Say Yes to RadioClassics
Week 28: Post-therapy treats and murder mysteries
I have an essay out with Hard Copy about something embarrassing that happened in the hospital while Carolyn was sick and how it helped change my view of our bodies and the time we spend in them!
I got secondhand embarrassment for myself when I saw it go up and I had to think ‘don’t panic’ over and over while I scrolled through, but then one of my best friends (who is also one of my favorite writers) texted me and said, “The ending is chef’s kiss.” So there. You can read it here!
My son Jack and I have a routine. Every other week he has an appointment with his therapist, and after every appointment we stop for a treat. Some days we get lunch, some days it’s just a Dairy Queen from the drive-thru on the way home, but we always do something together.
This week he opted for a full lunch: pork belly tacos and burnt pineapple lemonades from Bomba. While he tapped our order into the app, I formulated a plan. I was behind on work, and so I mapped the afternoon in my head, trying to optimize, trying to get myself to my computer.
We could get the food to go and pick it up on our way home, I thought, and then I’d be able to eat at my desk. We’re going on vacation next week, and I’m trying to put as much to bed before we leave as I can so I can fully enjoy the trip. As I drove, a nagging tug in the back of my brain pulsed a running list of the to-do’s I’d swore I’d get to the day before but hadn’t.
A domino effect of things went tumbling late last week and into the weekend. We had a plumbing issue in our single-bathroom home, Numa went to the groomer’s and came home with an alarming limp, and a close friend suffered a startling and serious injury. Carolyn left for a week of sleep-away camp which required the kind of prep most people associate with months on the road, and I landed three pieces which all needed swift editing turnarounds.
I tried to be everywhere at once but there was not enough of me to go around, and by Sunday I was bone-tired. I was so mentally stripped down, in fact, that I couldn’t remember the password to my laptop. I knew that it was some version of my fiction manuscript’s title, but I couldn’t remember the precise arrangement of characters. Were both words capitalized, or only one? Was there an exclamation point on the end, or did I include the month and day digits of my birthday, or was it the year? This is a password I type a half dozen times a week, and suddenly it was like vapor, formless in my mind.
As I tried different combinations of characters, I was locked out of my laptop for increasingly extended periods of time— first one minute, then nine, then an hour, then three hours, then eight. Panic climbed into my throat with each new attempt. I called Apple and was told, short of locating the recovery key I didn’t remember setting up, I’d have to bring my computer to an Apple store and have them reset (erase!!) the whole thing.
The laptop taunted me. It sat on my desk like a pair of sealed lips. Let me in! I wanted to scream. I couldn’t believe everything, all my work, all my writing was just sitting there while I tried to work out how to access it. It felt silly. It’s right there, I kept thinking, it’s all right there.
On Monday my mother and brother took Jack to a museum in Philly. With Carolyn at camp, I had my first day home alone since summer started. I’d planned to get up early but wake up slow, make a Nutella latte, and eat a yogurt at my desk while I wrote the morning away. I’d order my favorite cold noodles and tofu for lunch and put the final stamp on two of my pieces and maybe have an hour to watch Peaky Blinders. I hadn’t planned on being locked out of my writing device and spending the day trying to decide how I was going to use my last password attempt.
I flopped onto my bed and scrolled through Hulu, finally landing on old episodes of Kitchen Nightmares. I spent the day listening to Gordon Ramsay scream his head off at over-ambitious restauranteurs with my head pressed into my pillow.
I had one day home alone and I blew it. The weight of my inbox pressed me into the bed. The pitches I’d pulled together in my mind but couldn’t type weighed me down while the drafts I have due beat me over the head. I cried. I took a nap. When Jack got home, I made us both dinner and we watched an episode of Shogun before going to bed.
At 3:30am, I woke up with my password sitting in the front of my mind, crisp and clear. I rolled over, slipped my laptop out from under the pillow next to my head, flipped it open, typed my password, and hit ‘return.’ The artificial light of my desktop stained my vision in shadows.
Overwhelm (for me) rarely starts with writing, but inevitably that’s where the impact spins out. When my mind is buzzing with the anxiety of not getting things done, I can’t process new information, and I can’t produce anything creative. All I can think is that I’m LATE, I’m behind on THE THINGS, and I become choked by the fear that all is devolving into chaos. It’s one of my least favorite feelings, and it’s one I’m working to quell, but after Jack’s therapy appointment I felt overtaken by it.
While I drove to pick up the food, Jack fiddled with the radio, turning dials and pressing buttons, exploring the car he’ll eventually drive. He landed on a SiriusXM station playing old-school radio shows and we listened to a murder mystery most of the way home. I swung by the taco shop and grabbed our order, and by the time we parked in front of our house I could feel the pressure of everything I had to do that afternoon beating in the back of my mind like a pulse.
Do you think we could eat in the car? Jack asked. And finish listening to the story?
I looked at our house, at my office windows that overlook the street. Up there, sitting on my desk, was my unlocked computer loaded with emails, messages, tasks, and to-do’s that had piled up all weekend while I was trying to remember the string of characters that would grant me access to what has become an enormous part of my life.
I have so much to do, I thought. My mind buzzed.
Then I thought of Jack— how in two years he’ll be driving, and in four he’ll be a senior in high school, and in six he’ll be in college and by then I won’t remember the afternoon I spent rushing home to my computer. I won’t remember the pitches I’d hoped to send or the drafts I asked for extensions on. What I would remember is the afternoon we spent eating tacos in the car while a murder mystery unfolded over the radio.
I nodded. Of course we can, I said. He smiled, and then I smiled, my whole body relaxing into the seat. I want to know how it ends!
As my kids’ only parent, I’m responsible for every fiber of my their lives, every inch of mine, and every corner of our home. I’m in charge of the pet food, the braces, the back to school supplies, sleepovers, allergies and oncologist visits, movie nights and school events. I handle the therapy appointments, meltdowns, dog walks, lost chargers, new sneakers, haircuts, nail fills, dishes, laundry, cleaning schedules, and all manner of social hiccups and existential crises. I prepare and serve almost a thousand meals a year.
Very few things happen concurrently, and I’m the only person responsible for keeping it all running. I always have something waiting in the wings trying to grab my attention. I’v learned to shut out the noise, to double-back on myself and check my own tendencies so I don’t spend my kids’ entire childhoods bogged down with the busywork of raising them.
I sat in the car with Jack and put my laptop— and the work it holds— out of my mind for just a bit longer. We ate tacos and wondered out loud whether Peachy, the wise-cracking detective, was going to figure out who popped Big Ears (spoiler alert: it was the night watchman!)
I wish I could tell you it was easy, that I slipped into that time with my son without resistance and surrendered to it, but in truth it was a struggle. It was work. That’s okay— the best things usually are.
I’ll be back later this week with a summary of the Pitch Fest workshop I took in July- 31 days of Zoom meetings, prompts, and clearing 1,000 words a day took me to a whole new place with my work. I can’t wait to tell you about it!