

By making this decision, I have embraced the cyclical nature of life. Friendships fall away after a job change, a move, or a change in circumstance. My friend group used to form because I was someone’s mom. Some of those friendships have fallen away; some have stayed and are some of my closest and longest. I have found that I can form new friendships in the place of the ones that have fallen away. They fit the time and place I am in my life right now. I am very grateful for that.

Careening Toward Christmas

Christmas Tree in Cupola module by NASA Johnson is licensed under CC-BY-NC 2.0

I am sitting in my family room in front of the Christmas tree that I put up and decorated as late as possible. After spending years trying to make the “perfect” Christmas for my growing family, I now wonder if I should even put a tree up. I am very ambivalent about Christmas trees. I vacillate between why is there a tree in my living room, contemplating each individual ornament, and being overcome by emotion as I remember all of the stages of my life that each ornament represents.

I always said that I hate Christmas, and unfortunately, as a mom balancing the full-time job of planning and coordinating Christmas events on top of a full time job in healthcare, I found myself stressed out and complaining about the holiday. I am sorry if this took any of the joy out of the holiday for my family, and I hope they look back and see a mom that was trying her best to make the season bright as it spun out of control. There were choral concerts, piano recitals, school parties, pot lucks, gift exchanges, and family dinners which required trying to find time to spend with both sides of the family without splitting myself in two. I will admit that most of the pressure I felt, I put on myself. I blame Martha Stewart for my nineties perfectionism. It took me years to realize she had a staff and it was just me doing the planning and delegating to my staff of one. My husband, who was extremely helpful, kept reminding me that the only person pressuring me to provide the perfect holiday experience was me. The result was that by Christmas, I was exhausted and over-stimulated.

Those days are now past, and I wish I spent more time living in the moment then stressing over all of the cookies being baked and decorated by Christmas Eve. That hectic time meant we were decorating cookies with young children before rushing out the door to one family Christmas, colored icing smeared across my house, the children, and their holiday clothes. Who cares if there was only one kind of Christmas cookie, or they came from the bakery instead of being homemade, or even that they were done by Christmas for that matter? No one but me cared whether the Christmas cards went out the week after Thanksgiving or the week between Christmas and New Year’s.

Now I no longer find myself wrapping Christmas gifts at midnight on Christmas Eve or having my husband assemble a toy or a bike while using very un-Christmas like language during the process. There are no grandparents to visit and manage, and I miss those people in my life more than anything, especially around the holidays. As stressful as it was, I am glad we made the effort to see everyone. My children will always have the memory of going to my parent’s house on Christmas Eve, where Santa came early and left them their gifts, complete with ash smears from the fireplace. Their memories are kept alive on my Christmas tree—some of the ornaments that used to grace their tree now grace mine.

The most precious ornaments to me are the ones that my children crafted in pre-school and elementary school. They are kept separately in a special box, and they are the first ornaments placed on the tree every year. I even have the construction paper decorations they made, and a few years ago, when the wear and tear started to show, I had them laminated. The next ornaments are the ghosts of Christmas past, the ornaments from the grandparents and parents that are no longer with us. Last come the ornaments that chronicle our life as a family.

Since I am estranged from my son, a part of my life and history is missing. I try to focus on the present and all of the events and people that I still hold close. I honor those that choose to be part of my life, and this brings me joy. I set aside my son’s Baby’s First Christmas ornament and all of the ornaments that he made as a child as well as the ornaments that represent his family. There is an emptiness on the tree. The space where he belongs. I will never get rid of them, but I packed them away so they didn’t weigh down my heart. This is a gift to myself as I waver between acceptance and hope. I hope someday there is a resolution. Christmas is the time of hope and miracles, after all.

This year, the first ornament that I placed on the tree was a picture of my twin grandsons, who have brought joy and healing to my life. I have accepted that both joy and sorrow can exist at the same time. One can be extraordinarily blessed (and I am) and still grieve at the same time. This situation, as terrible as it is, has taught me resilience. It has taught me kindness. It has taught me that even though it is Christmas time, sometimes the forced festivity can be overwhelming. In fact, as the revelry increases, the things in life that aren’t as we want them to be contrast sharply with all of the problems, disappointments, losses, and challenges that everyone faces as part of life.

I look at the news every day and I am saddened by so many things. The day we put up the Christmas tree was the thirteenth anniversary of the Sandy Hook massacre and coincided with yet another shooting of innocents at Brown University. I look at the Christmas tree in my warm house, the lights glowing in the darkening room, the fire in the hearth, and my heart goes out to everyone who will not be present for their families this holiday season, no matter what holiday they celebrate, due to any type of loss. I hope that no matter the circumstances anyone is facing right now that they are still able to experience happiness and peace in the year to come.

