Goodbye Dolly

Live your life in a way that, when you pass, hundreds of millions of people feel like they have lost a loved one. That is the sentiment I felt while scrolling social media after the death of music icon and humanitarian icon Dolly Parton at age 80 this week.

Her music touched generations, but her contributions to society touched so many more. She made life better for countless people whom she never met. I have been reading dozens of stories from celebrities and ordinary people about their interactions and connections to Dolly.

Anything I could write about her life and career could easily be found by doing a quick Google search. I won’t waste time telling you things you could easily find yourselves. I never met her. I don’t have any stories of interacting with her. However, one thing I can do is explain why she had meaning to me in my life.

At the root, it’s actually quite simple. Dolly Parton reminded me of my Nina, and vice versa. They both were tiny, smart, beautiful, full of fire, and owners of a lot of blonde hair that may or may not have been theirs.

When I was a kid in the 1980s, my Nina felt to me like she was a mix of a whole lot of Dolly and a large dash of Tina Turner. No, she wasn’t a celebrity. She did run the first all-women’s fitness center on Cape Cod, and she was a great jazz singer, along with my Grampa, but not famous. Above all else, she was a genuinely loving and caring person who made you feel like you mattered when you were around her. That, I believe, is how Dolly made people feel.

There were times throughout my life when I felt like in some alternate timeline Dolly Parton was my Nina and my Nina was a world-famous entertainer. My Nina definitely could command a room, and Dolly had said that because she couldn't have children, she was 'everybody's mother.' So maybe I wasn't too far off.

It’s interesting. I have never shared that story or those thoughts ever. I’m not sure why. Maybe it sounded weird to compare my grandmother, who I knew, to celebrities I likely would never meet. Maybe I was afraid of being mocked or ridiculed. Not by my family, mind you; I am sure my Nina would have found it flattering. I mean, after all, I was comparing her to two titans of the entertainment world. Still, I kept that little anecdote locked away until now.

To sum it up, in a small way, losing Dolly Parton felt like losing my Nina again.

My Nina and Dolly Parton at roughly the same age, around 40.

My introduction to Dolly was through her seminal film 9 to 5. It was released in 1980, when I was three years old. I didn’t see it then, but it was on rotation on cable during the mid 1980s. Having a young mother and three sisters meant that I was dealt a heavy dose of female-led movies. 9 to 5 was one among many, including Dirty Dancing and Mannequin.

I can remember seeing Dolly in 9 to 5 and being amazed at how much she reminded me of my Nina. Granted, I was probably seven or eight, but that young perception became reality.

As I grew up, I learned of how important and accomplished she was almost by accident. When I heard Whitney Houston sing ‘I Will Always Love You,’ I learned that Dolly Parton wrote it. When I heard this really great Hawaiian jam called ‘Islands In the Stream’ by a group called Ten Feet, I learned that Dolly Parton sang the original with Kenny Rogers.

Later on in adulthood, I learned of her enormous impact outside of music. I was battling depression and questions of self-esteem and self-worth throughout my twenties. This is where I began to seek out inspirational quotes and just general quotes about life and healing.

When you feel lost, confused, maybe a bit worthless, you look for something, anything, to provide a little clarity. I didn’t look to just anybody. I looked for words of wisdom from people who not only succeeded, but did it as genuinely good people.

This is where Dolly Parton played her second important role in my life. She provided comfort and familiarity since I saw her in some ways as a stand-in for my Nina as a child. Then, as an adult, her words provided light in dark times.

Sure, there were other people whose quotes helped to part the dark clouds around my mind, but Dolly was as important as any of them. I am certain that there are so many others like me who were shown care without her even realizing it.

Dolly left such a wide range of gifts to the world that I think it would be hard not to be moved or inspired by something she did. Her skill as a musician, a lyricist, a singer, and an overall presence likely was enough. Her philanthropy, at the very least, equaled her musical prowess.

For me, there are a few of Dolly’s quotes that remain important in my life. I mentioned earlier battling depression off and on throughout my adulthood. I also have been on a creative journey for decades.

