No Happy Endings

by Nora McInerny

  Midlife crises get a bad rap. Probably because they’re associated with mediocre men purchasing muscle cars and clinging desperately to their fading youth. This midlife crisis of mine didn’t manifest itself as a sports car and a younger husband. I actually got a minivan and an older husband! I will admit that there are some traditional elements to my midlife crisis: I got some more tattoos, I bought a very expensive road bike with a current Cost Per Use of $100. I considered signing up for a triathlon, and I got laser hair removal even though I was nowhere close to being seen naked by anyone who wasn’t a medical professional during that point of my life.

  The real hallmark of this midlife crisis hardly makes it seem like a crisis at all. I’m obsessed with making the most of mine. I’m focused on doing as much as I can, with trying as much as I can, with kicking over as many rocks as I can in case there is a scrap of life that I haven’t yet lived. This is how I honor Aaron and my father: by making sure their deaths aren’t a black hole that sucked me in, but the spark I needed to be able to burn brighter.

  I did not know how to do that at first because I’d spent nearly ten years of my life in various cubicles, and the twenty-some years before that doing all of the things I was supposed to be doing: getting As, collecting Gold Stars, getting promoted at work, moving forward in all of the ways I’d been expected to, and in ways I hadn’t been: scheduling chemo, administering nausea meds, carrying a grown man to and from our bedroom.

  But now what? When The Game of Life (a truly awful and depressing board game, by the way) decides that your husband dies of brain cancer and leaves you alone to raise your toddler, where do you go from there? Do you pass Go and attempt to collect social security? Am I mixing up my board game metaphors?

  IT’S NOT ABOUT LIVING as though everything is fine. Nothing is ever just fine, unless you are a criminally boring person or a complete liar. It’s about facing whatever darkness looms over you: your suffering, your sorrow, your sickness, and still putting one foot in front of the other. It’s not scaling mountains and high-fiving eagles, it’s switching careers when you’re ten years into one that sucks out your soul during standard business hours, Monday to Friday. It’s going on a first date for the first time in forty-three years, when you haven’t bought new underwear since the mid-nineties. It’s knowing that the little light of yours shines even brighter when you’re in total darkness.

  I don’t expect to be great at everything. And I don’t need to be. I can take a few piano lessons and quit if it’s not for me. I can start a podcast or a nonprofit with no experience and see if anyone cares to listen. I can learn to meditate regularly, and then quit. Then try to start again. I can try to get to know Jesus again, and apologize for all the bad things I said about his dad when Aaron died. I can march in the streets for our immigrant neighbors and hold the hand of the old man next to me when the plane’s turbulence makes us both so scared that we wipe tears from our eyes when we land safely in Minneapolis. I can fall in love with a new man without falling out of love with Aaron. I can fail if I have to. Or go back to a cube if things get desperate. Because the worst thing that can happen isn’t that I die. I’m going to die. Unlike death, the truly sad and devastating thing is avoidable and fixable. It’s spending our time here trying to avoid the depths of misery, and in the process, missing out on the climb to happiness. It’s spending our time in the middle, being alive without living. The cure comes from being pulled against our will from the comfort of a monotonous life. It doesn’t matter if you’re thirty or sixty, or how much of your life is actually left on the clock. It’s never too early or late for a good midlife crisis.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Greatness and Goodness

  What the FUCK are you even talking about?”

  I had just landed in California when Matthew called. It was the middle of the workday for him, so I expected he was calling between meetings to say hello, to tell me that one of our kids was sick and needed to be picked up early, or to tell me he found my phone charger—the one I couldn’t find this morning—in a very obvious place, the moment I’d left.

  Instead, he was calling to tell me that his brother Michael was dead.

  And for all the time I spend discussing difficult topics, the best thing I could come up with for this moment was “What the FUCK are you even talking about?” Blame it on the shock. The sort-of shock. It’s always going to be shocking when someone dies, especially when they were planning to come over for dinner soon. It’s going to be shocking even if it’s not totally a shock. Nobody—not even Michael—expected him to live a long life. But we didn’t expect this. We didn’t expect his parents to find him dead on his couch the day they returned from a long, leisurely cruise. Michael was only forty-two years old. He had no business being dead.

  Michael was Matthew’s older brother. Even in photos from their childhood, you can tell that life was not easy for Michael, that it was a puzzle he doesn’t have all the pieces for. He is always standing, wraithlike, on the periphery. Hardly, if ever, smiling. Doing his best to appear comfortable.

  I have known people like Michael. We all have. And if you haven’t known them you have at least seen them. And probably judged them. Michael had long hair that we all wished he would cut and plugs in his earlobes that were hard to look at. His shoulders slumped. His speech was slow. His feet shuffled. His nails were long and stained with nicotine. His interests were esoteric. He was in this world, but not a part of it. He was a bystander, an observer.

  Mentally, he was doing his best as an alien visitor to this strange planet of ours, trying his best to learn our customs and adhere to our many confusing norms. The day we met, we searched for common conversational ground. He asked if I liked horror movies. I said no. Did I like Japanese horror movies he wondered? Also, no. He asked if I liked music, and I said yes! Did I like punk music? Only if you count Paramore and Blink-182, I answered. He did not.

