Pet Parent

Almost every day I’m glad I’ll never be a parent. When I have slow, relaxed weekends like this one, I’m fortunate I can sit in my quiet home, reading or writing or trying something new. And when the week has been hectic and all I have time for is work, making dinner, and sleeping, I’m fortunate I don’t have to manage a kid’s many needs on top of that. Even when I was a kid I never desired children: I’d assumed I’d have them because it’s what you do, until I realized it was a choice. Despite many people telling me I’d regret it, that my biological clock would suddenly start ticking, that I’d make such a great parent (then more commonly once we started dating, that husband would make such a great parent), that we’re the right people who should be having kids, I take a moment near daily to appreciate my choice. I hit two big age milestones since making my decision and that clock is still silent.

Chloe liked to be involved in my activities.

But there’s one statement that nearly every parent I know has made that’s always bothered me: you’ll never know real love until you have a baby.

Intellectually I get it. We’re hard wired to love the screaming, crying, pooping, boring infants we create because otherwise they’d probably be really easy to accidentally forget about. There’s a reason public health billboards caution to not shake your baby, that fire stations are anonymous baby drop-off sites. If there’s anyone who knows how hard babies are, it’s those who made the decision not to have them. We saw how our friends and siblings and coworkers and acquaintances struggled, and continue to struggle, and be surprised at how hard it is, and decided it wasn’t for us. I’d even go as far as to say that most people who actively choose to not have kids believe that all kids deserve parents who want them, and because we don’t actively want them we should not have them.

Gandalf the emo bun

But on the other hand, what is this real love? So many people I know directly and indirectly are in unhappy relationships, many even before they procreated (often because they wanted to procreate). We’re not hardwired to desperately love another adult. Other adults constantly disappoint us, even the ones we do love. They are their own beings with their own experiences and histories and wants and faults. But babies are pure, helpless bundles of our genetics and we simply must love them. We will die for them without a second thought. Many adults who unexpectedly lose a child cause other destruction in their lives (divorce, suicide, addiction) because the pain is too great to bear. Of course we love our infants so desperately we can’t breathe thinking of a life without them. We have to*. We don’t have to love our partners. The only unconditional love most people will experience is the love they have for their offspring and, hopefully, their own parent’s unconditional love. But outside of that, love is conditional.

(*Though there are plenty of examples of the people who simply don’t love their children. Whatever wiring they’re supposed to have is missing. They neglect, abandon, and abuse their children. They resent them for taking something away from their lives before, their partner, maybe, or their dress size, or disposable money, or their time and ability to sleep through the night and laugh without peeing. People do turn their babies into fire stations. Or shake them out of sleep deprivation and a split second of relief. Many are even decent parents while regretting their choice. Few will admit it, but we all know someone who would make a different choice if given a do-over.)

Amelia, Ruth, and Maya mostly learned that we were a good, safe place

I most often hear about this stark difference in love when a parent also has a pet. The amount of times I’ve widened my eyes at someone telling me “I loved my dog more than anything in the world before I had kids, but now if he choked on a bone I’d just be like, ‘you good?’” makes me want to take in their pets. It’d be telling if someone openly admitted to loving their dog more than their kid, but casually posting and talking about how they’d barely cry if their formerly beloved pet died seems a bit too far for this animal lover.

But I’m not a parent and I’ll never really know. Despite my over thinking habits and desire to consider all sides and sometimes inability to make a decision because there are very good points all around, deciding to remain childfree was easy. I’ll never actually know what it’s like to be a parent, but it’s not like I haven’t looked through the window of parenthood. It’s not like my very active imagination hasn’t turned other people’s stories into my own nightmares. It’s not like I haven’t spent a lot of time with kids. I was changing diapers before I was ten years old, home alone and in charge of my younger sisters as early as 8 years old, being paid to babysit kids I wasn’t related to at 12 years old, and am now an active aunt to chosen and biological nieces and nephews. I do know some things. Meanwhile, the amount of people who have told me that either they or their partner first changed a diaper when it was their own kid is more than one. I’m astounded at the gamble. 

Korra with the perfect ears

I’ve had more pets than most, though, and I’ve given them anything and everything I could. I’ve been told that my devotion to my pets is unreasonable, that they don’t really care or notice, that I need to focus on other things more. And sure, I do more than probably most. But they were my choice to bring home and I had a responsibility to live up to the promise of giving them a good life. No one needs pets, but a lot of people get them thinking they (or their kids) deserve them and then treat them like an annoying and outdated fad they can’t get rid of (like the dog my dad brought home as a surprise when I was ten because his sister said he “deserved it”). Vet bills are so much more expensive than you expect and happen way more often than you plan for. Medical issues pop up even — especially — in purebred animals. Training young animals is exhausting. Just like kids, people get pets thinking about the Kodak Moments, not about the special needs, accidents, and the mundane expenses and day to day.

