Friday, November 14, 2025
There are moments in life when everything seems to converge at once, when the weight of what’s happening and what might happen sits heavy on your chest, making it hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to do anything but wait. Today is one of those days.
My mother is at the doctor’s office right now. As I write this, a surgeon is making a decision that will fundamentally change her life. He’s deciding whether to attempt another risky procedure on her foot or to move forward with an amputation. And I’m here, at home, not there with her. That fact alone is eating me alive.
The Long Road Here
It’s been over a year since this nightmare began. My mother’s circulation issues started gradually, the way these things often do, until suddenly they weren’t gradual anymore. They were urgent. They were life-altering. She’s had a few surgeries now, each one offering a glimmer of hope, a small success, a temporary reprieve. But we’ve always known the truth. It wasn’t a question of “maybe.” It was always a question of “when.”
About a year ago, we got the call. The one we’d been dreading. The amputation might need to happen immediately. I remember that day with a clarity that still catches me off guard. None of us were ready. How could we be? My mother, in her fear and pain, said something that still haunts me: “If they cut my leg off, just kill me.” She didn’t mean it, not really, but in that moment, she couldn’t see past the terror of what was coming. None of us could.
We all cried that day. Some of us cried openly, others in the quiet spaces when no one was looking. I cried myself to sleep that night, my mind racing between two unbearable thoughts: the amputation itself, and the very real possibility that we might lose her altogether. When you love someone, when they’re the center of your family, those kinds of thoughts don’t just scare you. They paralyze you.
But she made it through. Somehow, she always does. She’s stronger than any of us give her credit for, including herself.
The House
That scare a year ago changed everything, not just emotionally but practically. We had to face reality. The old house, the one we’d lived in for so long, wasn’t going to work anymore. Three floors. Stairs everywhere. Rooms spread out in a way that made sense when everyone was healthy and mobile, but became a prison when mobility became a daily struggle. The house was too big, too complicated, too full of obstacles that would become insurmountable after an amputation.
So we did what we had to do. We bought a new house. Everything my mother needs is on one floor now. No stairs to navigate, no impossible journeys just to reach her bedroom. The family embraced it immediately. We all recognized it for what it was: a godsend. A practical necessity that somehow also felt like hope made concrete.
I remember the first time Mom made it to her room in the new house with assistance. It was such a simple thing, really. Just walking into a bedroom. But it felt monumental. It felt like we’d given her something back, some piece of independence and dignity that the old house had been slowly taking away.
We restructured everything. Finances got reorganized. Plans got rewritten. We adapted because that’s what families do when there’s no other choice.
The “When” Has Arrived
Now here we are, a little over a year later, a few more surgeries behind us, and we’ve arrived at the “when” part of the journey. The part we knew was coming but hoped might somehow never arrive. Today, right now, the decision is being made.
My mother is scared. Of course she is. But something has shifted in this past year. The despair I heard in her voice back then, that desperate wish to just end it all rather than face an amputation—that’s not there anymore. At least, she’s not showing it. Maybe she’s made peace with it. Maybe she’s just tired of fighting against the inevitable. Maybe she’s discovered some reservoir of strength she didn’t know she had. I don’t know. I can’t read her mind, and she’s not always forthcoming about what she’s really feeling.
What I do know is that she’s facing this with more resolve than any of us expected. And that gives me hope, even as I sit here drowning in guilt and worry.
The Guilt of Being Elsewhere
I’m not there. That’s the thought that keeps circling through my mind like a vulture. I’m not there with my mother while a doctor decides whether to take her foot, her leg, some part of her body that she’s had her entire life. I’m not there to hold her hand, to tell her it’s going to be okay even if I don’t know that it will be, to just be present in the way that families are supposed to be present during these moments.
I have an MRI appointment today. For my knee. Which is nothing major, nothing life-threatening, nothing that comes even close to what my mother is going through. And I have to work tomorrow. These are my reasons, my excuses, my justifications for not being there.
They feel hollow.
I’m planning to visit on Sunday. Two days from now. Forty-eight hours that feel like an eternity. Part of me knows I should cancel everything and go now. Part of me is already thinking about calling in tomorrow, about dropping everything and just being there. Because what is work compared to this? What is an MRI for a knee problem compared to my mother potentially losing her leg?
The logical part of my brain tries to argue. The MRI is scheduled. Work needs me. I’ll see her on Sunday. It’s only two days. But logic doesn’t do much against the crushing weight of guilt.
I just might call in tomorrow. I probably should. This decision is sitting on my chest alongside everything else.
The Murder Mystery Company
And then there’s work itself, which has become its own source of frustration and stress at exactly the wrong time. I’ve been working with a murder mystery company for thirty years. Three decades of experience, of learning what works and what doesn’t, of understanding the audience and the market and how to make these events successful. You’d think that would count for something.
It doesn’t. Or at least, it doesn’t seem to anymore.
The company has new owners now, and one of them in particular has made my life considerably more difficult. Every suggestion I make gets shot down. Every idea I propose based on those thirty years of experience gets dismissed as wrong. It’s a particular kind of frustrating, the kind where you’re treated like you don’t know what you’re doing by someone who doesn’t have a fraction of your experience in this specific field.
