I am a White Woman. 

I wish I could reach the white women who voted for Trump. I don’t want to hold myself above them for being more moral or better informed than they are. Nevertheless, I wish I open their eyes to see that Donald Trump is harming America and its interests, even (especially) interests that Republicans and Conservatives embraced until very recently.

My loved ones live in a cloud of befuddlement, seemingly blind to Trump’s broken promises, rogue anti-constitutional behavior (threat of a third term), and stoked with fear—fear that Fox News serves up to fill a purpose in their vulnerable existence.

I lost one friend when I told her I had been given the Covid vaccine

“Um, I will not be getting the vaccine.” She commented, haughtily, and I never heard from her again.

My mom still will not get her recent Covid booster. She tells me she was afraid and now just can’t seem to schedule an appointment. I offered. I am on shaky ground with another friend. She knows I am a Democrat. She is a wonderful person and a Conservative. Our politics meet close to the middle. Nevertheless, there is a line. For years we avoided talking about politics. Now we avoid talking to each other. 

What do we do? What do we say? How do we hear each other? How do we heal? How do we hope? How do we protect the ones we love? It’s like I am walking in a blizzard. The noise distracts me from any sort of productive focus. That’s why I decided to write. Historically writing helps me clear my head. I need to document our current moment. Oh my God, what is happening? I am actually freaking out!

America! Why?

Stop telling me to be patient and to let Trump have time to lower the price of eggs. Eggs? Do you even remember that the high price of eggs is why you voted for him?

“The jump in egg prices was due to an outbreak of Avian flu that occurred before Trump took office, although how he deals with the outbreak going forward is on him.But this is very similar to the story of the pandemic and Biden. The media kept telling us that people don’t blame the pandemic for inflation, they blame Biden. If Biden can be nailed for inflation caused by the pandemic, we should be able to nail Trump for soaring egg prices caused by Avian flu. After all, people don’t see Avian flu, they see high egg prices.”

And immigrants? People he made you afraid of, (xenophobia)! They are legal immigrants, immigrants who are now being plucked from their everyday lives. Not rapists. Not gang members. Everyday people are being taken. What happened to,

Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

Next it will be college students exercising their free speech. And as our free speech is algorithm’ed away by a South African non-elected dictator, the richest man in the world, determined to hurt the poor, the disadvantaged and the different:

“Rather than ideas competing freely on their merits, algorithms amplify or suppress the reach of messages… introducing an unprecedented form of interference in the free exchange of ideas that is often overlooked.”

You can quote me on this because after the college students are silenced, you will find next it will be people like you and me, a middle class white woman who is trying to use her voice:

“Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.”

Look at history. First they came for the immigrants. Soon everyone who pushed back against the current regime was taken by plain clothed, masked officials under the cover of darkness and marched to a prison camp which soon became a death camp where millions were forced to strip down, abandon their belongings and their clothes. Naked, they had their heads shaved and were given a prison number to “serve as efficient management of camps,” which was tattooed on their forearms; dehumanized. It really is Nazi Germany 1933.

No! I am not being dramatic.

Look at El Salvador and the immigrants that were recently flown there via a Trump order. Trump openly ignored a judge who told the Trump Administration to stop the flights. The plane flew on. Men, with no due process, abased and placed in an El Salvadorian prison camp, a camp that is not their home country and left to be ignored, brutalized. How will they get justice? 

My mom says and I quote,

“I like the lady who does my nails because she is an American. I can understand her. I couldn’t understand those other ladies.”

Implication: “English is not their first language. Immigrants are something to be feared. They are not like us.”

In my Mom’s defense, she is eighty-four and wears hearing aids. I can understand why she wants to be understood by the person she pays to do her nails. Unfortunately, her comment is clouded by the fact that Fox News and News Max run nonstop in the background of her home. 

I reminded her that at age fifteen her grandfather immigrated from Luxembourg. 

“Mom, I bet your grandpa was hard to understand when he immigrated here. I hope people were gave him a pass.”

She nodded. 