The main difference between having a pet and having a kid, other than the perennial joke that you can go to jail for crating your kid, is that you expect to outlive your pets. You never expect to outlive your child. And that is a massive difference but one we don’t think about when bringing home the bundle of joy (be it human or otherwise). I’ve had a lot of pets, which means I’ve outlived a lot of animals I truly loved. As hard as each loss was, it was ultimately expected. I knew that going into it. But no one goes into parenthood thinking that they’ll someday bury their child. I’m not a parent and I’ll never really know, but that is the worst pain a human can feel, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

Harriett, Rosa, and Billie were my most baby-like pets

A few years ago one of husband’s closest friends died suddenly, leaving behind a wife and three young kids. He grew up here, his whole family was here, and they’d just spent Thanksgiving all together. The first time we saw his friend’s mom afterwards she looked at my husband like she was angry. How could my husband, who had no kids, still be here while her son, who had three kids, was not? The unfairness radiated from her. The pain I felt at losing my pets has always ebbed because not-so-deep down I knew it would happen. In fact, I wanted it to happen because I want to live a long life and give a home to many more pets and not leave the ones I have without a care plan. Subconsciously I had been preparing for it, sometimes for many years.

Losing my parents, in a way, made me realize that having pets and being an aunt aren’t the only ways I’ve tried on parenthood. My parents are one of the examples of people who love their children conditionally. My dad admitted to me when I was in my 20s that he never wanted kids. By that point we were all grown and out of the house, and he could appreciate getting the chance to live the live he’d originally wanted to have. When we stopped speaking with him one by one, he seemed to forget we ever existed. My mom will still claim that she loves us all unconditionally and honestly not see how she actively pushes us away, degrades us, and blames us. She has said horrible things to each one of us and we have each decided in turn that it’s not worth keeping her in our lives.

Juno is easily the least rabbit rabbit

The more that I’m involved in my nieces and nephews lives the less I understand my parents’ choices. Again, since I’m not a parent I’ll never know that level of love and devotion, but even at the measly aunt level I genuinely don’t understand how a parent could stand being estranged from their kids. When I mentioned I’m reading the memoir I’m Glad My Mom Died in book club, one of the members was visibly uncomfortable because she couldn’t understand ever being glad. (Side note: she’s the exact type of person who should read the book because these types of parents exist and it can help open your eyes to other parent-child relationships.) But some parents are shitty. I’m really hoping and believing that the parents my age are doing it better. They’re already doing it better in so many ways and these kids are turning out so cool. Imagining that it might end up very different when they’re adults is not where I want my overactive imagination to go. But it could happen, because it does sometimes.

Argo loved me except when I made him wear clothes

It happens a lot more often with pets. Families get too busy. Pets lash out when they’re neglected. Age and illness change the nature of the relationship, maybe even at really inconvenient times. We can’t communicate in the same language and wind up misunderstanding each other. Life circumstances change. I’ve been lucky enough to have adopted pets that other people no longer wanted or could care for. Chloe wouldn’t have lasted much longer with my dad — she’d already been hit by a car once and was in a constant fight with a neighbor cat, but he wouldn’t keep her in. Gandalf was probably an Easter bunny who didn’t live up to the cuddly bunny expectation and was dumped in a park. We adopted three rats in 2020 who very obviously had a rough history (not the first time I’d brought home rats someone else didn’t want). Our boy Juno is the most dog-like rabbit I’ve ever seen, so desperate for attention he’ll follow us around the house, and he was living in a small cage in a garage before husband picked him up. Getting to know these animals, how fun they are, how much love they have, how simple their needs are, and how much joy they bring me, has made me angry at the people who abandoned them and thrilled that it happened so that I could love them. A goal of mine is to someday adopt from the local Frosted Faces senior pet rescue because I know how much it would mean to the animal, I’m experienced in caring for senior and medically needy pets, and I love so easily. It’s heartbreaking to know that these pets are abandoned in their old age, when they most need the love and stability of their families, and, worst of all, that their age and health makes them far less desirable to adoptive pet parents. Will it hurt when I only get a couple of years with them? Hell yes it will. But I still want more rats even though they top out at 3 years because it’s just so worth it.

Bilateral Salpingectomy 10 Years Later

Wow. It’s been ten years since I had my laparoscopic bilateral salpingectomy. Well, it was ten years last October, but I had a lot going on then and forgot I meant to do this update. And then I started this and moved on to writing about other things. So now it's ten and a half years. Oops.

Post surgery apple juice

I wrote my original post mostly because I knew I’d always want to remember, but also because it was the hot new thing at the time and there wasn’t a lot of information about the procedure or recovery. I figured other people would want to know. And they did! That first post has had 42,000 views and 140 comments (though half are my replies). My 6-week update has had over 6,000 views and 43 comments, my 1-year update had 4,000 views and 18 comments, my insurance rant had nearly 3,000 views and 2 comments, and my FAQ post had 2,400 views and 10 comments. Altogether that’s close to 58,000 views and 106 original comments (not counting my replies).

One day: Gnarly incisions

Most of the comments expressed gratitude for the posts. It’s a little disappointing that, even a decade after I documented my experience, these types of detailed accounts are not that common. There are reddit communities with written accounts but lacking photos and other accounts that don’t have the same level of detail or follow up, and loads of fear mongering stories about what went wrong and phantom side effects. This can leave people confused and afraid. Any surgery has risks, and some people are more at risk than others, and those should be discussed in depth with a doctor. But there’s also a targeted effort to remove the ability for women to take complete charge of their fertility, and fear mongering is having a moment. The truth is that most recoveries are as easy as mine was.

