My mother’s birthday was this past Wednesday. I had built up a fair amount of agitation about it ahead of time, anticipating that it would be a challenging day for me. (It was, but not in the way I expected! More on that later.) I talked a lot with my therapist about letting myself have my feelings about it, letting those feelings run their course, and considering ways to reclaim the day for myself. I like this idea of reclaiming, but in the end that’s not really how I handled it, because a different approach took over.

That morning, I went down to the basement to get something, still preoccupied with these thoughts about my mother’s birthday and how I wanted to handle it. I noticed a plastic bag with a bundle of fabric items that I’d long forgotten about. Upon closer inspection, I realized that in the bag were four tee shirts and two baseball caps from my childhood. One of the hats in this bag was unmistakably 90s, made out of that windbreaker material. The other was an old Red Sox cap. (I grew up about 30 miles south of Boston.) Two of the shirts were from the YMCA day camp I attended for a couple of years in the mid-90s. One shirt was my sixth grade class shirt that had the signatures of all the teachers and students in the grade. And the last shirt was from third grade; my mother had used fabric paint to write the names of my teacher and classmates in different colors, and put my name on the pocket. Oddly, there were also a few autumnal patterned dish towels in this bag; it was this clue that helped me remember my mother had made this random bundle and brought it to me, many years ago, before we’d stopped talking, probably when she came across this stuff and wanted to make sure I got it — even the dish towels.

Seeing these items made a bell go off in my head. You see, when my parents split up, and my father went to California while mother relocated to upstate New York, I lost most of my possessions for multiple reasons. Anything I still have from when I was a child is precious to me. But this rediscovery was more than that. This was a reminder that there is a small part of me inside that still holds onto warm memories of my mother, and that small part of me needed attention today. I made myself listen to that part of me which I usually shun, and did a few things that day which validated and comforted her (me? It? Whatever).

I happened to have a bag of “spooky nuggets” (chicken nuggets in Halloween shapes) leftover from last October in the freezer, and both Little Me and my daughter (roughly the same age) really enjoyed them for dinner, along with a side of my favorite thing my grandparents used to cook, noodles with sour cream and cottage cheese (it’s an Eastern European Jewish dish called Luchshen, don’t knock it till you try it) and some sliced cucumbers. I also introduced my daughter to one of Little Me’s favorite shows growing up, Full House, and we watched several episodes of that before bedtime. These two little things went a long way in feeling okay about the day, but probably the most important thing I did was not try to push away feelings or thoughts or memories of being loved by my mother. Instead I tried to fill my consciousness with just that general feeling, and give that feeling to myself.

I often say that it would be so much easier if my mother was unspeakably, unquestionably evil; it would be great if the matter were black and white. But it isn’t. It’s very, very grey. The truth of the matter is, as bad as things often got — and obviously they got bad enough that at 28 years old I decided to go no-contact with my mother — it wasn’t all bad. There are some positive memories. There were some good things, some good times. There was love. I didn’t understand fully until decades later that my mother’s love was complicated, tainted by her narcissism which marred her judgment and led to significant harm for us all. I know that now as an adult. But the Little Me inside didn’t (doesn’t?) know that. Little Me needed to be allowed to love and miss her mother. Maybe Adult Me does too, but I can keep things mostly in perspective. This past Wednesday wasn’t about that though. This past Wednesday was about letting my grief have a voice, and that voice was Little Me this time.

Now it’s Saturday, and Adult Me can’t help wondering how my mother spent her birthday. She is 72 now, and as far as I’m aware (which isn’t very), she’s not in the best of health. I joke to my therapist that it will be easier emotionally when she’s dead — but she and I agree that it won’t be easier, it will just be differently bad. Differently bad.

Sort of like what’s happening with my ears right now. Remember how I said that my mother’s birthday was challenging, but not in the way I expected? Well, a couple weeks ago I came down with an ear infection and was prescribed amoxicillin to take care of it. No big deal; I took the medicine as prescribed for a week, and was feeling a little better, but the pain and fullness and discomfort in my left ear did not go away and indeed seemed worse. So I went to the ENT, where they checked me out including testing my hearing. About a year and a half ago, they found that I have bilateral mild hearing loss — I like to think it’s from my father taking me to rock band rehearsals when I was young, they didn’t give kids protective headphones back then! Well, now, they found that my left ear is showing moderate hearing loss, and since there’s no fluid or obstruction, it’s due to damage and inflammation on the hearing nerve. So either a round of steroids will address the problem, or, it could be a tumor on the nerve. So I need bloodwork and an MRI and the steroids and they’ll retest my hearing to see if it’s improved. Here I was, thinking maybe I just needed different antibiotics, or maybe some drops or even help draining the ear. But no. The ear infection was bad; this problem is, well, differently bad.

I’m trying to maintain perspective and not panic. It could be worse; as a teacher and an artist, my work is still doable with hearing loss. I’m thankful it isn’t my vision (although I had that scare this year too with a bout of glaucoma, which has since been treated). Between that, and trying to figure out successful treatment for my diagnosis of non-radiographic axial spondyloarthritis (a somewhat rare form of arthritis), it’s been a hell of a challenging year healthwise. I’m thankful to the people in my life who are supportive and help me to both keep this balanced perspective and, also very important, let myself have all the feelings about these things.

There’s a tendency to think about how the grass can be greener on the other side. We often conditionalize our experiences, thinking they’ll be easier to handle if we say it’ll be easier this way or that way. I am trying instead to accept that things are not easier this way or that way. They’re just differently bad. The only way out is through; the only solution is to really listen to ourselves inside, and follow through as best we can to give ourselves what we need. Even if that means eating ghost and pumpkin shaped chicken nuggets and revisiting a 90s sitcom.