I am not implying that my mom doesn’t get to choose who she pays to do her nails. What I am saying is I hope she will see immigrants differently. I hope she will consider that maybe there is a world beyond what Fox News is spoon feeding her.

My mom immediately followed with,

“I am not a racist.” 

It was like she had been coached, given a script, and prepared to talk to her woke, leftist, non-christian daughter. How can I penetrate this messaging? How can I penetrate the fact that my mom believes I am the bad guy, better, that I am on the wrong team? How can I have a conversation like we were able to have during the George W. Bush years. I literally have a personal connection to the men who created the torture program for Guantanamo Bay. It broke my brain then. Now this dark piece of trivia feels like a helpful bridge. Like,

“hey, I know one of these dudes. His family seems really nice.”

How can we unify and save this ship before it goes down? I am not sure. Help! 

This is Not About Portugal

Our son told us he couldn’t go with us to Portugal. He had just been offered a new job, and they needed him to start immediately. Of course it is ok that I am sad he cannot go on this trip.

“I knew you would say No.” I blurted.

With all of her dizzying and big feelings, Little-Girl-Me (age 4) steam-rolled over Slow-to-Process, Adult-me. Instead of congratulating my son, I made it about me. 

Instead of telling his new boss, “yes,” our lovely son waited to come home and talk to me first. “Mom, this means I cannot go to Portugal.” I felt like an ass.

My son is sweet. He has a great reason not to go. He was hired for a really cool new job. Adult-Me, my true self, understands, is excited for him and supports his responsible decision. I wish Little-Girl-Me was more healed and would not just blurt stuff out. I own my shit and continue to work. I want to be better. I don’t want my kids to have to live with the resonance of my deep pain.

Immediately, I apologized. “Hey, I am sorry I said that. It really is ok. I am happy for you.” 

I left the room and was flooding-after-a-huricane, flooded. I cried, I mean, I wept tears buried deep inside and forgotten by Little-Girl-me. I did not cry because my son is not going to come on a trip with us. I cried because I recognize there were times when the unhealed trauma from my past is so big that it bled all over my children. They could not escape those large moments of my overwhelm. That must have been really hard for them. I am so sorry. I am trying to heal. I am trying to make amends.

As I sat there, I thought of my children. I felt pride. How was I gifted the best kids ever? They are nuanced and beautiful. I looked at my phone and noticed a missed call earlier from my son. I realized it was when I was in the shower. When he couldn’t reach me, he came home to talk to Dave and me. He put us first and shared his news before telling his new boss. He wanted to make sure I was ok. I took a breath and assured him I was ok. The brutality of my past is not my children’s to carry. I am healing that pain and letting it go.

I saw my mom. I heard her pleading words the time I told her we were moving to Virginia,

“BETH, I will kill myself if you leave Utah. You cannot move. Please don’t move. Please don’t leave me.”

My mind blurred. I felt the paralyzing weight of my mom’s stranglehold. I have always been determined not to do this to my kids, even unintentionally, which I had sort of done by telling my son I knew he would say no. Oof! Adult-me encourages them and truly wants them to follow their dreams.

At that moment I heard this voice distinctly say,

“You are their mom. Your burdens should not be theirs. Pull it together and make sure he knows you support him and that everything is ok and then shut up and listen to him.”

That internal voice is right. 

My son and I spoke a few minutes later. I reminded him of the trip we took to Southern Utah.

“Remember how you stayed with me when Dad went rogue and hiked down that crazy canyon? You were careful. You were kind and so much fun. We are good.” 

Tearfully, I paused and made sure to make eye contact. [insert me gesturing at myself here] “I am just sorry that my big feelings sometimes take over and make you feel bad. I am working on my shit. You are good and I am really happy about your job.”

“But I don’t like your tears.” He said.

“Hey. Hey. I am ok. I love how you communicate and articulate your point of view. I learn from you. My tears are tears and are not your responsibility. I have big feelings. I am healing my stuff and I am sorry when my stuff explodes onto you. I am really happy about your job. Seriously.”