6 weeks: I forgot I had a belly button ring!

One year later: the scars are still there but hard to see.

But let’s talk about the downsides for a minute. The biggest one is that I still had a period all this time. It didn’t occur to me that this would be a downside, but after the first few I was like, wait, what’s the point anymore? It used to be a nice signal that I wasn’t pregnant. But as soon as I knew I couldn’t get pregnant it became unnecessary. And because I stopped taking birth control, I also couldn’t control when I got my periods. Which meant trips, birthdays, anniversaries, and other times you don’t want to have a period would get inconvenient. Ten years later I’m still annoyed by my period. I asked a doctor once about getting a uterine ablation to remove the lining, but she said the approval process would almost ensure I’d be rejected. Which is genuinely bonkers. Why can’t I, as a grown-ass adult who doesn’t want a period, choose an elective procedure to take care of that need? Do all people with nose jobs have a medical need? Fuck no. At least my periods were predictable. I always had a 28-day on the dot cycle. Now that I'm probably in perimenopause my periods are becoming less predictable and I’m having to be in an office for work, there’s an element of anxiety once again that I don’t appreciate.

I struggle to think of any other downsides, honestly. As long as I have ovaries there remains the risk of an ectopic pregnancy, but those almost always happen in the fallopian tubes which no longer exist. They can happen on the ovaries themselves or outside the uterus, but that’s really uncommon. I’m also positive that any ectopic pregnancy would have happened by now. So, intellectually, I know I can’t get pregnant.

Unfortunately, knowing that I can’t get pregnant didn’t stop me from panicking about it for about six months when I skipped a period. I was almost 39 and had been sterile for 9 years at that point. The only other time I missed a period was the one right after my surgery. I bought and took a pregnancy test, which was obviously negative, and I only did it because I knew it would be the first question a doctor asked. I started having severe anxiety, irrationally worried I was 8 months pregnant and it would be too late to do anything about it, and then lamenting how my life would change. At one point husband offered to get a vasectomy just to ease my totally irrational worries. Thankfully those have passed and I even had another very late period and didn’t completely lose it.

Did sterilization push me into an early perimenopause? I’m not sure. I’m not 100% sure I’m in it because it’s not something you can really diagnose with certainty. Hormonal tests aren’t reliable, most doctors know next to nothing about it, and as much as I’m trying to learn the information is still hard to find and trust. Forty is admittedly earlier than most but not unheard of. I remember my mom having symptoms when I was in high school, which would have made her around that same age. So it could be genetic. Or I’m just stressed and it’s finally causing erratic periods and rage. <shrug emoji>

Positive: Group then solo trip to Africa

Now, the positives. This was without a doubt the best gift I could have ever given myself. Even if husband had been willing to get a vasectomy at the time, I’m sure I still would have ended up having this done. The peace of mind is unreal, except for those weird months where I was freaking out for no reason. There’s no preparation that needs to happen before sex, I’m not supplementing with hormones, my period tracker app is as reliable as it can be in the perimenopause age, and I generally feel as natural and normal as ever. If the apocalypse happens I won’t have to worry about avoiding pregnancy, and if this deranged administration starts forcing women into pregnancy I’ll escape that fate. Last, I’m not sure this is a positive (because I kind of wish I still had a visible reminder), but for years now when I look for my scars it takes a few seconds to find them, and you have to know what they are to know they’re scars.

I’ve been tracking my periods since going off birth control nearly a year before my surgery, so I still have a decent idea of when to expect my period even though there’s some hormonal fluctuations. Fluctuations mean highs and lows, and the highs include being absolutely randy during my ovulation week. So that’s been the fun side of perimenopause.

It took about a year to stop feeling like I forgot my birth control pills, which means it’s been a solid nine years of not having to think about preventing pregnancy at all. Once it was normalized in my head, it just was. To the point even when I learn that friends still take pills and use condoms I can’t imagine that life anymore and wonder why anyone puts up with it, especially those who don't want kids or any more kids. Sterilization is the most set it and forget it way to stay unpregnant. And I’m also really glad that I had the forethought to get a salpingectomy rather than a tubal ligation, even though it was still new-ish for sterilization purposes and not covered by insurance.

What’s the difference? A tubal ligation is cutting the fallopian tubes in half and doing something to the ends to stop them from growing back. Often they’re tied off (which is why it’s called getting your tubes tied), but some doctors cauterize the ends and others used these little chip clips for a while, but that fell out of fashion when they became associated with complications. My understanding is that now doctors that still do the ligation tie and cauterize the tubes. But salpingectomy is the gold standard for sterilization, so most women go full tubeless.

Just because I think it’s interesting, here’s what a laparoscopic bilateral salpingectomy means in English:

• Laparoscopic: Surgery in the abdomen made with itty bitty incisions and a camera so the surgeons can see
• Bilateral: Both sides of the body
• Salpingectomy: Salping means the fallopian tube (Greek for trumpet, apparently), and ectomy means removal

Altogether, removing both fallopian tubes via tiny incisions in the abdomen. The tubes connect to the ovaries, so the biggest risk with this surgery is that an ovary will get nicked. That can cause all sorts of problems. But surgeons tend to be very good at their jobs and don’t do that. The other risk is that they leave too much of the tube next to the ovary, and somehow little sperm gets to an egg and there’s an ectopic pregnancy on the ovary itself. It’s happened, but it’s extremely, extremely rare.

