We sit on a park bench on a beautiful fall day. I am crying as Herb strokes my shoulder. I feel like a failure. I’ve been careless with our marriage and caused damage. The grief sits between us, heavy and silent. I don’t know what to do except cry.
Herb taps my hand. “Hey,” he whispers, “check her out,” nodding toward an old woman half dancing, flailing about the trail.
She’s a tiny human meteor dressed in ancient blue culottes, an oversized, stained t-shirt, black socks, and pink clogs. She’s half-singing, half-yelling—something akin to an aria.
“That’s you,” Herb says, “when you stop giving a damn.”
I can’t help it. I laugh, not just because my husband is kind, but because it’s true.
Several years ago, after visiting a group of women in Washington state, I mailed each of them a short-sleeved t-shirt imprinted with “ZERO F$%ks GIVEN.” We’d decided to proudly give fewer f$%ks as we age and I wanted to celebrate that.
I never saw them again. A few months later, I ended my lifelong friendship with the woman who had introduced us. Her legendary misbehavior with men hit a little too close to home. When I found out, I most certainly gave a f$%k.
Inflection points help us remember what matters.
When Herb had a health scare in 2018, I decided it was time to sell my Pilates studio. My former manager bought it right before COVID, (poor dear), but we pulled together to make it through. I feel lucky to still work there. Imagine being able to teach a class, shut the door, and go home!
But without the distraction of running a business, I often feel anxious and unsettled.
Some days all I do is make soup. Others, I bring my coffee to bed and sink back into the pillows. I can babysit on short notice and go hours without checking my email. I’ve given up booze, edibles, and quit Facebook and Instagram, but the pile of packages in my closet is a testament to my latest addiction. I might have to start my own Poshmark store.
On the worst days, I feel like a human pinball, ricocheting about, desperate for a toehold to evade the dreaded gobble hole. Why?
What do I give a f$%k about these days? Medicare?
The Saturday before Thanksgiving, while grilling on the patio with friends, Herb’s leg goes numb. He asks me to fetch his hiking pole—he cannot walk. One of our guests, a doctor, gives Herb a once-over to rule out an aneurysm or stroke. Ignoring suggestions to go to the hospital, Herb insists we go on with the evening, and we have fun.
But the pain is worse the next day, and he can’t walk without the pole. He still can’t.
Timing is everything. And ours sucks.
We vow to go to the ER the next morning. I leave to teach a class to give Herb time to get ready. I call on my way, but he doesn’t answer. Alarmed, I find him in the bedroom, without his phone.
“My hip dislocated again,” he sighs.
“What? How?” I shrill.
“Tying my shoe.”
“I’ll call the ambulance.” We know the drll.
It’s impossible to see a doctor during the holidays unless you go to the emergency room. We go several times, searching for the source of his pain and a solution for his immobility. One doctor says it’s his hip, another his back—neither offers help other than pain meds, but he needs the pain meds.
Between constant pain and my hovering like Aunt Bea, Herb’s Christmas isn’t very merry.
Every time he sits on the commode or attempts laundry, I scream, “Don’t do that! Are you crazy? Don’t bend over! Your hip will pop out!”
He looks at me like he wants to hit me with his hiking pole. I know I’m smothering him but I can’t help it.
He misses his nice wife, but I miss mine, too. Herb took care of everything, and now I have to. I pout.
We watch a lot of television and wonder if this is our new life. When the hell did we get old?
I sulk, and ask the most useless question ever, “Why us, God? Why us?”
More accurately, I’m asking, “Why me, God? Why me?” feeling very sorry for myself. I’m pitiful, and this is bullshit.
My dad comes to me in a dream. He sits next to the bed, smiling and laughing. He is smiling and laughing at me. I know this smile.
“Knock it off,” he whispers. “You know better. So do better.”
I rouse to rebuff him, but he waves me off.
“Life is horrible, messy, and unpredictable,” he reminds me. “So what? Nobody gets out of this alive. Look at what makes your life worth living—who makes your life worth living, and be happy about it.”
Dammit. He’s always right.
I go back to sleep and wake up with a renewed sense of appreciation. Hot dog! I can see past my nose again! Rather than dwelling on the chaos, I choose to be grateful for our family—the ones who show up when we need them, to shovel our drive, carry in wood, and provide a much-needed distraction.
I think of the co-workers who step in to cover my classes at the last minute and the friends who bring flowers, groceries, treats, and home-cooked meals.
I’m grateful for the phone calls, thoughtful texts, well-wishes, and prayers that have been offered for Herb and me. It reminds me that it’s not all about me, and I feel blessed to have such incredible support.
We leave this week for the Mayo Clinic, where Herb will have spine surgery. We’re excited but realistic about what’s ahead.
I’m sorry for being difficult, Herb. Thank you for loving me and making me laugh, even when your back and butt hurt.
Thank you, God, for skilled surgeons and a well-timed oxycodone.
Thank you for reminding me that I always have a choice in how I respond, no matter how crazy, unhinged, or incomprehensible the world may seem.
It’s easy to slip into self-pity, judgment, and cynicism when I feel triggered and overwhelmed. At those times, it makes me want to don some culottes, put on pink clogs, and run people over at the park.
Zero f$%ks given is not a zero-sum game. The losses are devastating and real. We’re seeing that now.
The question is: what can we do? What are we doing?
I can hear my dad’s voice: “Love one another. Treat others as you would have them treat you.”
The Golden Rule is so simple, yet so powerful.
Don’t give up. Give a f$%k about one another, and watch the world change.
What are you doing to stay grounded in difficult times? I think I need to know.