I wanted to be a writer from the time I was eight. I wanted to be a filmmaker starting in high school, even purchasing a big, bulky Sears camcorder in 1994. I always felt my path didn’t involve a (no pun intended) nine-to-five job. I always wanted, no needed, to be something more than that.

Maybe that goes back to the self-worth and confidence issues stemming from childhood. Maybe I felt that if I wasn’t greater than expected, I would be seen as far less than. But how do you chase your dreams and still stay true to who you are inside? Ask Dolly Parton.

The quotes that feed my soul have to do with each of those things I mentioned.





Those both speak to me. One, in terms of dealing with the hard times, for me, the bouts of depression and self-doubt. Secondly, the feeling that walking the same path as most others just didn’t fit who I wanted to be.

Many of you reading this likely have other Dolly quotes that speak to you. That’s the idea. We might all enter this orbit of grief and admiration from different roads, but they all end up connecting in the end.

That might be Dolly’s greatest gift. She unified so many people. Her death felt like losing a loved one to likely hundreds of millions of people. There are very few celebrities who are as universally loved and admired as Dolly Parton.

I have seen many people I admired in the entertainment industry pass away; very few have I felt the urge to write my own thoughts about. Even as I write this, I periodically stop and scroll social media to read stories of Dolly from fans and other celebrities.

She might have left this world, but there are still gifts from her to come in the years ahead. I have read things about a musical of her life, dolls, dog treats, coffee, and best of all, an unreleased song. That last one we have to wait until her 100th birthday in 2046, though.

Dolly Parton might be gone, but the stories told of her will keep her alive. Just as my Nina might be gone, but I do my best to keep her memory alive. This includes sharing a very private, if not a little embarrassing, story of how she reminded me of Dolly and vice versa. 

Goodbye Dolly. You left an impact on this world far greater than most people could ever dream. Thank you for reminding me of my Nina. Thank you for your words to remind me that “if you tell yourself enough nice things, eventually, you’ll believe them too.”

If you happen to bump into my Nina, maybe you could sing a duet, lead a fitness class, or exchange hair tips? We will always love you, Dolly. And I will always love you, Nina.

Initial Impressions 2.0 Blog #133: Fresh Grief, Extreme Turtles, Very Long Walk, etc.

1. People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel. That Maya Angelou quote is what comes to mind when I think about my Nana Serpa. She was my stepfather’s mother, and she passed away this week after a long bout of failing health. The thing is, I could try to spin it and say ‘at least she’s no longer suffering,’ but that won’t make anyone truly feel better. When a loved one, whether blood or not, dies, they immediately leave a vacuum where all of these unfiltered emotions get sucked into. There is no longer a chance to say things, at least not to them. Nana Serpa was always sweet and kind, and made me feel like family even though we didn’t share a drop of blood. I am heartbroken for my stepfather as he has now lost both of his parents. The one thing I don’t like about being an empath is that when you feel an emotion, it can be a signal to open the floodgates of similar ones. It brings forth in me all of the unprocessed grief I have for several family members and friends who have died in recent years. I then feel bad about feeling bad about others who have long since passed, but it is not something done maliciously. It feels at times like I have a closet packed to the gills with grief. Then when a new batch comes, I try to gently crack open the door and stuff the new grief in without everything spilling out. It never happens. So my sadness over Nana Serpa has invariably led to the sadness returning over my Nina and Grampa, Uncle Eric, Brenda, Matt, and Pete. I guess it is better to feel too much than nothing at all. It shows these people really mattered to you. Rest in peace, Nana Serpa.