Husband gets me cards like this on my surgery anniversary

So, what have I done in the last 10 years? Lots! I got married. I got a masters degree. I grew out and cut my hair 3 times. I traveled by myself to Namibia and Kenya. Husband and I bought a condo. I was diagnosed with celiac disease. I quit a job with nothing new lined up. I bought a scooter. I fostered small pets. I ran a marathon. I had six pets at once. I've witnessed two solar eclipses. I paid for chemo for my dog and did subcutaneous fluids for my cat and administered medication that causes reproductive harm. I got tattoos. I traveled for work. I touched the water in the Mississippi River and the Colorado River. We traveled to Colorado and Louisiana and Utah and Montana and Nevada and Hawaii and New York and New Mexico and Washington and all over California. Not all of it was because I’m sterile, but I definitely wouldn’t have been able to do some of these things if I’d become a parent. And I’m so grateful to not have to have taken hormones for another 10 years or dealt with the excruciating pain of an IUD.

What’s next? I might write a book. I’m writing a book. I’m going to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. I’m getting really good at being an aunt. We’ll get more pets. I might run another marathon. I might finally convince husband to move to Seattle. I might try to get my 5k time under 20 minutes (which is really fucking fast). We’ll finally go on our honeymoon. I’ll get more tattoos. We’ll enjoy our quiet nights at home, making dinner together and watching a movie and appreciating the opportunity we get to choose how we live.

Since this ended up being more about how perimenopause is going than an update on sterilization, mainly because there isn't much to report (still don't need to worry about pregnancy, scars are too small to see), I'm not going to do another one of these. Nothing will change at 15 years, 20 years, or beyond. Eventually I won't have had a period for a full year and will be fully and completely barren. It's just nice to be one of the few voices on reddit with this longer term perspective to reassure scared women that, yes, it's going to be fine and this is worth it.

Let Go and Let God

Let go and let god car sticker.

I used to see that phrase on a bumper sticker most days. It was on a truck parked on a street on my old run route. It’s Christian hakuna matata: don’t worry about it. Curious young minds in my CCD classes asked over and over again how we know god is real, how we can know god’s plan for us, how we can know the Bible is true, how can we believe without knowing. We spent our days in school learning about scientific experiments, facts, history, math, reality, and how to uncover the truth. Twice a week we’re expected to forget all that and just believe for no other reason than a book says to believe the impossible. The adults always told us that our puny human brains couldn’t possibly understand god’s plan and to just trust that he knows what he’s doing even when it seems like things couldn’t get worse. God is a mystery. Just believe.*

(*You can’t just slap a “believe” poster on a wall and manifest your way to victory. It worked on Ted Lasso because they tried. They thought that maybe victory was possible, and knew that if it was, it only was with teamwork and a shit ton of effort. You do need to believe that change is possible to work towards it (the influencers call this *manifesting*. If you think nothing can ever change no matter how hard you try or what you do, you’re less likely to try in the first place. There are powerful and well-coordinated people in government trying to make sure we don’t believe that change is possible so we’ll stop trying.)

I understand the appeal. When you believe that a higher power has everything all planned out since before you were born, knows exactly what’s going on at all times, and that everything that happens really does happen for a pre-determined reason and exactly as it’s supposed to, even if you don’t understand it, you don’t need to try. Trying is hard. You might try and fail and failure is bad. Instead, simply trust that this is the way it’s supposed to be!

On a small scale, it’s probably fine. Not everyone is a great thinker. Lots of otherwise decent people need a religious crutch to get through their days. It’s when you pair the “let go and let god” mentality with structural inequity that it becomes a massive problem. Because if things are they way they are for a divine and unknowable reason, then the way things are is the way things should be and we shouldn’t try to change them.

Gender pay gap? Women have children and spend fewer years in the workforce. Why shouldn’t the men get paid more to support their families?

Racial pay gap? Non-white people attend college at lower rates than white people. Why shouldn’t people with college degrees get paid more?

These extremely simple arguments allow people to stop thinking any harder about it. On the surface it makes sense and these are such big problems to solve, so maybe they aren’t problems at all.

Does god favor the United States? Does god favor white skin? Does god favor traditional gender roles? Yes, yes and yes, according to Christians, and not just historically. They will tell you that these aren’t racist or sexist beliefs, it’s just the way things are, the way things are intended to be. Which, funnily enough, sounds a lot to me like understanding god’s mysterious plan.

The root of this probably isn’t overt malice, at least not on an individual scale (though it one hundred percent is on the governmental scale). There’s probably loads of plain apathy mixed with selfishness and a lot of ignorance. If white, straight Christians have it pretty good, they aren’t exactly motivated to make things worse for themselves. And since we have a tendency to believe that making something better for one group means that it will be worse for another, if we’re the beneficiaries we’d like to stay that way. And if someone tells you that being the beneficiary is god’s plan? Well, who am I to refute that.

