No Happy Endings

by Nora McInerny

  Dedication

  For Aaron.

  For Matthew.

  For Ian.

  For Sophie.

  For Ralph.

  For Baby.

  For love.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Introduction

  Chapter One: How to Have a Total Breakdown

  Chapter Two: You Need Therapy

  Chapter Three: Don’t Should Yourself

  Chapter Four: I Can’t Even

  Chapter Five: Arranged

  Chapter Six: Baggage

  Chapter Seven: Finders Keepers

  Chapter Eight: In Between

  Chapter Nine: Ready or Not

  Chapter Ten: Smile

  Chapter Eleven: Sophie’s Hot Dad

  Chapter Twelve: The Gift

  Chapter Thirteen: Too Soon

  Chapter Fourteen: Not *That* Kind of Christian

  Chapter Fifteen: Flip the Nuggets

  Chapter Sixteen: Meet the Parents (All of Them)

  Chapter Seventeen: In the Darkness

  Chapter Eighteen: Oops

  Chapter Nineteen: Sad Nora and the Secret Baby

  Chapter Twenty: Memorial Day

  Chapter Twenty-One: Armless

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Should I Marry a Boy with a Brain Tumor?

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Feeling Myself

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Options

  Chapter Twenty-Five: All My Children

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Sad and Lucky

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Dear _____

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Dear Ralphie

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Dear Baby

  Chapter Thirty: Dear Sophie

  Chapter Thirty-One: Dear Ian

  Chapter Thirty-Two: Feminist Agenda

  Chapter Thirty-Three: Big, Gross, Angry Feminist

  Chapter Thirty-Four: Destroy the Patriarchy After You Propose to Me

  Chapter Thirty-Five: What I’ve Learned from Arguing on the Internet

  Chapter Thirty-Six: Don’t Read the Comments

  Chapter Thirty-Seven: 35

  Chapter Thirty-Eight: Greatness and Goodness

  Chapter Thirty-Nine: She Persisted

  Chapter Forty: Yes, And

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Nora McInerny

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Introduction

  The question came from the back of the room and hung in the air long after it had been asked. The tone was hopeful and anticipatory, as if the asker thought she was opening a gift for the entire audience.

  “Are you . . . pregnant?”

  It was asked with a beaming smile, with all of the joyful and elated body language you can imagine. But the words hit me like a grenade. The room was silent while I blinked and breathed in.

  The question went unanswered until one of the other hundred attendees mercifully raised her hand, and lobbed me something more related to my actual talk, which was called, in all truthful irony, “Owning Your Own Story.” I had just spent over an hour talking about the most painful period of my life: how my husband and my father died just weeks after my miscarriage. My husband was thirty-five when brain cancer finally killed him, my father sixty-four when he died of cancer of the Everything. In the aftermath of these monumental losses, I’d written a book, established a nonprofit retail brand, and started a podcast.

  I’d also fallen in love again, and yes, I was pregnant, and these two new parts of life were fact, but they had also filled me with a deep ambivalence and a splash of shame that I had no interest in talking about with a hundred strangers, or even a hundred friends. Or even one friend. I didn’t want to talk about it with anybody. I thought everyone knew that it was one thousand percent inappropriate to ask a woman if she was pregnant. Especially a woman who has publicly shared her pregnancy loss. Especially a woman who has publicly shared her pregnancy loss and is now standing in intentionally loose clothing in front of approximately a hundred strangers just a year and a half after her husband died. All this inquisitor knew was that I looked a little puffy in the face and a little thick in the midsection, and that I’d posted a few times about a man I was dating.

  I hadn’t hidden my relationship with Matthew, but I was more private about it than most people who fall deeply in love. He’d met my family, and my few close friends. Most people in this blissful state can’t help but scream it from the rooftops and all forms of social media. I didn’t post photos of Matthew very often, and when I did, I didn’t use his name. Anyone who followed me on social media would be under the impression I was dating someone. That I was happy. They most certainly would not know that we were full-on in love, were blending our families, and that I was now gestating a fresh human.