And I wish everyone who has read this all of the blessings of the season and…

Merry Christmas!

The Best Third

The beautiful sunrise over the serene beaches of Maruthamunai, Sri Lanka. by Nuhman Nathly is licensed under CC-CC0 1.0

A new lease on life

I love family blogs. I love hearing about the milestones reached and the adorable things kids do and say. It brings back warm memories about when I was raising my family and resonates now watching my twin grandsons grow and the milestones they achieve as their individual personalities develop. It doesn’t really matter if they are family members or strangers, I am enthralled by the stories of the developmental steps of children, and the miracles and spark that each and every child holds.

The years of my life raising children and being a mom were the best. I loved the relationship I had with each of my three of my children. I was proud when they excelled in school, I was empathetic when they had the inevitable squabbles with neighborhood friends and then difficulties navigating peer groups as they grew older. I spent time teaching them right and wrong, life lessons, and I hoped how to be a good person living life on this planet. A life that could contain both beauty and difficulty. Sometimes at the same time.

Sending them off to college was bittersweet. I knew they were prepared to venture out and start to find their own way while still having our home a safe place for them to return to as they became productive members of the community as well as the people they were meant to become. People who I loved more than anything. As other writers have said, pieces of my heart that were functioning in the world without me, but still somehow part of me.

I missed them terribly. When my son left for school, I still had my two daughters at home. When my first daughter left, I still had my youngest daughter. When she left, I was lost. I had a general plan for the “after”. I found solace in work not for the work itself, but how I could help them achieve their goals. They all found partners and we celebrated three weddings. Beyond that, my goals were to retire, travel with my husband, enjoy my children and the new families they were creating and eventually, grandchildren. That was it. That one sentence was the plan for the last third of my life. After spending thirty years building a life, a career, a family, my plan for the future was reduced to one sentence. The difficult building work was done. Now it was my time.

Except….

The pandemic hit changing the world for mostly the worse for the next two years. I feel that the world is still suffering the effects of it, and will for a long time to come. In my family it meant a lost college graduation. I worked in healthcare, and it meant bearing witness to the terrible devastation it wreaked on those who found their way into the hospital. The fear of getting the disease, bringing it home to my family, and then the relief of a vaccine followed by the dismissal of the entire thing as a hoax and the vaccine as a danger instead of the miracle it was.

The fallout of losing all of my co-workers, my support system during the first year of the pandemic, not to illness, but to leaving for different opportunities. We came through the pandemic battered and bruised, and during a meeting with management, asked for a few concessions to keep us from leaving the organization after being burned out over the previous year and a half. “We will stay, we want to stay, and these are the things that will keep us here.” Those things were a few more dollars an hour, and a better schedule. We were told “no” in no uncertain terms. The exact quote was, “I will staff this place with Locums.” So half of the department left over the next six months for travel positions, more money and better schedules that fit their family’s needs. They staffed that place with Locums for the next four years. Locums, or travelers, who made twice the hourly rate and never took call.

It was a time of loss. A loss of freedom, a loss of control, then losing my co-workers, and then my mother who died in the thick of the pandemic never quite understanding why none of her six children could visit.

Then pandemic related or not, my son chose to estrange himself from our family. I refuse to go into details about this either to defend myself or to vilify him. I will only say that I accepted his boundary and have since developed my own with the help of an excellent therapist.

I will add that the estrangement threatened my very foundation and threatened to destroy my family. I spent months questioning everything I did as a mom. Over and over, I was caught in a vortex that I couldn’t escape. My husband, who was able to compartmentalize, told me I had to “get over it”, my daughters held firm on their boundaries to stay out of it completely as they tried to remain neutral and maintain a relationship with both their parents, their brother, and their niece and nephew. In other words, we all grieved the loss alone.

Feeling totally unsupported and in order to process the pain, I took a traveling job in Maine. It was healing in many ways. However, a week before my assignment ended, the community of Lewiston, Maine, where I was working, experienced the only mass shooting ever in the state as well as the worst one in the country in 2023.

With these ongoing hurdles,I began my journey through menopause and navigating all of the physical, and emotional changes that brings as well as all of the normal relationship changes a family and a marriage endure during this time.