However, this falls apart when you read the Bible. Most Christians haven’t read it, at least not in its entirety. Or even all of the New Testament. (I was shocked to learn a few years ago that my most devoutly Christian friend hadn’t even read it all. I’ve done it twice, it’s not even that long a book.) If you just read the words Jesus said you’d have a hard time pairing modern Christianity with this person. But most don’t do this, they only listen to priests or pastors or influencers interpret the message. As if priests and pastors and influencers don’t pick and choose which parts of the Bible to preach, or don’t want to change the status quo, or don’t see racism and sexism in the world.

“It is difficult to get a man to understand something when his salary depends on his not understanding it.” - Upton Sinclair

This more or less explains why white Christians are so reluctant to do the radical work that Jesus preached. Things are good for them. They don’t want to rock the boat lest they end up like the other racial groups who experience the structural inequality that white people “oh no” about but don’t dismantle. Loads of white Christians follow the prosperity gospel. Look at these riches — god must have smiled upon them! It is the way it is because it’s the way it’s supposed to be. Forget about the camel and the eye of the needle.

Women who believe in traditional values, even at their own expense and the expense of their daughters, kind of make sense in a way. Many of these women are raised with these values so it’s not a leap to adopt them in adulthood. Existing in this world and providing for yourself is hard enough as it is, letting a man do all that hard stuff and contribute by having sex and having kids is simple. And if this is the way it’s supposed to be anyway, especially if you want kids anyway, it’s a lot easier than doing all things. Except that religious folk love to talk about the gift that motherhood is while making it harder and harder to be one.

I have a harder time understanding non-white Christians. God is apparently not smiling upon them, yet their devotion is arguably stronger. Christians used to believe that dark skin was the mark of the devil, which justified slavery. People were torn from their homes and sold into slavery and then adopted the religion of their captors. Generations later, they strongly and genuinely believe. They also don’t want to rock the boat but for different reasons. Many still think that being polite and friendly and submissive and unthreatening will be good enough to spare their lives or earn them the same rights their white counterparts enjoy. Except that it’s been a century and that still hasn’t happened.

Anyone can use religion to justify anything. Because god’s plan is so unknowable. Influential people can claim god is on their side and millions will believe it. The most glaring recent example is JD Vance telling the fucking Pope to stay in his lane. Which is being the leader of all Catholicism, of nearly 1.3 billion Catholic souls (almost half of all Christians), and an international spiritual leader. The Pope, as you’d expect, is not a fan of the administration claiming religion in the war on Iran and said so. He called for peace. He said that plans to wipe out an entire civilization were abhorrent. Vance (who calls himself Catholic) said sftu, this doesn’t concern you. And honestly, that he and his team didn’t respond with more bite showed impressive restraint (or, just as likely, that they’re playing political games).

Regular people aren’t immune to this. The real work that Jesus did, and preached, is fucking hard. Our whole society looks down on this work so much that the prosperity gospel is thriving. Rich people are good! They must be. Billionaires donate money! And we’d all rather have riches than live in poverty so much that most Americans are more likely to believe they’re closer to making it than the reality, which is one medical emergency or lost job away from the streets. So Christians divorce themselves from the reality of who Jesus was and the political time he existed in by listening to their favorite interpreter and not reading the Good Book themselves, refusing to see parallels, and choosing to believe in a white destiny and that the US is a chosen land and people, as long as you’re white and Christian. Jesus was radical. He was threatening to the status quo. He was killed by political leaders following the law, and would certainly be killed again if he were in the US today.

People I Used to Know

The quote starts that people come into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. Sometimes hindsight makes it crystal clear which one it is. I’ve always been fascinated by the people who disappear from our lives. People we were so close to at one time and now we don’t speak, don’t follow each other on social media, maybe don’t even think about at all. A 40-year life means a lot of people who come in and out for one reason or another. I was recently thinking about three.

Me doing something I'm not supposed to at the best job I had and the backdrop for two stories.

I was volunteering at a friend’s event and one of the guests he was interviewing came up to say hi. He knew my name. It took me a second to place him: we’d lived in the same building for a year and hooked up shortly after we both moved out. My friend used his name a few times during the interview, and I’d only known one person to use that variation of the name. But I was still surprised when he approached me. At the event, he was promoting his mead company (I was helping distribute samples). But when we lived in the same building, I thought he was in software or accounting or something way less interesting than mead. I mean, he was on the older side and had a one-bedroom, so he must have had a real job. Twenty-four year-old me thought he was sophisticated, especially compared to the other residents who made the building feel like a 20s and 30s dorm. But he also had a corner bar in his apartment and a keg, which was the height of coolness in 2009. (He was also easily the most attractive guy in the building, helping cement my fondness for glasses.) One day I came home with a headache from a particularly bad day at work to a party in the courtyard, including a DJ directly outside my window blasting obnoxious music. I thought I had the best place in the building because I could easily see when friends were hanging out and go join them. But that day I was in no mood, so I shut the window and closed the blinds. Except my apartment absolutely reeked of yeast. I looked for the source of the smell and discovered a brown sludge running down the insides of my cupboard. Turns out the keg in cute-upstairs-neighbor’s apartment leaked. I soured on him for a couple weeks, until the smell dissipated. Looking back, maybe he was home brewing, and that led him to mead making. Our hookup was months after we both moved away from the building (the only time I ever cried leaving a place, I loved the weirdness of my studio and the freedom it gave me). I didn’t enjoy it and we didn’t see each other again until my friend’s event. Part of me felt good that he recognized me without any context or introduction, because it meant I must not have visibly changed much in 16 years. But would I have recognized him? Since he was older than me back then, he’s probably close to 50 now and looking more like it. I’m also terrible at recognizing people out of context: I’d had no idea he was a brewer so even after hearing his name a few times I still didn’t make the connection other than it was a reminder that this person existed.