  I did this partially because Matthew is the kind of person for whom the internet is simply a utility: a font of information and nothing more. He has the supernatural ability to look at his phone only when he needs to, and the idea of posting something about his life on the internet in a way that strangers can view is a concept he cannot grasp. So yes, I was partially trying to respect his privacy, but I was mostly trying to protect myself. From the judgment of others, which was primarily just a projection of my own self-judgment. There was a version of me that thought loving another person would somehow diminish the love I still felt for Aaron. A version of me that thought that if I was happy, I must not be sad anymore, and if I wasn’t sad anymore, then I guess I didn’t love Aaron as much as I said I did. Or maybe that my new happiness was ill-gotten, a well-made fake, something I swiped off the back of a truck when nobody was looking.

  This is what life looks like when you water the seeds of joy with guilt and shame. It feels as good as it sounds.

  When bad things happen to you—a death, an illness, a divorce, a job loss—you quickly go from being a person to being just a sad story. I know from experience that nobody wants to be a sad story, and that no matter what you’ve been through, your story is always so much more than just sad. And your happy stories are more than just happy. Obviously, everything is more complicated than it appears on Instagram. But it is incredibly difficult to live with complicated. It is even more difficult for other people to deal with complicated.

  “Are you pregnant?”

  This stranger didn’t know that she had pushed me into a rabbit hole of shame with her question. She was giving me a chance to tell everyone about my happy ending, about how the struggle and the loss was all worth it. But that’s oversimplifying the narrative. I couldn’t talk about my happiness without touching the uncomfortable truth that everything I have now is built on everything I lost. That I wouldn’t have this book, my last book, a podcast, this baby, my man, and this big, blended family if I hadn’t first lost Aaron, and my dad, and that second baby. That the trade would never seem fair, no matter how much I love Matthew or this baby or this family of ours. I could never say I’d rather have one version of my family over the other.

  In certain widow circles, they call falling in love again your Chapter 2. It’s not a whole new life, or a whole new story; it’s the continuation of something else. But death is not the only time that we start over. Life is flexible and has long legs and a million different ways to kick you right in the chops. We lose the ones we love, but we also lose friends, jobs, and our sense of self. And then, we get to assemble something new from whatever is left behind.

  My new life was me, and Ralph, and whatever we chose to make from the rubble of the life we had with Aaron. I could have sifted through the wreckage and tried to make a reasonable recreation of what we had, but it would have been obviously broken, obviously wrong. I didn’t want a knockoff of my old l
ife with just one less family member. I didn’t want to pretend to be a normal person with normal worries.

  I wasn’t a normal person. I was a person who had seen beyond the veil, who had watched a young and vibrant person fade into what comes next. I didn’t know what I was supposed to make of this new life, but I knew what I wasn’t supposed to do, and knowing what not to do is a fine place to start.

  If you read the fine print, you will find that life is subject to change without notice. I did not fill up my tragedy punch card with a dead husband, a dead parent, and a lost pregnancy. Tragedy is like a BOGO that never ends, for things you never wanted. It’s a terrible deal, but it’s not up for negotiating. The acknowledgment that when bad things happen they can just keep happening holds a lot of power. It can shut you down or open you up. Nobody would blame you for shutting yourself around your hurt, your loss. Nobody would blame you for making you or your life smaller, for rolling up like a threatened armadillo, which is my default reflex. A reflex, though, is not a choice. But the flip side of tragedy can be happiness. And that comes in waves, too. Thank God.

  “Wait,” you may be thinking, an eye roll at the ready, “is this entire book going to be about this lady complaining about how sad she is that she got to fall in love twice?” Well. No. That’s not what the entire book is about! I’m in love again. With two men, now. I’m basically a polygamist, but nobody can put me in jail for it because one of them is dead. I’m a mom to two, a stepmom to two more, and a dog mom to one.*

  I’m happy but I don’t have my perfect Hollywood happy ending. Because it isn’t always happy, and it isn’t the end. This is life after life after life, in all of the chaos and contradiction of feelings and doings and beings involved. There will be unimaginable joy and incomprehensible tragedy. There will be endings. But there will be no happy endings.

  Chapter One

  How to Have a Total Breakdown

  So, you think you’re ready to have a breakdown, do ya? Well, take it from a woman who has spent more than one afternoon sobbing in her minivan in the Costco parking lot: you’re probably closer than you think you are. And if not, getting there won’t be as hard as you think. All you need to get started are a few simple elements you can find laying around in your own heart. Ready, set, breakdown!