Minutes later he was back upstairs sharing about his new job, his schedule and we were joking about all the discounts he could get us. I apologized for allowing my Little-Girl-Me feelings to overshadow such a cool moment. 

“I am really excited about your job. Of course they hired you. You are amazing!” He shared that he is a little nervous. I encouraged, “You are responsible. You are never late to class. You show up.” 

“You are right. I am always on time for class.”

We laughed and I assured him he is a great fit. 

This is not the first and hopefully will soon be the last time my kids and I have exchanges like these. My sons are kind and forgiving. I am learning and I am healing. I am grateful for the grace they show me.

It is time for this cycle to end and for me to let my burdens go. That is why I need to let sweet and earnest Little-Girl Bethy, who was like a bouncy ball fighting her way out of a dark room,  know that she is strong, smart, wonderful and beautiful, that her weight is perfect at any weight, that she is not disappointing Heavenly Father when she says, “Goddammit;” that I am so sorry that Little-girl Bethy was often asked to step aside, was frequently left alone to figure things out completely unsupported or sidetracked to take care of her own mom. Nevertheless, Little-Girl Bethy was strong, determined and tenacious. She survived, is fucking amazing and has always been open to figuring things out. And now Little-Girl Bethy FINALLY realizes that her mom’s pain is no longer hers to carry or to pass on. High-fucking-fives to that!

Parenting is difficult. Owning your shit is brutal. Healing past trauma is otherworldly. I feel weighted by grief. Breaking dysfunctional cycles and patterns is the hardest work I have ever done. I hope my children forgive me. I am grateful for the grace they show me.

All images from our last trip to Portugal.

Tagged :

The LDS Garment Change: Paralyzed by my despair and reminded of all of those cap sleeves

I was raised in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. I learned through a post written by the Salt Lake Tribune’s Peggy Fletcher Stack that the women’s garment will now be sleeveless. This change makes me mad. (Yes. I know the rules have changed before. Before 1923, garments had full-sleeved legs and arms.) My assumption is that I will be criticized for complaining or for not having a testimony of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ:

“Shame on you for bringing up the coercive control you felt yesterday. Don’t you know that everything is better now. This is God’s loving way of adapting the rules for his children. [Your thoughts] are thoughts seeded by The Adversary [used] to stir people up to feeling slighted and then justified in hating the church.” 

Sure. [insert my shoulder shrugs here]

Even if an evil force is influencing my thoughts (I don’t believe one is), I have real feelings that actually need to be addressed. Others, like Lindsay Hansen Park, have beautifully addressed these LDS garment changes more concisely than me. Nevertheless, I believe all voices matter. That is why I am offering my perspective here. 

I am struggling to see beyond these triggers and my innate reflex to behave and not embarrass my mom. From what I have read online, I am not alone. I have been sitting in my chair for hours, paralyzed with grief. What do I do with all the shaming and shunning now that the rules change? Will people be able to openly drink coffee tomorrow (and without sneaking their minivan through a Starbucks drive through)? I am perplexed and confused.


The trauma resides tucked away in the cheap polyester fabrics and sweaty crotch of my Mormon underwear. When I stepped away from Mormonism I left my bedroom drawer filled with my newly washed LDS garments. For years my garments remained untouched. I was superstitious and haunted by thoughts of bad things happening. As I waked by my dresser drawer I was consumed with visions of crashing airplanes. Instead of there being a perfectly preserved garment-covered-torso-display-of-my-worthiness, there would be nothing left—all because I chose not to wear my Mormon underwear!

I believed I would be punished if I threw them away or gave them away. Eventually I needed the space and determined it was time to empty the drawer. I heard there was a special way to dispose of them and I did not want to get it wrong. Something about cutting out all the symbols and putting the symbol part of the fabric in a different trash can. Ultimately, I left the drawer alone – (until we moved). I did not want to break my Mom’s heart. Emptying that drawer would signify that I was one step further away from who she thought I would be. It was one step further away from her dream of a family reunited in the Celestial Kingdom. I couldn’t do that to her. I would find a way to wear those garments again, even if it killed me.