Some of my neighbors in the courtyard at the infamous Halloween party in 2009.

There was another time someone approached me completely out of context after not seeing each other for a very long time. Right around that same time in my life, when I was living in my studio, I got close to someone from work. He was a giant mess and basically homeless, but nice to me so I let him crash on my itty bitty couch for a while. This was a person who was obviously in my life for a very specific reason: I’d broken up with my long-term boyfriend while working at this job, but the break wasn’t clean. My ex came to a Halloween party I helped throw in my building courtyard dressed as Patrick Bateman from American Psycho. But not like a jackass in a suit, wearing a poncho and wielding an ax. I found out the next day that it was a real fucking ax. That he brought to a Halloween party. The break got very clean after that, but not before the party moved to a hotel bar a few blocks away, where my ex got in my face and said some awful things. When my friend came to my defense, my ex got in his face. Well, my friend was not the type to let that happen and he slugged my ex in the face, knocking him down. Truth be told, my ex needed to get punched. He was pompous and thought he was above reproach, better than anyone else and no one would dare. He learned he was wrong that night and I guarantee it changed how he acted in certain situations. We scattered from the bar, my friend discarding his costume and jumping in a cab and my other incredible friends talking my ex down from calling the cops. I was surprised when our friendship started to fizzle a few months after that, until I realized that I could no longer provide him the support he needed and he was moving on to others who could. He was still a giant mess, and still basically homeless, and had his own ex problems that were getting far worse than mine ever were. When I left that job I didn’t see him for seven years, until he came up to me in a brewery. I was there with husband (boyfriend, then), celebrating our dog’s 10th birthday. We had a dog cake for the dogs and cookies for the people. In the middle of talking and laughing with friends, he suddenly appeared inches from my face. I was taken aback by the invasion of my space more than anything, then I recognized him. He offered me the booth that he and his friends were about to leave. A couple years after that I saw his name on one of the beers at that brewery. Guess he knew the owners. A couple years after that, the brewery was named of the beer #metoo movement. Honestly, I wasn’t that surprised. He had a lot of strong words but I never knew where his true morals or loyalties would lie. Like most men, I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear if he defended a man against sexual harassment hearsay. Most don’t believe women.

Argo with his birthday cake on his 10th birthday.

Perhaps most jarring was the first boy I ever loved. Many years after it ended, I wondered whether I’d recognize him if I saw him, or even if I’d ever see him. We didn’t have social media so I had no idea if he still live in our hometown or what he did for work. Our relationship, probably like most high school relationships, was intense. We were convinced, just like everyone else, that we’d last forever. The time I felt that most powerfully was when my mom forbid us from seeing each other because we went stargazing at the park literally across the street from my house and she thought… who even knows. I was determined to show her that our love was even stronger (do parents know anything? you never forbid love). But I had plenty of doubts. He’d started getting into drinking (not that unusual) and some harder drugs (a little unusual). I didn’t like it and told him. He wanted to stop but wanted me to be his anchor and motivation. Even at 17 I knew he needed to do it for himself. But he was also hinting at getting engaged soon. I didn’t have a lot figured out then but I knew two things for sure: I did not want to be married young and I did not want to be anyone’s sole purpose for existing or having a good life. For a while after we broke up his mom (and probably lots of other people, he was popular) blamed me for his turn into darker and riskier behaviors. I felt bad about how I handled the breakup but I was naive and inexperienced. Then a year ago my sister called to tell me she and some friends were telling high school stories and he came up. They looked him up on Facebook and found out he died a few years earlier from a drug overdose after being clean for a while. I hadn’t spoken to him in 19 years, so all I felt was weird. This person was so close to me at one time, and when they died I didn’t even know. I wonder how often that’s happened with other people I used to know. I knew how unlikely it was that I’d ever run into him, even when I visited my hometown, but now I know it’s impossible. And that’s still weird.

There have been a lot of other people who have exited my life, including parents, people I might have called best friends, relatives, work friends, and relationships that burned bright for a short time. It will always fascinate and sometimes sadden me when this happens.

Rage

I think the rage is starting. Last week I got unreasonably mad at a shelf I was trying to install in the laundry closet. I had to work around the laundry machine and the lip of the door frame, giving me only a few inches. The drill barely fit. I had to undo it and redo it twice. In between those times I slammed the drill down on the rug in frustration, probably surprising the downstairs neighbors. Installing that shelf wasn't even necessary, the detergent fits on top of the dryer, and it took me well over an hour when it should have taken ten minutes. Then I had to clean my mess, then I reorganized the tool bag because husband tosses whatever he uses back in without looking.

