Precision
On anticipatory grief, and the"places that scare you."
I started writing this Substack a little over a year ago when the media onslaught became unmanageable for me. I recently read Elizabeth Gilbert’s new book: “All the Way to the River,” which explores addiction, recovery, grief, loss, and anticipatory grief. One thing that stood out to me about the book in regard to addiction, though, is the exploration of how it can start out as a vice, or as something you can still “hide,” but will eventually get to the point where it brings you to a place where life becomes truly unmanageable.
Certainly my life was “manageable” before I deleted social media, and whether or not it can be categorized as an addiction is unclear, but the point at which at times a wire was tripped, and the genuine fear algorithms debilitated me at times such that I could not fully function, parent or and exist in the world in any semblance of a productive way, was enough.
What can I say? I am a highly sensitive person, and my dearest nervous system could not take that kind of voltage.
Now, my dear readers, after over a year of complete abstention from mainstream social media sources, I can finally report that my life is now officially perfect.
Notwithstanding that the theme in my life right now is the art of surrender, attempts to surrender, failure to surrender, trying again to surrender, failing, failing better, literal tiny, baby shuffle steps with my dad from a chair to a wheelchair, and into the unknown.
I do know for sure that no longer scrolling social media has at the very least, added less chaos to my brain and helped me to have strong enough ground to be able to paint some perspective around the things I can’t avoid knowing right now. This is a win, even if perfection is neither a possibility, nor has it ever been the goal.
Another thing I know for sure is that since this long awaited week off has started, Jonah got Norovirus, then I went to Iowa to see my family, and then when I returned, right after Thanksgiving, Hannah got sick, and then I threw out my back, and fairly remarkably. I’m walking in sort of a comically tilted way. Currently sitting on the couch, immobile with an icepack, with sharp spasms every time I move any amount. I was still the more functional parent since I haven’t been throwing up all day, so I’m giving myself props because today was an example of survival parenting, and I survived. Today included Tylenol doses between Ibuprofen doses that were entirely ineffective anyway, grocery delivery, and zero minutes outside in the cold, yet I am proud of the fact that Jonah was totally safe, well fed, and actually napped in the middle of day, in spite of whatever sleep regression he has been experiencing since he got sick on Friday. I have no other choice but to write, it seems. I even tried to meditate and I made it 20 minutes until my back hurt, so here I am, trying to be tender with myself about it all.
This recent trip to Iowa was a bonus visit, added at the last minute because my dad is now on hospice. Nothing major has changed, as far as an observer can tell, except the word “hospice” has a finality about it, because there is a finality to advanced Alzheimer’s that can’t be ignored. We still had a lot of smiles and selfies.
Selfie with my dad, November, 2025
My mom and I visited my dad who has been living at the Klein Center, and took a walk around a lake, and looked at geese. My dad did a lot of pointing, and emphatic talking. We ate Japanese noodles that we had delivered, and he enjoyed the food, which is a good sign. We were joined for lunch by a hospice nurse and a Social Worker, which simultaneously felt totally fine, and also odd:
I hope it’s not, but if this ends up being the last meal I have with my parents together, does it need to be joined by staff?
This thought might seem macabre, and yet I can’t help but remember the time my dad taught me the meaning of the word macabre when I was in high school, including pronunciation and brief etymology. While I knew it was French, I didn’t realize there is a possible connection to the “Maccabees” as it originated from Danse Macabre or ‘dance of death,’ in Old French.
Yet, the nurse and Social Worker were sweet. I noticed the way the Social Worker, Bradly, let my dad hold her hand for an extended period of time, and the hospice nurse, Anne, was very tender and physically engaging in helping him eat. She later shared her experience with losing her mom to dementia, so there was a connection there.
There was also a backdrop of heaviness to the conversation, though, as in the question: ‘Do you have any other questions?’ arose to the surface of the conversation. Yet, here was my dad, smiling, covered in noodles and wearing an adult sized bib. I made a joke about having a toddler and wanting an adult sized version of the silicone bibs that Jonah wears that collects everything he eats, like a trough.
I shared the story of the last time my dad drove and got stopped by the police. When they asked him how fast he was going, he said: “I don’t know, maybe 140.” By some luck, the police officer didn’t seem to hear the answer and my mom saved the moment, but there was a reason that was the last time he was behind the wheel.
We talked about the wild things that stay in long term memory, like somehow he still sometimes says “slow down, Karen,” out of the blue. I’m sure my parents tracked thousands of hours driving, hence the survival of the phrase.
Of course I have a million questions, but I would rather talk about silicone bibs and tell funny stories, especially with people I just met. It’s still so much easier to avoid facing these conversations head on. Afterward, we read, and laughed, and we smiled some more.
My dad, holding a copy of “The Seven Valleys,” November 2025
Precision
The precise difference between this visit to my dad and visits before:
Facing conversations about labor
Into the next world.
Meeting the midwives over lunch:
A hospice nurse, spoon feeding my dad tenderly.
A Social Worker who laughs at my jokes.
We discuss the differences between
Comfort and artificial
Extensions of life.
On the last day of my visit to Iowa,
I found myself walking on the soft dirt of a cemetery with my mom.
Right off of a dirt road, past farms and grain silos.
At first we missed it; both lost in thought.
I had to turn the car around;
Until we found the grass covered path to a small forest.
We got out of the car.
I suddenly became aware of the softness of the dirt.
I felt my feet sinking in the ground with each step.
Suddenly, awake
To the places we avoid going in our minds:
The precision of impermanence.
My mom pointed to a tall pine.
Marking the exact spot
My parents chose to someday be buried.
Facing east,
They will be side by side.
The way they always held hands.
Beautiful.
Thank you for sharing this Ian!