A few years earlier we were at the National Mall in Washington DC. I was five months pregnant. My husband and I met up with some friends; we were waiting to watch the Fourth of July fireworks. It was like a billion degrees outside and maybe five-hundred percent humidity. I was wearing a garment-covering outfit: a dress that went down to my knees and sleeves down to my elbows. I wished I was wearing a dress more appropriate for the summer heat, like a sleeveless dress.

Soaked in my own sweat, my hair out-of-the-shower wet, perspiration dripping down my face, I was resolved to air out my garment-soaked boob area. I pulled up on my bra, which was resting on the outside of my garments. Then I unsnapped my bra, leaving it draped across my chest. My crotch began to itch. I tried to re-snap my bra because maybe I should be more obedient. Next I discreetly tried to adjust my bunched up Mormon underwear, which was firmly trapped up my nether regions. I feared contracting a UTI which would only make my already complicated pregnancy worse. In this sea of thousands, I whispered to my husband, “It is dark. Do you think anyone will notice if I take my clothes off?” As the words left my mouth, I was wracked with feelings of shame. I had covenanted to my Heavenly Father to wear these garments as a show of commitment to live a good and honorable life. The words of my sister ring through my head as she exlcaims and points at me from across the room,

“OH MY GOSH! YOU ARE NOT WEARING YOUR GARMENTS!” (She has since left the LDS Church.)

The shame I felt in the moment she called me out is a shame I carried with me FOR YEARS and it was the shame I felt while sitting on the National Mall. My clothes stayed on. So did my bra. So did my Mormon underwear.

I knew someone would notice. I preemptively felt their side eyes. Women check. We always compare each other. We check garment lines and skirt lengths. I recall an experience my mom had as a new convert to the Church. She wore a sleeveless dress to Relief Society (the women’s organization meeting). The Mormon missionaries had neglected to tell my parents about the temple garment (and the requisite de facto dress standard it requires) before baptizing them. Consequently, instead of learning about this special commitment you make to God by wearing His underwear ahead of time, my mom learned through social shaming. Instead of having grace for her, the church women let her know that what she was wearing was not “what we wear here.” The trauma is deep rooted. Until this week, that trauma manifested through checking sleeve length. 

And really, it’s not just garment lines Mormons check. Maybe that is why I am upset. I don’t mind that the rules change. What I mind is the coercive control and shaming based on arbitrary rules and systems I experienced. What am I supposed to do with that? When I needed help on my mission, I called home. My mom did not want me breaking the rules, and I was breaking the rules. My mom asked my brother to talk to my mission President to tell me not to call home. He did. My mission president spoke with me. I was disciplined and admonished that I needed to have more faith. Now the Mormon missionaries are allowed to video chat with their family each week. Why was I wicked then for doing what’s righteous now? Where do I set the humiliation and othering I experienced from my family and my faith?

Tell me I need to be happy about God’s love and letting the Mormons drink caffeine on BYU campus and now having sleeveless garments. Regardless, if the Atonement and Jesus and rules that change to help members of a certain dispensation are all real, there is also a flip side. These shifts don’t repair damage the old rules caused. To be a member in good standing, for starters, I need to be baptized, worthy, a full tithe payer and work to attend the temple, which includes wearing the temple garment. I wonder if The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints would consider their own accountability by following their own teachings and a spirit of Christian forgiveness. (I am not holding my breath.) If they do, I would suggest that these sleeveless garments and their makers apologize to those of us who bore the weight of this arbitrary rule and its accompanying coercive control. I would hope they could work to heal and repair the damage they caused no matter the shifting rules or changing hemlines, that they could tell a young me and all the people like me that we are worthy and we are good. Calling home on a mission during a health crisis was not Satan’s influence, nor was abstaining from wearing garments during a hot DC summer while pregnant. (Yes. After the fourth of July fireworks I took some lifesaving measures to not overheat and to save my baby. Some days I chose not to wear my garments). 