  Physically, Michael was forty-two going on seventy. He had struggled for years with severe mental illness that made being alive difficult in every sense. He’d attempted suicide multiple times, he’d been admitted to several psych wards and been prescribed so much lithium he had gone into renal failure. The medications he took to keep his illnesses at bay made him sleepy, made him gain weight, and came with a list of warnings that made it clear his life would not be a long one. It was hard for him to connect with people, hard for him to build relationships, hard for him to work and maintain an independent life, but he managed. He had a part-time job. He had his own apartment. He was proud to say that he had never had to go back to a psych ward after moving to Minnesota. He wanted to be well enough to own a dog again.

  He did all of this—the stuff most of us take for granted—with love and support from his mother, who kept him on top of doctor’s appointments. Who checked in with him every day. Who knew before she even opened the door to his apartment that day, that her oldest son was dead.

  Like every huge life plot twist, everything after the phone call about Michael’s death was a blur. By the time I got on a plane to come home, the Grief Machine was already plugging along the way it does: with a to-do list. There was an apartment to clean out. An obituary to write. Family to call. Accounts to settle. And a memorial of some kind to plan.

  I have spent a lot of time imagining my own funeral. I’ve done it since I was a kid. Probably because when you’re raised Catholic, going to funerals is a part of your social life. Maybe some little girls spent their days planning their wedding day, their Big Special Party. Not this little girl. I was busy thinking about the LAST party I’d ever throw. The music, the general run of the show, the life-size cutouts of me at various life stages that attendees could pose with for photo ops.

  Michael was not such a planner. He never wanted a funeral. He wanted an Irish wake at his favorite place in Madison, Wisconsin. So his extended family tried to give him that. We drove five hours to sit in a basement banquet room for a late lunch and beers. We poured beers and ordered nachos
and let our kids run wild.

  I ran my fingers over the childhood photos his mother had spread across an adjacent table and felt my heart swell with sadness for Childhood Michael and Teenager Michael, two beautiful boys who seemed to know that they would reach adulthood broken, if at all. I cried for that little boy who doesn’t know the darkness that is coming for him in adulthood, for that teenager whose dreams will go unrealized. Not because he is a bad person, but because he lost the genetic lottery, the one that says in an Oprah voice:

  “You get a normal life and die in your sleep at eighty-eight!”

  “You get brain cancer and die at thirty-five!”

  “And you die at forty-two from complications from the many medications that helped manage your debilitating mental illnesses!”

  I’ve been to many funerals, and memorials, and plenty that were very non-traditional. But I know that you’re supposed to say something. Someone is supposed to say something. Not something perfect, but something to summarize a dead person. Something that highlights his best qualities, something that proves that he was here, that he mattered, that he will be missed. Near the end of the afternoon, Michael and Matthew’s mother, through her tears, thanked everyone for coming. We raised our glasses. And there was—at least to me—a long moment of quiet, the moment where someone was supposed to say that something that would unleash all the sad, that would let us all cry and wipe our noses on our sleeves and let us all know that he was real, even if he was imperfect.

  But who? Who was going to do this? Michael’s brothers shrank into themselves. His cousins did not stir.

  His uncle stood up, and I relaxed.

  Someone was saying something.

  It was a short joke—not an inappropriate one, not a mean one, just . . . a joke. And a toast.

  We clinked glasses and made eye contact. “To Michael.”

  And that quiet returned, waiting for someone to fill it.

  Someone should say something, I thought, and nudged Matthew, who looked like he would break into a thousand pieces if he opened his mouth.

  And then it passed. The moment of quiet was over. Our nachos arrived.

  We ate.

  We talked about the weather and the NCAA tournament.

  We said good-bye the Midwestern way—forty minutes of small talk standing in the doorway—and walked to our cars.

  It was over. And nothing had been said.

  Back at the hotel, we retreated to our rooms, emotionally congested and ready for bed at six p.m., everything that hadn’t been said spinning around in our heads.

  That night I held Michael’s little brother, the man I’m now married to, and we cried and cried. Quietly, because we were sharing a room with our children, and there were two additional humans in our bed. We cried because nobody said anything. Because we didn’t say anything. Because what do you say when a complicated person dies a complicated death after a complicated life?

  It was hard to fall asleep that night, and when we woke up, the sky in Madison was gray and heavy. We gathered our things, packed the kids up in the minivan, and headed back to Minneapolis.

  It was a quiet ride. I thought about Michael.

  I thought about the children I’m raising with Matthew. About how there is so much life ahead of them, and we have not a clue and no control over what awaits them.

  I thought about how we speak to our kids, and how I try to make sure that they all know two important things about themselves, and about other people: that there is greatness and goodness in all of us.

  It is a simple idea I got from a conversation with my friend Damon, who is an amazing dad. I hold our children’s faces in my hands and tell them they have greatness inside of them, and goodness, too. I remind them that greatness and goodness are two things they are meant to uncover in themselves and find in other people. I don’t know what to tell them about why life is so much harder for some people than it is for others because I just don’t know. I hope they grow up to be gentle with themselves and with others.