2. On most work days, it is pretty straightforward. I come in, train some people, do some paperwork, probably have a few laughs, and go home. It’s not too often that odd things happen. This week we had one such day. I was sitting doing some paperwork after my last client left. To my right, inside the gym, the lights flickered. That happens all the time. There is something faulty with the wiring for the lights in the gym. But then the lights in the therapy room flickered. Within seconds, all the power went out. In the past, the power might have dipped out for a few seconds and quickly come back on. This time it went out and stayed out. The problem was that I had a series of clients all in a row, all on their way. There was no way to let them know, and also no way to know how long the power would stay out. It turned out that a tree had come down on the wires, knocking out power to the surrounding neighborhood. I ended up training three different clients in a dark gym. There was barely any light from windows, but somehow we made it work with nobody getting hurt. I actually found it a fun challenge to do my job with little light and almost total silence. We could actually hear the people who work upstairs talking; it was so quiet. In all, the power was out for just over 2 ½ hours. As fun as the challenge was, I do not wish for any more long power outages at work anytime soon.


3. Sometimes you have to scratch and claw to get opportunities. Sometimes they just fall out of the sky. This week I was lucky enough to have an event get dropped into my lap. The Cape Cod Maritime Museum in Hyannis has biweekly lectures, and one coming up next week saw both of their speakers pull out. As they looked for a suitable replacement, I was recommended to them. I am very humbled and flattered that I was seen as the one to potentially save the day, for lack of a better term. Of course I said yes. The program needed to be in some way connected to the Roaring Twenties on Cape Cod. Lucky for me, I created a video a few years ago about what it would be like to summer vacation on Cape Cod a century ago. Revamping it for 1926 instead of 1923 wasn’t too difficult. The hard part was creating from scratch a new presentation. This meant finding all of the images I needed and creating a few dozen slides to make the presentation worthwhile. I am excited about the possibilities of a totally unexpected event. Maybe I’ll sell some books? Maybe I’ll get booked for more events? Stepping up like this can only do good for my reputation. We’ll see the results next week. This is the video I am basing the presentation on.




4. The latest show that I binged on Netflix was the seven-episode Midnight Mass. This ended up jumping up near the top of my favorites so far. It is a neat mix of two different shows mashed into one in the best way. On a small island located 30 miles offshore, two people arrive on the same day. A man fresh out of jail after serving time for a DUI fatality, and an intriguing priest both arrive and set the tone for the show. It is one part religious beliefs and miracles. Then suddenly you get smacked with supernatural elements that throw you off. It’s really well shot and acted. It’s heartwarming, thought-provoking, and also has its fair share of blood and gore. I highly recommend it. Oh, Netflix, you always seem to suggest things I’ll like.

5. In a true example of what’s old is new again, the rumor going around is that Myspace may be getting set to make a big comeback soon. The owners of the site are possibly working on bringing the original social media giant back to give us what social media used to be. No more algorithm junk. I remember only joining Facebook in 2007 because Myspace was changing in ways that made it less fun. If the owners can bring it back like it used to be, I’d probably turn Facebook into a dead mall. Maybe I’d visit every now and then to see what stores were still there, but my main shopping would be at Myspace. Bring on the Top 8, songs that start playing when you click a profile, and a site not dominated by the algorithm and scummy tech bro billionaires. I’m ready to party like it’s 2005 again.

6. Nothing is done until it is done. That is the lesson I have learned many times. Nothing tends to surprise me anymore. When getting the exhaust work done on my car this week, I was told a certain amount of time was needed. My plan was to go walk the nearby Cape Cod Rail Trail until I was called and told my car was ready. Well, once two hours of walking turned to three, and my phone’s battery was nearly dead, I figured I might want to go back to the mechanic and just check in. In reality, I had walked over 10 miles, and my body was just not going to do anymore. It quit. I spotted my car still on the lift and ended up sitting near the mechanic’s in the shade for a while, hoping it would soon be done. Nope. Now this wasn’t them being lazy; they just found more that was wrong, which I was told could have been possible. It turns out my exhaust is worse than anticipated, but luckily my mechanic is highly reputable and trustworthy. They have built up credibility over the years with me and countless others, which is why they are always busy. I ended up standing in the lobby for an hour chatting with the service tech, who is a super nice guy. I didn’t want to sit since I had been soaked in sweat and didn’t want to ruin their chairs and make the lobby smell like a locker room. In the end, it was nearly six hours until I left with my car. The best part is I need to bring it back next week to have the job finished. The actual best part is the mechanic is going to do some magic to save me hundreds of dollars, so I don’t mind the wait. Tune in next week for Part 3 of my car exhaust repair saga.