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Paper Doll Pioneer

Pick the title for my upcoming memoir. Do you like Paper Doll Pioneer? If not, suggest another one.

My story begins. The reader is air dropped onto Salt Lake City’s temple square. It is my first day as a sister missionary there. I want to be anywhere, but on my Mormon mission”

“Years ago, pen to my raven-colored Mormon Missionary Journal, I wrote the following: 

I cannot stop thinking of ways I can hurt myself. When I see a moving car, I calculate how fast I can get in front of it.

When I wrote, “in front of it,” I literally meant that I wanted to get myself squarely in the path of any moving vehicle. I always saw myself jumping through, in front of and off of things. 

How quickly will this kill me? What will it sound like? Will my death be quick?” I wondered.

As I imagined my dead self, I could clearly see the aftermath: people wiping, scraping, even tweezing my indistinguishable, flattened, mangley bits off of whatever grate, pothole, or windshield wiper blade I had landed on. As fiercely as I wanted to jump, (and was not afraid to jump), thoughts of eternal damnation and making my mom cry, consumed my cautious, cluttered and complicated mind. 

I could hear the church congregation whisper, “Poor girl. Her body was everywhere. Now she will be condemned to a life of eternal darkness.” [insert church members shaking their heads in disappointment here] “This would not have happened if she had enough faith.” 

Seconds later, I made myself stop thinking evil thoughts. As a means to make penance for allowing myself to have self-destructive thoughts, I took a rapid cleansing breath. I gripped my own wrist tightly, protecting me from my hand’s next intended act, which was to claw my face. I did not claw my face. I felt the warm sunshine. It was nice.

I made my way to Temple Square, in the epicenter of Salt Lake City, Utah, where I was now officially a Temple Square missionary.”

The memoir asks many questions. The prominent questions is, “How did I get here?” As I answers these questions I address themes of generational trauma and abuse perpetuated by a pure belief in patriarchy which is then reenforced via my family’s conversion to Mormonism. I explore the importance of being a cycle breakers and separately from patterns of abuse ultimately learning to use my voice, pushback and say no.

If you are interested in updates, new chapters or would like to know when my memoir is released, please join the CrazyUs Memoir Mailing List:

Bed Wetter

The alarm is angry drunk loud. It is called an Enuresis Alarm. Beginning in the 1930s, the alarm functioned as a bedwetting treatment, used to wake (thrust) a child out of a deep sleep, alerting them that they wet the bed! It worked by attaching a sensor to the bed, a pad, or your underwear. Once wet, the sensor alerts. I recall that the version I used looks like a vintage baby monitor. The alarm was attached to a pad-and-bell alarm, which meant that the sensor pad was positioned in the bed between the waterproof mattress pad and the fitted sheet beneath me. 

I worked my way up to this deafening, discordant, psychological warfare. For months, maybe my entire short life, I wet the bed. There were no Pull Ups or 5 year old child size diapers back then. I would have probably peed through them anyway. Honestly, I wet the bed so much that I dreaded going to bed.

At least one hour before bed, I resolved not to drink any liquids. Then I would find myself standing next to the kitchen sink, gulping down a refreshing glass of water. I can hear my parents’ voices,

“Beth, please, please stop. Do not drink any more. You will wet the bed.”

Once my bed wetting became a thing, I was advised,

“Beth, if you wet the bed, quietly change your pajamas. See if you can sleep on your (wet) sheets. If they are really soaked, you can get us. Remember, you don’t want to wake your sister.” (She and I shared a room.)

I was four or five years old. I was a barometer of the world around me. I dreaded that my older sister would be witness to my middle-of-the-night disruptions. I mean, she endured my fear of the dark. Because of me, we kept the door propped open and the hall light on. She was also aware of my vivid nightmares wherein alligators would eat my family, which always seemed strange because we lived in Minnesota. How much more could I ask of her? (A lot).

On those frequent bed-wetting nights, I recall that she heard the alarm before I did. I can picture her disorientingly calling my name,

“Beth, Beth, wake up. Beth! Please! Beth! WAKE UP!”