  1. AN INCITING INCIDENT

  And an exciting one, too! What’s the worst that could happen? Maybe a spouse or a parent could die. Maybe you lose your job or end a relationship. There are many ways for your life to fall apart, and if you’re lucky, one will come flying at you with no effort on your part. Now, if these situations aren’t available to you, create one! Become so irritable and controlling that the people you love have no choice but to distance themselves from you, perhaps citing your “toxic nature.” If you have a job, stop doing it! Or show up and do a really bad job. However you choose to jump-start the situation yourself, know that the real fun begins only after the disaster.

  2. BE “FINE”

  How are you? Well, you’re fine, of course! You’ve never been better. I mean, sure, those medical bills are adding up to more than your house is worth, and yeah, you’re not on “speaking terms” with your siblings, and no, you don’t exactly have a job, but overall? When you think of it? Ya can’t complain. Turn the conversation back onto the asker as soon as humanly possible. You’ll immediately find out that they’re just as fine as you are. Wild, right?

  3. DI(ALL)Y

  Help? Who needs help? Not you. You can handle it. Totally. Whatever it is. Three hours in line at the Social Security office, only to find out that your form wasn’t notarized on the third day of the month with Saturn in your fifth house? Not a problem. Two kids with the stomach flu and a job that doesn’t give you paid sick time? You got this. A burning pit of despair growing stronger every day like the Eye of Sauron? All over it. Those cracks you’re starting to feel in that Totally Fine Construct you worked so hard on? That’s the breakdown coming. The cortisol is pumping, your blood pressure is banging, and your body, which doesn’t know the difference between emotional stress and being chased by a sabre-toothed tiger, is freaking the fudge out. Delicious, isn’t it? Don’t worry, there’s more where that came from!

  4. DOUBLE YOUR STANDARDS

  Where the heck have all your friends and family gone? It’s almost like when you told them you were fine and didn’t need any help, they believed you? Are they nuts? Have they totally lost it? Aren’t they listening to you? How could they not see your suffering, just because you carefully concealed it under Instagram filters and quality lipsticks? It’s very important that you don’t verbalize any of this to them, of course. This pain is a secret you must bury deep inside, and water with resentment and anxiety. Let it grow into a grudge, then blossom into a freak-out. You’re almost there.

  5. CRACK!

  It’s an onomatopoeia (that took me five attempts to spell correctly before giving up and just letting autocorrect do the job it was born to do), and the whole purpose behind this exercise. The timeline will look different for everyone, but that being said, it should take you no more than a year to get to this point. A year is a good milestone. After a year, most people stop caring about whatever it is that happened in your life. Not because they’re awful people (though some of them are) but because their lives are also pretty lifey, and you and your tragedy has slid off the bottom of their To Care About list.

  If this step does take you more than a year, you’ll want to really take a good look at how you performed steps 1 to 3, because you didn’t do them right. If you’ve interfered with this process with meditation, prayer, therapy, or mood stabilizers, well then, you have nobody to blame but yourself for your tragically healthy mental state. Otherwise, you can expect that constant burning rage you’ve been stoking inside of you to come bursting out of you very soon, likely when you least expect it. Maybe your brother will say something that the rest of your family hears as a joke, but you hear correctly as a vicious dig on you and everything you stand for. Perhaps someone who appears to be just driving to work, probably zoned out and listening to public radio, is actually trying to run you off the road and kill you in a fiery wreck and you’ll be forced to drive up beside them and scream at the top of your lungs while shooting them double-barrel middle fingers. Perhaps you’ll be sitting in your driveway, trying to steal a few blessed moments alone in your car before you walk into your house and whatever comes next, and an old Cher song will come on the radio. It’s a dance tune, but when she asks if you believe in life after love? And suggests that inside her, something is saying she isn’t strong enough? You relate. Strongly.

  Most likely, the woman behind you at Target will be chewing her gum too loud while her husband loudly espouses his questionable political beliefs.