The pattern is always the same. I suggest something to improve operations or marketing. She says no, tells me I’m wrong, explains why her way is better. Then, weeks later, she suddenly thinks it’s a good idea. As if it just occurred to her. As if I hadn’t been saying the exact same thing weeks ago.
I’ve marketed for this company for so long that I have an instinct for what resonates with audiences and what falls flat. But that experience is constantly being invalidated, dismissed, ignored. Until it isn’t. Until it’s suddenly brilliant, but only when she thinks of it.
Hate is probably too strong a word for how I feel about working there now. But it’s not far off.
I’ve made a decision. After December, I’m done. I’m walking away from three decades of history with this company because staying isn’t worth the constant frustration, the lack of respect, the feeling that my experience means nothing.
It’s going to hurt financially. I won’t pretend it won’t. This income matters, especially right now with everything else happening. But I’ll find a way to get through it. I always do. There’s something liberating about making the decision, even if the practical implications are scary. I’m choosing my peace of mind and my dignity over a paycheck. That has to count for something.
The Roommate Situation
Speaking of financial considerations, I currently have a roommate. Or rather, I’m helping someone who had nowhere else to go. He needed a place to live, and I had a room. It seemed like the right thing to do, and the extra cash helps, especially now that I’m walking away from the murder mystery gig.
But he’s getting comfortable. Too comfortable. He’s not showing any signs of actively looking for his own place. Every time I think about bringing it up, I hesitate. He’s not causing problems, exactly. He pays his share. He’s not disruptive. But my living room doesn’t feel like mine anymore. I miss having my space, my privacy, the ability to just exist in my own home without factoring in another person’s presence.
For now, it’s okay. The money helps, and I’m not one to put someone out on the street when they have nowhere to go. But I do wonder how long this arrangement is going to last, and I do miss what my home felt like before.
The Travel Blog
In the midst of everything else, I’m trying to keep up with my travel blog, www.amateurtraveller.com. It’s been a labor of love for a long time now. There’s tons of content already on there, articles and guides and stories from places I’ve been. But I want it to be better. I want it to grow. I want it to reach more people and actually become something meaningful, not just another blog lost in the endless noise of the internet.
Posting interesting articles consistently takes time and energy, both of which are in short supply right now. But I keep doing it because I need something that’s mine, something that isn’t touched by all this other stress and worry. The blog represents possibility, creativity, a part of my life that exists outside of medical crises and difficult work situations and complicated living arrangements.
We’ll see where it goes. That’s all I can say right now. I’m putting in the work and hoping it amounts to something eventually.
Building the Client List
I also need to increase my client list for my other work. I’m doing okay with what I have currently. The bills get paid, life continues. But more clients would be great. More would provide that financial cushion I’m going to need once I leave the murder mystery company. More would mean security, stability, the ability to breathe a little easier.
But building a client list takes time, effort, networking, putting yourself out there in ways that feel uncomfortable. And right now, my emotional bandwidth for all of that is limited. Still, it needs to happen. I can’t just hope things will work out. I have to make them work out.
Waiting
So here I am on this Friday in November, sitting with all of these things at once. My mother is at the doctor, a decision is being made about her body and her future, and I’m not there. I’m dealing with work stress that’s leading me to quit a job I’ve had for three decades. I have a roommate who’s maybe staying longer than either of us originally intended. I’m trying to build something meaningful with my blog while also expanding my client base for financial security.
All of these threads are tangled together, each one pulling at me in a different direction, none of them resolving themselves neatly or quickly.
The hardest part is the waiting. Waiting to hear what the doctor decided. Waiting to visit on Sunday. Waiting to see how my mother will handle whatever comes next. Waiting to see if leaving my job was the right decision. Waiting to see if the blog takes off. Waiting to see if my client list grows. Waiting for the roommate situation to evolve one way or another.
Life doesn’t pause for us to catch our breath. It doesn’t wait until we’re ready to handle the next crisis or opportunity. It just keeps moving forward, demanding that we move with it, whether we feel capable or not.
I’m not sure what today’s decision will be. I don’t know if my mother will have another procedure or if the amputation will finally happen. I don’t know how she’ll handle it, though I’m hopeful she’s found some strength in this past year that will carry her through. I don’t know if I’m making the right choice by not being there right now, though the guilt suggests I probably should have figured out a way to cancel everything and go.
What I do know is that we’ll get through this, whatever “this” turns out to be. We got through the scare a year ago. We adapted, bought a new house, restructured our lives. We found ways to keep moving forward even when it felt impossible.
Maybe that’s all any of us can do. Keep moving forward, keep adapting, keep making the best decisions we can with the information and resources we have at any given moment. It doesn’t always feel like enough, but it’s what we’ve got.
Tomorrow, I might call in to work. I might drive to see my mother a day early. Or I might stick to the plan, go to work, visit on Sunday as intended. I won’t know until tomorrow comes.
For now, all I can do is wait, and hope, and trust that whatever happens, we’ll find a way through it together. Just like we always have.