They must have heard her or the alarm because seconds later my parents’ footsteps weakly clumped down the hallway. “Not again!” sighs my step dad, (who I call dad), as he flips on my bedroom light.

 “Bethy, Bethy, you need to wake up,” My mom urges.

The alarm’s bleating is all encompassing. Utterly discombobulated, I try to move. My body feels like it’s stuck in quicksand.

“Turn that thing off!” Dad yells, referring to the alarm.

I watch the cord fly as it is yanked out of the wall. I am pulled out of my bed. I sit on the pile of wet sheets, out of the way.

“Bethy, you are all wet. Stand up,” Mom says.

“None of the other kids wet the bed,” one of them murmurs.

“Can you find any clean sheets? She does this every night. We need to keep a pile of clean sheets. It’s expensive to wash all of these sheets constantly. We need to think of something else,” Dad insists. 

At that, like the chaos during a hospital’s Code Blue, Mom runs into the hallway. I hear the accordion doors open and then the sound of her hands as they furiously dig through our linen closet. She returns with a mismatched set of twin sheets. My dad grabs and hurriedly examines them.

“Where is the mattress pad? Why didn’t you get the mattress pad? Do we have a clean one?”

Mom runs back into the hall and returns seconds later with a pile of sheets. Handing them to him she urges,

“Use these as a mattress pad.”

Hastily he begins remaking my bed.

“I hope she doesn’t wet the bed again. I don’t want her to pee on the mattress.” I hear him mumble.

Dad pauses. Mom walks over and finishes making the bed.

“Beth, someday you are going to have to do this yourself,” Dad says.

Mom interrupts, “Bethy, come here. We need to get you out of these wet clothes.”

Like a searing smack to an elbow, I am alert. Immediately I feel exposed.

“I do not want to take my clothes off.” I think.

I want to be dry. So I awkwardly take off my soaking pajamas and soggy underwear. I put on my dry pajamas. As I change, I look over and notice my sister. She is sitting up, wiping her eyes. She looks tired. I stare. She looks really sweet in her nightgown and tussled hair. Now I am horrified. I hear the voice in my head,

“Beth, you did this to her.” I start to cry.

“Mom, when will my bed be ready?” I ask.

I scan our twin beds with complementary yellow and green handmade comforters. I am really tired and wish I could climb into my sister’s dry bed. The yellow walls seem brighter. I cannot escape. Everyone is there because of me. 

“Bed’s ready,” Dad effusively says.

I climb in. My sister is already back to sleep. My parents leave the room, turn off the light.

“Please leave the door open,” I plead. (They do.)

A few weeks later, I found myself in the hospital. I was told I was there to have a special surgery to fix my bed wetting. Something about scar tissue. I remember people coming to visit me, and someone bought me a stuffed animal. I do recall getting an enema and the nurse explaining that they would insert a tube.

“This way we can make sure everything is out of you.”

I was awestruck as I watched the container fill with the contents of my insides. I know I was put under general anesthesia. I remember fighting the anesthesiologist as they put a big, black mask over my face.

The surgery did not fix my bed wetting. Nevertheless, by the next year, when I was six, I stopped wetting the bed (like most kids do at that age). 

Fast forward to now:

Recently, my husband looked at me, alarmed.

“You are holding your breath. Do you know you are holding your breath?”

I have been coughing since June. I have been coughing so hard that I would vomit. When I cough, I feel peoples’ stares. Several people have insisted that it was my cough that made them sick. I often lead a conversation with,

“You might hear me cough. I assure you I am not sick. If you would feel more comfortable, I am happy to leave.”


My big secret: I also cough so hard that I leak. And what I mean by leak is I pee a little. I didn’t want to. I do. Then I began wearing pads. I also began holding my breath. Holding my breath seemed to make it all stop, at least the coughing, (and the peeing). 