I came home from Maine exhausted, burnt out, and with constant stomach issues and pain in my hands so severe, that I could barely move them. Thrown into that was the extra spice of depression and anxiety.

My daughter delivered twins in September of 2024. They were premies, and I found that my time was much better spent supporting and helping her through this difficult time than working in a job that was slowly stealing my physical and mental health. My last day of work was February 24, 2025 and I officially resigned in May. I spent the time between February and May trying to decide if it was time. Was it too soon? Could I afford it? Did I want to let go of a career I worked so hard to build? Was I ready? It turns out I was, and I haven’t looked back.

Now what? I’m not done yet. I want to help my daughter. Helping her watch her two babies grow over the past year has been tremendously healing for me, and has kept them out of daycare after they both spent over a month in the NICU. A win-win for both of us. I often tell her it’s the best job I’ve ever had, and I mean it. You never stop being a parent no matter how old your children are. I even read you carry their cells inside of you. I love that! It’s a lifetime commitment. That being said, I am not ready to tie my hair which is slowly turning silver into a bun, put on an apron and a housedress, sit in a rocker and wait. Wait for what? The rest of my life to pass by? Death?

This is my introduction to the what now? This whole experiment is about living the last third of my life. How I will transition to that third not in distress, but in wonder that I am still here! Despite of all of the challenges, II have so much left to do and experience! While I know I will not live forever, this is about transitioning into what is realistically the last third of my life and making it the Best Third.

Act Three, Scene One

My first step in my journey toward building my best self in this transitional time of life, the post time (post-menopause, post-children, post-pandemic, and post-retirement) was to address my mental health. This was a very difficult step for me. There is such a stigma around mental health, and I was guilty of falling into this trap of minimizing its importance as well. I was always one to tell others, “You don’t need therapy or medication! Change your diet, exercise, get a good night’s sleep and you’ll feel better!” I am sorry to all of the people, including my children, who heard that speech. This “pull yourself up by the bootstraps” mentality only works to a certain point, and not at all for some people. I found out I was one of the people who needed more than good vibes and terrible advice.

Before I resigned from work, I started by exercising and putting time into myself by journaling and doing some self-care activities. I joined a gym, I scheduled a facial, scheduled a manicure, and bought a brand new notebook. These things helped. The gym that I joined, the day spa I went to for my facial, and the nail salon were all female-owned businesses. They were also all places where I could go and learn what this new me was going to look like. I could look like a fool trying a new exercise at the gym, and Avery, the owner, who was the same age as my youngest daughter, would tell me to give myself grace. This was something I needed to hear and apply to many aspects of my life. The first time I went into the day spa for a facial, I thought, “I am not worthy of this luxury. People like me don’t do this.” Brynn, the owner, sensed my nervousness and said, “This is a safe space. I am here to make you feel comfortable.” I relaxed immediately and got rid of some unwanted chin hair in the process. Clara at the nail salon listened to me tell the same stories over and over and just listened, judgment free. They all made me feel empowered, and they all became my friends as people in other aspects of my life were falling away.

All of those things helped, but I still had my own voice on a loop inside my head that said the most unsupportive things to me. Things like, you are broken, and no one cares about you, and damaged goods. Sometimes, in my mind, I was fighting the notion that I was depressed and anxious. I was doing everything I needed to do. I wasn’t missing a step. So what if I wasn’t enjoying any of them? Everyone has down times, after all. Life isn’t all unicorns and roses. My cup was absolutely empty, but that is what is expected of women, right? Give until it hurts. Do for others, wait for the crumbs from the table, and make sure you make those crumbs last. Even with the support of these new people in my life, I was struggling, but powering through.

Then, one day, I was yelled at in a parking lot. A middle-aged man walked in front of my car. I was annoyed by this and I didn’t stop or make much of an effort to slow down. He made it across safely and I parked my car. When I got out, an older woman was standing next to this man and was yelling at me, “You almost hit him!” This was not true, but I definitely was thinking about what an idiot he was for crossing in front of me without looking. Instead of stopping while he crossed, which I absolutely should have done, ignoring this outburst, or even apologizing, I chose to yell back, “He should have learned in Kindergarten that pedestrians have an obligation to look before they cross the road!” I proceeded to walk away, very thankful that there were no cell phone cameras in the vicinity. This was it for me. I was shaking with anger, rage, and shame, and I asked myself, “is this the person I want to be?” The answer was a resounding no. What was I doing? Whatever it was obviously wasn’t enough. Being yelled at in a parking lot and yelling back was the sign I needed to make changes. I made a therapy appointment that afternoon.

