TRUE STORY

Putting a “Bad Day” in Perspective

Life is tough, but so are we

I’ve done a lot of public whining lately about how miserable I’ve been for a myriad of reasons. There was a time in my life, under a different persona, when this type of sharing was unimaginable.

But these days, I no longer a shit. I have nothing left to tell but the truth.

That said, folks, vomiting up my emotional crapola has taught me a few things, namely, that the adjective “bad” is often overused. And tossed about so casually that we no longer think about its true meaning.

“Sorry I didn’t call. I had a bad week.” “Don’t mind me. I’m having a bad day.”

You know. Like that. So, in order to lift myself out of the fog I’ve flailed around in for lo these many weeks, I’ve forced myself to recall a day that wasn’t merely “bad,” but hellacious in its unrelenting mental, emotional, and physical beat-down.

I included the following recollection in my screenplay, The Month We Fell Apart.

It was November 2015. My mother and father had just been diagnosed with stage four lung cancer. A death sentence for two people in their early eighties. Little did I know that less than two months later I would receive my own diagnosis of early onset breast cancer.

My sister, who had moved our folks into her home to care for them, hosted Thanksgiving dinner. Naturally, none of us was feeling very thankful, but we went through the motions. And the motions included oceans of alcohol.

You know. Your typical Thanksgiving “celebration,” but this time with cancer as an uninvited guest.

And no, I did not drive.

My husband wasn’t present as he was attending a business conference in Lyons, France, and was to return home later that night or in the wee hours of the morning. So, I was on my own.

I don’t remember much of the dinner, itself. We were all numb to our new reality.

After being dropped off at home, I quickly changed clothes and passed out on the loveseat in our family room. Abruptly, I awakened to the sound of metallic scraping at the front door. A key. My husband was home!

Without thinking, I scrambled off the loveseat to run to the door and fell, hard, on my left ankle as my leg was tucked under my body while I was asleep.

I heard a sharp “crack!” Like a gunshot. And the pain, oh lordy, the pain was indescribable. Searing throughout my whole leg.

So what did I do about it? After greeting my husband, I went back to sleep. Emotionally and physically exhausted, I was also still buzzed.

So. Damned. Stupid.

The next day, THE DAY that looms in my mind, we were to meet at the oncologist’s office for a family meeting. Present were me, my husband, my sister, and brother, and our parents.

The surreality of it all still grips me by the throat when I think about it.

My stoic father. My confused mother. My sobbing sister. My supportive husband. And my brother. The one who’s been estranged from my sister and me for seven years. And me, feeling as if I was going to pass out.

I remember feeling dizzy and sick to my stomach. A combination of trying to absorb what the doctor was telling us (all bad), the remnants of the booze, and the pain coursing through my ankle. I seem to recall that I’d put on a half-assed brace that I’d kept after foot surgery a few years back.

It didn’t help.

As I listened to my father tell the doctor that he and my mother would try a less aggressive form of chemotherapy, with “try” being the operative word, I felt as if I’d stepped into another world and was watching us all from the outside. Yes. As if watching a film, where I was a bit player, and a reluctant one at that.

Here’s a taste of what that felt like, from The Month We Fell Apart:

Turns out, it hadn’t really sunk in for my mother that she was not only there for her husband, but for herself, as well.

As for me, after my brother told me that from what he could see of my foot, it was “turning blue,” I had to leave the room and be led to a place where I could elevate my leg and guzzle water. That’s how miserable I felt. But, I just couldn’t remain in that room another minute longer. Even so, I’ve always felt bad that I didn’t stay to “play out our hand.”

After the family meet and greet with the oncologist broke up, my husband drove me to an urgent care facility to get my ankle x-rayed. Miraculously, it wasn’t broken, but I was told that some sprains were worse than breaks, and this was one of them. I could have told him that.

After everything that could be done was indeed implemented for my ankle, and I was given instructions on how to further care for it, we drove home, exhausted beyond measure.

But wait folks, there’s more because when the universe decides to kick us in the ass, it goes balls-out.

We entered the house, hung up our coats and my husband made a beeline for the kitchen to make a couple of cocktails. I limped in after him and saw him standing at the sink, gazing out into our backyard. Wordlessly, I watched him, and then:

“The tree is gone.”

Without turning to look at me, that’s what he said. In a monotone, as if in shock, which I suppose he was.

“Whaa…what do you mean?”

I looked out the window and the stunning, mature maple tree that had anchored our yard for like, forever, and played host to chattering squirrels and cardinals and sparrows and doves…was gone. Except for the stump.

There was a bird feeder on the ground next to it.

I couldn’t speak. I felt as if I was choking on my own tongue.

Our four cats milled around our feet, sensing that something very bad had happened.

My husband jetted out the front door and to the curb where the man who had been hired to TRIM our tree, was stacking logs in the back of his trunk.

Somehow, the “tree guy” thought we wanted our beloved tree chopped down. Now, I’m certain that my husband told him to trim it, but at some point, their communication went devastatingly awry.

Like a banshee, I stood on our front lawn screaming at the tree destroyer, oblivious to neighbors who I’m sure were witnessing this surreal scene, while my husband went back inside for his car keys and then took off! He’d reached his limit, apparently.

And me? I dropped to my knees, sobbing, mourning my parents, our tree, and the cruelty of life, itself.

Inside our home, I let out a shriek that frightened the hell out of our poor cats, pulled a cork out of a bottle of wine, and upended it into my mouth.

When we were able to manage a conversation with the tree guy, who also had cancer — what the fuck are the odds of that one? — he apologized and promised to make it right.

Except, he fucked up, again. He purchased another maple, a sapling, and planted it, but forgot to take off the netting around the root sack.

We gave up on him and visited a local arboretum that was stocked with all manner of glorious trees and shrubs. We selected an Autumn Blaze, which now towers over the back of our home, with leaves that turn brilliant shades of red, orange, and gold come fall.

The birds and squirrels are back and I feed them regularly.

I’m sharing this because we all have not just “bad” days, but days from hell, when we wonder how we’ll get to the other side. But, we do, because we’re tougher than we think. Resilient, like a one-hundred-year-old maple tree. (That hasn’t been futzed with!)

This is a lesson for me, as well, because, even though I’ve experienced some shitty days of late, I figure that if I got past that day from hell, followed by another day with another diagnosis, well, this, too, shall pass.

Now, when I look out our kitchen window at our beautiful maple tree, I take an odd, and slightly macabre comfort in knowing that we were the ones to help it take root and that it will be there, for someone else to gaze upon, long after we’re gone.

© Sherry McGuinn, 2022. All Rights Reserved.

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Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. She is currently pitching her newest screenplay, “The Month We Fell Apart,” a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story, as well as “DEAD TIRED,” a female-driven, ass-kicking thriller.