Years ago, and after my c-sections, I tried pelvic floor physical therapy. Consequently, every time I coughed, I brought back to mind the exercises: kegel, breathe, kegel, focus. Now every time I cough, I determined to kegel my way out of every leaky, pee-filled moment. From June – December, I have existed in a slight panic, always knowing an extra bad coughing spell would equate to a pad full of urine. Resolved, I continued holding my breath and power kegeling every all-consuming coughing spell I had and might have.

I heard it again.

“Beth, you are holding your breath.”

It was my doctor. She was trying to listen to my lungs.

“Oh, I do that. My husband says that I hold my breath.” I left out about the pee. She already knew about the cough. “I often coughed myself to sleep. I am so tired of coughing that I hold my breath.” I opined. “You need to stop holding your breath. You need to breathe,” my doctor advised. I tried to breathe. “In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Your chest shouldn’t move.” My chest moved.

By October I was determined to breathe. That is when I found myself enrolled in eight physical therapy sessions. “I hold my breath. I have this cough. I think my pelvic floor could use a tune up.” I told my male PT. “I don’t do that.” He said. “I assumed so. I wanted to give you the big picture.” I answered. Without missing a beat, he asked if I had been to therapy.

“Coughing can give people real PTSD.”

I felt he was onto something. I also felt my tears. I tried to say something else.

“I’m sure some core work would help. Core work always helps.” He said.

In the next breath, he had me doing planks. My diaphragm hurt. I started to cough. My body was not ready. I began canceling our appointments. Soon, I cancelled all of them.

Last week I made my way to a legitimate pelvic floor physical therapist. She is going to help me get my pelvic floor muscles back to their original strength and function. Yes. This also means better bladder control. We talked about how I hold my breath. I expected her to have me do some core work, planks or kegels. Instead, we talked.

“People in your situation think they need to hold tight and strengthen their muscles. These muscles are stuck in a fight or flight mode. What is going to help you not leak is to relax, breathe and heal.”

That is what I needed to hear. Over and over again I need to hear these words: “relax, breathe and heal.” As I relax and embrace my scars and my secrets, I wish I had a time machine. I wish I could go back and tell little, freckle-faced me,

“Bethy, it is going to be ok. Relax, breathe. Your bed wetting days will pass. You will heal.”

Honestly, I wish literally anyone would have said,

“Hey Bethy, it is ok to wet the bed. Wetting the bed is normal and what some kids do.”

I cannot time machine myself back. What I can do is move forward. I can learn to relax my pelvic floor. And when I think the next cough or hard swallow will kill me, I can take a cleansing breath. I will be ok. In fact, the other day I coughed. I choked. Then I remembered,

“Relax, breathe. You will heal.”

I am getting there. 

Sitting in that Same Hotel Lobby One Year to the Day (A Journal Entry Of Sorts)

Here I sit in this East London hotel lobby. The chair I sit in is green. The table my laptop sits on is black. My laptop and phone are plugged into a UK outlet with the adapter I remembered to bring. Last year I had to go back to my room when I forgot my adapter there. I remember that. I am sitting adjacent to the cafe. Bottles of San Pellegrino and iced coffee all facing the same direction, face me. An American man sits two tables away, equipped with buzzwords and catchphrases, makes calls as if he were the only one in the room. I can see the reception desk from here. I watch people check in and ask questions. I am sitting in the same spot in the same hotel lobby that I was sitting in 365 days ago. Truth is, I had to move. I am now sitting in the same lobby, in a different spot. I did not not expect to be here, in this spot, or at this hotel.

I wonder where my head was at then. I have yet to reread the post and do not want it to inform what I want to say now. My head is in a good, peaceful, and very exhausted place. Life is hard. I think I am finally letting go and accepting the fact that life will always be hard. 2022 swinging through 2023 has been an extra tough one.

My health is worse, or rather, I am more aware of my not-so-great health: autoimmune heart issues, lingering demon cough and unexplained anemia. My doctors are looking for cancer. There, I said it. They still haven’t found it. I still believe they never will.