For the next year, I went to therapy. I learned about myself, and I learned what boundaries were. I tried things that I had been too afraid to try. I learned to respond, not react—in other words, how to not yell at strangers in parking lots. I was doing work like journaling that would help me heal, but still berating myself daily and not getting much joy out of anything, even things I used to enjoy, like cooking. I found myself doom-scrolling, although in my defense, there was plenty to doom-scroll about. I was self-medicating without even realizing it. I seemed to need a glass or two of wine at night to help myself unwind and relax.

I white-knuckled it until my next physical, where I admitted to my PCP, “I think I’m depressed.” She proceeded to screen me. I answered honestly. On the Patient Health Questionnaire (PHQ-9), I scored an 11, indicating moderate depression. No surprise there. On the General Anxiety Disorder (GAD-7), I scored a 17, indicating severe anxiety. This did surprise me.

It really shouldn’t have. From the time I was in elementary school, if I heard police sirens, I believed that someone in my family was hurt or dead, and that was what the sirens were about. I would go home and be so relieved that my mom was alive and well. I saw a Godzilla movie when I was a kid and spent the next two weeks looking out the back door to make sure Godzilla wasn’t terrorizing my neighborhood. I spent the summer between third and fourth grade agonizing over the possibility of not being able to remember my multiplication tables and how I would probably end up being held back a grade. When I tried to tell my mom about how worried I was about this, she laughed and said, “Wait until you are an adult and have to face real problems.” I learned to keep these worries to myself. I knew that Godzilla was probably not going to step on my house, but the chance of me failing out of fourth grade was not zero. There were signs that anxiety was a problem.

There were also physical indicators that showed up in my adult life. I had constant stomach aches, heart palpitations, and cracked teeth from clenching at night. I was irritable, which I thought was a normal response to life. Also, I couldn’t hold still. When I was sitting, I was constantly biting my lips and moving my feet. I didn’t realize I was doing this until my grandsons saw me moving my feet and starting playing with my toes and laughing. They thought I was playing a game with them. I had no idea these were indicators because they had always been a part of me. Hyper-vigilance made me a very good CRNA, so why would I want to change something on which my livelihood was dependent? It’s generally a good thing that the person taking over your vital functions in the operating room is vigilant.

I am pretty sure there was also a hereditary element. My mother struggled with anxiety. She bit her cuticles until they bled, she was a foot fidgeter, and she also ruminated. She would come home after meeting a neighbor in the grocery story and spend the next few hours dissecting the conversation. She pulled apart what she said, what the person she was talking to said, their intonations, and their body language. I remember trying to reassure her that I’m sure they weren’t being critical or judgmental, but she was sure there was more to the story. I would try to convince her not to read too much into it. As an adult, I found myself doing the very same thing. Once again, I thought it was normal.

My PCP started me on a low dose of an anti-depressant after screening me, and I am not exaggerating that it changed my life. The recording in my head that told me I wasn’t good enough was silenced. I started to enjoy things like cooking again. I still have all of the normal human emotions, but they are in check now. I am comfortable responding instead of being reactive. No more yelling at strangers in parking lots. I feel happiness, joy, and gratitude every day now. I thought those emotions were lost to me and it was a normal part of aging, but they are back.

I asked my PCP about weaning off of the medication at my recent physical. She did the screening again. My score came back as a 4 on both the PHQ-9 and the GAD-7. Both scores were in the normal range. “Why do you want to stop taking them?” she asked.

I answered, “I feel really good, I’m not sure that I need them anymore.”

“You are on a low dose, and you feel good. If you want to try to wean off, I have no objections, but be aware that your symptoms may come back.”

That’s all I had to hear. I decided, after consulting with my physician, that I am much happier now and to stay the course. If I was treating high blood pressure, I wouldn’t think twice about taking medication. I decided this was no different. I will be on this medication as long as it works. It was the next step in getting my life back. The medication and therapy together have helped bring enjoyment back to my life. Every time I hear someone like the HHS secretary say that anti-depressants aren’t necessary and they shouldn’t be so easy to get, I think, “You’ll get mine when you pry them out of my cold, dead hands.” I’m not going back. I will take the advice of my trained physician and therapist. The HHS secretary holds neither of those credentials.

I met with my therapist the other day. She told me of how far I’ve come and how proud she is of me. For the first time in a long time, I was able to look back over the last several years and actually see the progress I have made, and I was able to say, “I am proud of myself, too.” I am now ready to embrace what comes next with a healthier and happier outlook on life.