My life with the Sullivan boys

His clean laundry is still in the basket, waiting to be folded. The bed is left unmade. The indentation of his head is still in his pillow. His clothes still hang on the hook, shoes in the basket. Christmas gifts left unopened. It's been five months since he died. I am okay, I am not okay. When my mother-in-law asks why I haven't sent out Ryan's senior pictures yet, I freeze, pretend I did, and then quietly remember that those were last year's photos. I'm peppered with how, why, and when questions at the graduation lunch I was supposed to plan, not my son, and I start to cry.  They don't understand. They have no idea how much I want to be who I used to be. Do all of the things I used to do. I want to go for 30-mile bike rides with my son. I want to go to the Y twice a week and lift weights. I want to plan a big graduation open house for my son. I want to make dinner each night and bake cookies every week. But right now, I have a fifty-pound brick on my chest and...

 2:15 a.m. December 8th This is my hospital journal You have been actively dying for almost ten hours. I never imagined it would be this slow. I checked Chat GPT to find out what's happening to your body. It is the slowest shutdown ever. Heart rate is all over the place. O2 is up, down, way down, now back up. 40%? Your breaths are almost ten seconds apart. The death rattle is ever-present. It sounds exactly like when you needed to cough to get your stats up, only now you have lost the ability to swallow. Your body is shutting down. I don't know the order, but I know the heart is the last thing to go. I have such a sense of gratitude for being your mother. So challenging, painful, and genuine. It is impossible for me to pretend to be anyone but myself because of you. These nineteen years have stripped me of pretenses, superficial relationships, and my expectations of who I was supposed to be. You forced me to love before anything else. I loved you through my shame, my fear, and ...

Stryker. That's the brand of all the hospital beds at Children's Hospitals and Clinics of Minneapolis. I know because that's what I was staring at when the pain and palliative doctor told us we had hours left with Dermot. We had discussed his healthcare directive, how aggressive we wanted his care to be, and what was off the table. The whole time, my gaze was fixed on the bottom of the bed frame. STRYKER. The doctor told us of the insane off-the-chart Procalitonin reading of 143.10, how he and his colleagues had never seen a number so high, and his CRP was 17.02, also off the charts. We discussed our options: do we say goodbye now, or give him  Norepinephrine   to  buy us some time to bring his brothers in to say goodbye? What? What the fuck is happening right now? Is this really happening right now? Wait, this is happening right now.  I thought about the house we're building. We'll have to change the design now, cut out the other half of the house that's dedica...

Noelle Jes Jess Mark Melissa Beauty Darci Lydia Lilian Erin Cynthia Zoey Amanda Beth Danny Talila Elin Mauvlette Lauren Kayla Anoma Shafali Duane Ashley Laurie Beth Donna Nicole Cate Brittany Abbey Dee Katie Tuujii Cari Clara April Eileen Emma Evalyne Cassie Isabella Meridith Mike Ashley Esther Elayna Larone Sharo Tonya Anne This is a list of some of Dermot's caregivers over the years. I'm sure I've forgotten some. This list brings up a lot of feelings. Gratitude, anxiety, shame, joy, sadness, longing, exhaustion, anger, frustration, and desperation You see, all of these people have been in and out of my house, all day, every day. They come and go depending on their dedication to their jobs and when the next step on their career ladder is met. Some I knew for years and still stay in touch. Some others show up once or twice, then ghost us, leaving us no explanation for their departure. They see and hear our family's conversations, our arguments, and they hear me when I f...

I have stuff in me. Stuff that needs to exit my body as soon as possible. stuff that makes my back seize up and my joints ache. Thoughts, ideas, judgments, emotions, resentments, longing, to-dos and worries, cravings, regrets. I often think about past relationships. One's I'd like to revisit with the knowledge I have now. I want to direct my younger self to respect myself, to say no more often. I want to actually hear when someone says they don't want me. To not waste any of my time second-guessing my choices and directions that my life might take. I want to tell that beautiful 23-year-old girl to move on. He's trying to tell you, and you aren't listening. You are not a victim in this life. Your choices are made by you. Going through life as a victim is a familiar place. It invites me in to sit in the familiar chair of longing, wishing I could be better but never getting off my ass to make anything happen. Victims think they are rational and sane. I didn't choos...

 As I stand in my decimated backyard with my leaf blower on, I think of the mom's group Facebook post last week complaining about her neighbor leaf blowing after 6:30 at night and how inconsiderate it was. To comment on this post would not be helpful. I walked outside my house this afternoon and was stunned by the stillness and the quiet. It's Easter, people went to church, had an egg hunt in the park, and are getting ready to attend brunch at the country club with friends and family. I don't celebrate easter. not because I don't believe in God. I just don't require a special day to talk with God. My sixteen year old got a shit ton of candy from Peter Cottontail and that's enough. I need to move, I need to accomplish something measurable today. The backyard is a big dogs' playground. All of the grass had worn off from the constant play between my Vizsla and my Doberman. The mud was so bad that I put straw all over the lawn to soak it up. Now, I tell myself, ...