Dave’s beard is gone. I liked his beard. I also like Dave clean shaven. Honestly, I really like Dave. We still hold hands. We still make love, (and with each other). We fight less. I honestly think we like each other more, better, I think we accept who the other is better than we ever did before. Is that what growing old together means?

We celebrated our twenty-fifth anniversary in June. We were hiking Spain’s Camino Ingles with our hiking group. I coughed the entire time. My hiking friends, possibly now enemies, thought I had Covid. I did not. On the daily I heard,

“Beth, now so and so is sick and by the way, your cough.”

What I did have is some sort of persistent cough, a cough that has plagued me since May. My physical therapist believes I have PTSD as a result of said cough and suggested I see a therapist,

“People don’t realize how a cough can mess with someone’s head. Are you talking to anyone?”

On the day of our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary our group hiked to a beach. The sun was bright. Half the group stripped down to their underwear and swam in the cool Spanish waters. I did not swim. I could hardly get my socks off. Instead, I sat in the shade eating slices of turkey as I watched Dave devour an orange. That night as Dave ate dinner with the group, I was absent as a result of heat stroke. The texts arrived,

“Beth, the group toasted to you and Dave. It was weird that you were not here.”

I feel like I still keep waiting to “be here,” and celebrate our mighty accomplishment. Instead, I have been sick and been preoccupied with tests, blood draws and procedures. My sudden poor health has forced me to stop. For someone who does not sit still well, being stopped woke me up. I sincerely believe I did stop sweating the small stuff. I need to get well. Not setting boundaries was keeping me sick. Consequently, I started saying no to everything, and completely distanced myself from anything or anyone who caused my throat to tighten. I would text,

“I am sorry I cannot talk. I cough so hard that I throw up.”

It wasn’t a lie. I vomit-coughed every day. Twice I woke up and cough vomited so violently that I could not take a breath. I could not move air into my body. As I knelt naked on all fours on our bathroom floor, tears streamed down my face. In a quiet, desperate wheeze, I pleaded, “Dave, I do not want to die. Please don’t let me die.” I do not know how I moved from that one moment to the next. Yet, I did not die.

I spent a lot of time alone, trying not to cough. I started holding my breath.

“Beth, you are holding your breath.” Dave would say.

Then I would breathe. I spent so much time alone, trying to breathe and trying not to cough.Then loneliness sort of became my friend. I am still not a fan of being alone. I am a new fan of taking care of myself.

As I sat in my room coughing and watching a reality show literally called, “Alone,” I promised myself if I rested the entire month of August, we could make our scheduled trip to London in September. I rested and became more anemic. I still traveled to London, celebrating with Kyle before he headed off to New York. While here, we drove Kyle to Oxford to meet up with friends. Since then, Kyle’s light turned back on. What a gift. He and I talked about the moment everything shifted.

“Mom, you know when my switch flipped?”

“When?”

“When I met up with my friends.” 

Dave traveled to Poland. I wanted to spend time with Kyle before he left so I decided to skip Warsaw and meet Dave here. Life is fleeting and I want to grab as many moments with my kids as they will permit.

Kyle drove me to the airport. We said what we thought were strange goodbyes.

“You’re taking me to the airport and you are moving later today.”

“I know. It is so weird. Sort of backwards and also right.” ❤️

Kyle landed in New York moments after I landed in London. Serendipity. 

I gathered my things and made my way to the Tube. As I watched people buy tickets for the Elizabeth Line, I thought,

“Suckers! Don’t they realize they don’t have to buy a ticket? They can simply tap on with a credit card.”

I caught myself and admitted that last year I was just getting comfortable riding the tube. I told myself that I preferred to walk or Uber. I think I was scared. Then after one exhausting walk from East London to Covent Garden to the British Museum and back, with an accompanying Banksy-sighting, I decided it was time to embrace London’s public transit system. I have never looked back. 

And now here I sit in our east London hotel lobby.  Eli texted moments ago. I love hearing from him. He thinks he sprained his wrist climbing. I feel far away. I hope he is ok. I also did not think I would be here. I am deeply grateful. [I write as my tears fall.]

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