  In any of these instances, you will leave your body, hovering above yourself while you breathe enough fire to burn any remaining bridges to sanity you may have. When you come back to your body, back to the full consciousness of what you’ve done, and what you’ve been through, you’ll feel it. It’s cold and icy and dark and heavy. It’s the unmistakable knowledge that everything is as broken as you thought it was.

  Especially you.

  Chapter Two

  You Need Therapy

  My answers to the patient questionnaire went like this:

  Always

  Always

  Constantly

  Daily

  10 out of 10

  10 out of 10

  Yes

  Absolutely

  Mmhmm

  Daily

  THERE MAY HAVE BEEN MORE questions, but the doctor could have just as easily filled out the sheet as if she were a kid who hadn’t studied for the SATs and had decided to just fill out the D bubble for every answer. She took a few moments to tally up the score and gave me the results. I got an A! And a D! Anxiety and Depression. Good job, me!

  I HADN’T SEEN A DOCTOR since my miscarriage. There may have been a check-up right after, but I don’t remember it, not unex
pected given the grief fog I was in. A check-up seemed like something that a well-adjusted, functional adult should do, even if it was a few months late, so I picked a doctor who had an office near me and booked an appointment.

  We’d done our introductions and shaken hands when she asked if we’d met before. If you grew up in Minneapolis, there is a strong chance that we have met before, and this doctor and I were around the same age. Maybe our moms or our dads had gone to high school together? Maybe we played rec league basketball against each other in fifth grade and I fouled her a lot? We did the usual name game, and decided nope, we’d never met. It was probably just one of those things. There are a lot of tall blond women in Minneapolis, and I’m often mistaken for any number of them.

  I loved this doctor right away. She gently touched my back as she listened to my heart and my breathing. She peeked into my ears. She made eye contact with me. Widowhood is lonely, and I was vibrating with the excitement of being touched by an adult human being. The doctor asked me about my child, and his father, and when I said, “he died of brain cancer six months ago,” she stopped. That was how she knew me. She’d read Aaron’s obituary. “How are you?” she asked me. Not in a small talk way, but in a doctor way.

  I gave her the same answer I’d been giving everyone.

  “Fine,” I said, shrugging and playing with the ties of my paper gown, “you know, pretty good . . .”

  She didn’t know.

  “Fine?” she said, skeptically. “Really? What are you doing to take care of yourself?”

  I blinked. Take care of myself? I mean, lots! I was . . . well, I had bought myself a lot of things with money I didn’t have. I let myself stay up super late watching whatever I wanted to watch. I let myself eat whatever I wanted. I meditated . . . sometimes. I was getting a tattoo removed. Those things counted, right?

  She reached into her desk drawer and removed what looked like a worksheet.

  “Okay, I’m just going to ask you a few questions . . .”

  MY FRIEND TYLER HAS ALWAYS given me the advice I don’t want to hear. Tyler and I met at a show in Brooklyn in 2006, where I was seeing a band he managed. We spent the entire night talking, giving each other crap, and deciding that we were going to be friends forever. It was basically a romantic comedy meet cute, but without the romance. A romance would have been impossible, because we are the same person, in different bodies, and nobody, even the biggest narcissist you know, wants to date themselves. Ten years later, it looks like we were right. Our friendship has lasted longer than a lot of marriages, even though our relationship has been entirely long distance. Tyler has always lived in Los Angeles, and I now live in Minneapolis. We have spent maybe three full days together over the course of a decade, but we’ve exchanged countless emails, chats, and text messages about everything from dating to daddy issues. Tyler can be brash and abrasive, but is also deeply introspective, empathic, and self-aware. At his worst, I have wanted to punch him in the face or push him off a cliff. At his best, he has been one of my greatest comforts. Admittedly, Tyler and I have the same worst qualities (judgmental, quick to anger, impulsive), and the same redeeming ones (deeply loyal and empathetic, very sentimental), but not always in equal measure, or at the same time. We can be mirrors for one another in ways that we can’t be for ourselves. Which means that when Tyler tells me something I don’t want to hear, I know I should listen. Tyler was right about every boyfriend he said was a waste of my time and my heart. I was right about every one of his vapid, awful girlfriends and each of the equally awful women he pined for. I was right when he met his now-wife, who was the opposite of every person he ever dated. Tyler was right when he told me I was falling in love with Aaron, but was too shy to say it myself.