Today I scooted into work, a 35-45 minute drive in the mornings depending on construction and how lucky I get with lights. Today was a 45 minute day because I hit a lot of yellow lights. It would have taken me 20 minutes if I could go on the freeway. I'm looking for a car but used cars are still so expensive. And if I want something that hasn't been in an accident, has fewer than 150,000 miles, and is under ten years old, it's at least another grand for each of those qualifications. I'll probably end up spending at least $15,000 for a nine or ten year old car with at least 100,000 miles and it probably won't be in a color I want because I'm being picky about all the other things. And that will make me a little sad every time I drive it. I'm currently holding out for a stick because I really miss it. But that's further limiting the options.

It's not a rush. I have my scooter, I can get almost anywhere I need to go and do almost anything I need to do. But I'm starting to kind of hate scooting now that I have to do it three times a week for such a long commute. I hate getting gas because the pump automatically shuts off halfway through and I have to pump two-tenths of a gallon at a time (luckily I only have a gallon tank). I hate how most lights don't recognize my size or weight, so I have to wait until a car pulls up behind me or take a risky or illegal turn (which I do because one particular intersection doesn't get a lot of other cars). I hate that other drivers can't be bothered to watch the road while they're driving their multi-ton cars and trucks and that I have close calls because they're more interested in watching videos on their phone. I can't even listen to an audio book because I can't risk being even a tiny bit distracted on two wheels.

I wouldn't even be thinking of buying a car if I didn't have this job that requires me to commute to an office three times a week (for the "culture" of a soul-less building in the middle of nowhere, no public transportation options, no view, no amenities, for in-person meetings but only about work and not about fun topics, and deal with pantry moths and larvae in the candy bucket which is never cleaned and an HVAC system that's repaired every other month). When I took the job the in-person requirement was twice a week. That was doable. It was worth it. It was a good balance for my role that does benefit from in-person communication and interaction. But then they changed it to three days and that third day is having a much bigger impact on my time and mood. And finances, if I end up buying a car. I just bought a house and already have double the expenses I used to have. I have some savings still but we need to fix the leaks in the entry and office, and I don't know if insurance will cover either of them. And even if insurance covered everything, my savings isn't enough to buy anything worthwhile outright, so I'll have to finance some of it. And rates still suck, even with my stellar credit (why even have good credit??).

I don't even want this job, so it feels silly to be considering such a big purchase to make it easier to get to this job. What am I even doing with my life? I can see the impact my role has on the team but I've never experienced a team that's this resistant not only to stepping in when needed but even doing the basics of their own jobs. And it's seemingly OK — supervisors know and are either supportive or minimizing. But that's not even the part I hate most. I don't feel like I have any meaning in the thing I'm doing for 8 hours every day. For a while I could tell myself that helping patients find quality healthcare was noble, but I'm so removed from seeing my connection to patients. And I don't really care. I miss having a mission. I'm nervous about joining another nonprofit because of how toxic the last one was but I feel like I'm just getting through the days. I enjoy the tasks I do and take pride in getting through the most unreachable people on the team, and I hear how valued I am all the time now which almost makes me cry because of how little I heard that my entire career (like, so much negative self talk and imposter syndrome over the last 16 years). But I don't have something else to provide the meaning I'm looking for and I'm not sure what to do about it other than find a more meaningful job.

There's also AI that's making getting a job feel nearly impossible. And even if I do, how long would it last before AI takes it? Or would I have to settle for a 20% pay cut to have a more meaningful job because if AI can probably do it, it must not be worth paying a living wage to a human? I was rejected for a 20% pay cut job at a nonprofit for a role that was part project management and part writing, literally my resume (except that most of my titles have SEO, which can be hard to overlook even though that wasn't *exactly* what I was doing). So what even am I qualified for? Writing jobs are probably gone, except for freelancers fixing AI mistakes, PM jobs need certifications I don't want, and I can't get back into SEO now even if it wouldn't throw me into a total depression. I don't know what I want to do. If I didn't have to work I'd write. Which I can do now. But to what end? Can I publish a book? Can I somehow get paid for writing when so many extremely talented professionals are making better pitches? I know it's possible to start over at 40 but it takes a lot of work. And it would mean asking husband to go back to the life we had when I was in school, which he already did for a few years. Which makes me feel guilty, then ashamed for feeling guilty.