  When I cry for Michael, it is because he had greatness inside of him, and goodness, too. Michael was unapologetically himself, and I loved that. I loved Michael, just as immediately as I loved his little brother. I love love love people who are themselves, who love what they love with no apologies. Michael didn’t mind that I didn’t share his love of horror movies or punk music. We connected over what we did have in common: liberal politics and the family I was being invited into. Though his anxiety prevented him from doing much outside of his apartment, he was the first to arrive at the hospital when my second son was born. He was the first to congratulate me on our engagement. “It will be so nice to call you my sister,” he told me, “I love you.”

  I should have said how brave Michael was, to live in a body whose chemistry was so difficult, in a world that doesn’t understand people like him. In a world where people use words like “schizo” or “bipolar” as a casual adjective, a way to describe something that doesn’t work quite right, or someone who doesn’t quite act normally, like they aren’t actual diagnoses that real people struggle with.

  Michael did his best. And he did it with a kind heart.

  He had greatness inside of him, and goodness, too.

  Somebody should have said it sooner. So I’m saying it now.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  She Persisted

  She was warned.

  She was given an explanation.

  Nevertheless, she persisted.

  —MITCH MCCONNELL

  I think it’s safe to say that even the most diehard Republicans wouldn’t get a Mitch McConnell tattoo scrawled into their forearm. But that’s what makes me a true McConnell fan: I’m willing to go there.

  I am not actually a McConnell fan, but don’t let that stop you from reading this chapter! I’m not one of those mean people who points out that he looks like a turtle. I don’t think that’s a helpful way to talk about our country’s leaders. He looks like a sea turtle, which is an important specification to make. Sea turtles are much cuter than freshwater turtles.

  Mitch is also the author of the words above. Which were said not about a petulant granddaughter, but about his colleague Elizabeth Warren. The Mitch tattoo on my right forearm is an abbreviated version of this slight, just the last two words in a script hand-lettered by my friend Chelsea Brink and etched into my skin by my friend Emily Snow: she persisted.

  Art by Chelsea Brink and reprinted with permission.

  Mitch was not trying to compliment Elizabeth, by the way. He wasn’t applauding her tenacity or her drive. The meaning of the words he chose was clear to any woman who has ever encountered any friction in a male-dominated world, and he didn’t have to say it explicitly to get his meaning across: “Lady, just shut up already.”

  A year before, I didn’t know who Mitch McConnell was. He’d been the Senate Majority leader since 2015, and a senator since 1985, and I don’t think I’d heard his name until a little election happened in 2016, and suddenly, I really and truly cared about politics.

  I have to also admit that I have been able to spend most of my life blissfully unaware of the political issues that surround us, which I learned a few years ago is referred to as privilege. I didn’t really have to care too much about how terrible the world was because as a middle-class white girl from the Midwest, it was never that terrible for me personally. And the things that were, I was willing to ignore or explain away.

  Once Aaron died, my view changed. I had rage. I had enough rage to address the fact that our country was in real trouble. I did this in very productive ways, like getting into Twitter fights with idiotic strangers. I donated money, I showed up to march for women’s rights and against the Muslim ban. I got to know my state representative and paid attention to what my Congress people were doing in Washington. I called out bad behavior when I saw it online and in person, even when it made people uncomfortable. This is . . . not a lot of work, honestly, so I don’t expect to be patted on the back for any of it. Thi
s is pretty basic civic participation.

  Truly, most of us aren’t world changers. Most of us aren’t going to end up on the cover of a magazine or hold elected office. That can make it feel like our words and actions don’t count for much, or that there isn’t much that we can do. There’s something to be said for persistence. For small acts that can add up to something bigger.

  Mitch’s words struck a chord. Not just with me, but with tons of women around the country. I’ve got a little secret for you: a lot of people don’t love persistent women. A lot of people don’t love women with contrary opinions or strong convictions. A lot of people would prefer if we just kept those thoughts to ourselves, if we accepted the reasons given and heeded their warnings. Because we’ve all had a Mitch or seven in our lives. We’ve all worked with, or been with, or are related to a guy like this. We’ve all been hushed or told we’re being hormonal. Many of us have believed it. We spent years trying to make ourselves smaller, trying to make ourselves more likable. We thought if we just did what we were told, then maybe we’d be accepted, maybe we’d be successful. Maybe a hot guy would like us!

  My friends and I created a Facebook event to get our tattoos. Because I am sometimes embarrassingly stupid, I made the event public, and thousands of people clicked the “interested” box. I know that’s the laziest form of RSVP, the equivalent of the “like” button, but really, hundreds of women showed up for this tattoo. Chelsea put the design on her website, and women around the country and the world brought it into their neighborhood tattoo shop and joined the persisterhood. I have spotted them out in the wild several times, and it’s always a thrill. We wear them on our forearms, our wrists, our ankles, our ribs. Some are visible only to us, and some we show off to the world. These are dismissive words turned into wise words, reminding us to keep speaking up, showing up, and pissing off ancient sea turtles. To keep persisting.