Husband and I have been enjoying the process of doing things for our house. We discuss and agree on fixtures and additions, sometimes deferring completely to the other person if they care more. We spent Valentine's Day painting accent walls in our living room and bedroom. We chose photos (even a couple I took!) to print and frames to put them in. We bought bath sheets (so large and luxurious) in fun colors. We both admire the abundant natural light in our own ways. But lately it's felt like that's the only thing we have in common. The awake time we spend together is either cooking or watching TV and movies. Probably the thing we share most is a walk to get coffee on the weekend. But it started as my thing because husband is one of those mutants who isn't affected by caffeine and we'd gotten into a few fights over my need for it. So I always pay when we go. Which used to be fine because we used to get a beer once or twice a month and he'd always pay for it. But we don't do that anymore. Not just because of celiac, it would have fallen off naturally. He likes being home. Drinking at home is comfier and cheaper and I can't even drink more than a glass of wine anymore without getting a stomach ache. And he can watch something. Most of the time I'm OK doing that, too, but occasionally it starts to feel like that's all we do. I've been good about prioritizing reading lately, but I have to do it on my own time. I can share in the movies he likes but he can't share in the books I like. Even when I recommend a book I think he'd enjoy he almost never reads it. Part of that is because I've recommended books that turn into movies and he won't read it if he watches the movie. If we do have non-TV time he'll play a game while I read. Which is fine, I like that we can do independent things together. But maybe we're too independent. We exist totally fine separately. We share friends but if we broke up there would be a very clear line. He'd let me take the rabbits. He might be lonelier for a while but sometimes I think he'd be happier. He has a lot of single friends, he has work that he loves and that regularly fills his evenings. The last card he gave me said he admired that I call him on his bullshit. Which I do. No one else does, so I think he resents it a little. Why can't I admire him the way everyone else does? Shouldn't I admire him more than strangers do? Is that my best quality?

He insists that rest time is essential to being productive and creative. I agree wholeheartedly. But can't seem to have that for myself, so I end up exhausted. I took yesterday off because I was genuinely tired, had a tummy ache, and had a lot to do. I didn't rest other than reading as I ate lunch. So today I'm exhausted. And I got up at 5:30 with the intention of getting into work by 7. I left a little late because husband woke up and told me about a lunar eclipse last night, saying that he didn't want to wake me for it because I get grumpy. I don't think there's ever been a time he woke me up for some lunar event or storm or anything and I was grumpy, but there was probably at least one time. So then I felt bad about myself. And for the hundredth time I asked if he could tell me when I'm being grumpy so I can recognize it. And I'll probably ask another hundred times because he doesn't want to say anything. Except that he does, just weeks or months or years later. By then I can't do anything other than apologize for something I didn't know I did and wonder what else I do that he doesn't like. All I do is call him on his bullshit and he won't do the same to me either because he feels he can't or he just doesn't want to. So when we get into an argument he tells me these things. And I don't really know what to do with it. I obviously don't recognize this behavior when I'm doing it, so all I can do is feel bad that it happened when I didn't notice. And then feel bad that I missed out on something because he didn't think it was worth the risk to share it with me. And that's another thing we don't get to experience together.

It's times like these I wonder what I bring to the relationship. Other than paying half the mortgage and taking care of the bunnies and being a backup for household duties. He has a lot of limitations because of me. He knew I didn't eat a lot of meat when we started dating so I don't feel bad about that, but now I also can't have wheat and that's been pretty annoying. I treat it like an allergy, so while he can eat what he wants when we eat separately, I pay attention to whether he eats a burrito on my napkin, whether he washes or at least wipes his hands before touching things (wipe yes, wash no, so I disinfect the remote pretty regularly and wipe down handles), whether he rinses out his mouth before kissing me. Between this and the level of cleanliness I adopted since Covid, I'm always asking whether something has been cleaned. I hate saying it and I can imagine how much he hates hearing it. We once got into a massive fight because I asked him to wash his hands before we had sex. Being clean before being intimate is a turn on, so why was it so insulting? Now I try my best to either trust or hope. But I can't even imagine the fallout if I get an infection.

I'm reading a book right now that's sort of about perimenopause. I'm positive I'm in it even though I'm only 40. That's why I think the rage is starting. I never got so mad that I had to hit something. Or mad enough that I'd cry over basically nothing (sad enough, yes, but so mad I turned sad? No). This is when divorce happens and the more I read about perimenopause the more I get it. At least we don't have kids to argue about. And this is also why men who get divorced in their 40s and 50s end up dating and marrying much younger women, who have years before perimenopause. They miss what their first wives used to be, when they were more energetic and less defeated by the world. It's too much to deal with the onslaught of hormones through all that, and something has to go. It often ends up being the marriage. It's not like anyone understands this, so the men believe their wives just up and decided they didn't want to be married anymore.

I tell husband that some creative kind gorgeous woman would scoop him up. ("He'd follow anything with a casserole," from Modern Family, which is only partly a joke.) They'd have a lot of the same problems but maybe there would be more benefits. He could eat what he wanted without worrying about cross contamination. They could go to a brewery. They could get the good cookies from the good bakery. They'd have another few years probably before perimenopause hit her, so it'd be like it was new again. They'd have a dog instead of rabbits or rats. She'd understand his work and not pester him about why they don't travel even though they can't afford to or don't want to leave old pets. She'd know about movies and could have intelligent conversations about film and technique. Maybe they'd make one together. One that they'd keep, not delete immediately after watching once.

What would I do? Exile myself to rage and wallow and mourn. Perhaps I can still do that on occasion, since I don't actually want to be single. I don't want to rage, but I also don't want to have a period anymore, so I guess this is the price to pay. Meanwhile, I get to figure out how I want to spend the next 40 years in a world that is actively crumbling down around me and led by people who do not believe that breathable air is a human right or even remotely valuable, who will spend enormous sums on pointless war and deny any spending on healthcare, education, or housing, and argue that this is what makes us great. Most days I don't know whether we even have 40 more years, so maybe all this worrying and raging is for nothing.