7. It was a sweltering, soupy mess of a walk while waiting for my car. I had anticipated 7-8 miles in total. I ended up with just over 10, more than 1,300 calories burned, and clothes that felt like I had showered in them. This was the first time I had done over 10 miles since January 2024. Not ironically, this was the last time I had major work done on my car at the same mechanic. I was smart and packed PowerAde and sunscreen in my backpack so I didn’t worry that much about sunburns or dehydration. Still, more than 10 miles on a day with the heat index over 100 degrees will sap your energy fast. By the time I decided I couldn’t walk anymore, I wished I could call an Uber to bring me to the mechanic. Unfortunately, my phone’s battery was a whopping 5%. The walk overall was fun, all things considered. I had a small lunch due to the time I got my car back. This led to me having over 3,600 calories allotted for my dinner after inputting things into MyFitnessPal. I could have had a medium 3-topping pizza and still been 1,000 calories under my daily goal. Yay, thanks to the long walk and horrible heat!

Looking through a tunnel on the Rail Trail 

8. An unexpected occurrence on my walk was the appearance of a high school class on a trip. No, it wasn’t any Cape Cod school, but students from the Providence Day School. I felt bad that the kids came down to ride the bike trail on a super hot and humid day, but what are you gonna do? I was walking around a rotary on the trail, about 3 miles in, when I noticed arrow signs. They said ‘PDS route to Coast Guard Beach.’ At first I thought they misspelled PMC for Pan-Mass Challenge. Then they started passing me. Dozens and dozens of high school kids on bikes. They were all well-behaved; some said ‘on your left’ as they passed. A few even waved. Here I was expecting a drink to be thrown on me or to get shoved or slapped. I guess that’s what I would have thought if I was a kid again. In the end, there had to have been over one hundred kids that rode by on the way to Coast Guard Beach in Eastham. I don’t know where they started from. I think they parked in Harwich at Brooks Park; sorry to those not from Cape Cod for a lot of specific Cape places. Shoutout to those kids and their teachers at Providence Day School. They were very respectful on their trip, and I hope they had a great time seeing the scenery on Cape Cod.


9. There is a section of the Cape Cod Rail Trail in Harwich that is a haven for turtle crossings. It is about 2.5 miles in from the trailhead on Rt. 134 in Dennis for those curious. I don’t always see them, but the odds are higher there than just about anywhere else on the bike trail. There is a spot where the Herring River goes under the trail and empties into the West Reservoir of Bell’s Neck Conservation area. I don’t know if the waterway under the trail is too small, but turtles end up climbing up the embankment, crossing the trail, and going down the other side into the water. I was nearing 10 miles into my walk when I was going past that spot again. There it was. A juvenile box turtle was attempting to cross the trail. It was maybe 3 inches across at the shell. Not needing an excuse to stop walking, I guided it across the trail, basically shielding it from oncoming bikes. Then I got my video. The turtle crawled to the edge of the stone embankment. I had no sooner made the joke that it was going to jump when there it went, diving over the side. I scrambled to find it. Granted, it was only 3 feet down to the ground from the top of the stone wall, but for a tiny turtle that’s pretty far. I got video of it continuing down the steep hill. It fell and rolled at times, which made it feel more like a Three Stooges episode. Obviously the video will show things better. Don’t worry, it was ok, so you can laugh.




10. Sometimes things just come up Milhouse. That’s a Simpsons reference that some of you might not get. What it’s referring to is a particularly lucky event this week. After having to spend much of one day waiting for my car to get fixed, I had to push some other errands off. This included doing laundry. I wasn’t looking forward to driving on a hot summer weekend to the laundromat. The first bit of luck was realizing that I could throw my laundry in and, while it was going, head across the street to the library and get some work done. It was some abstract multitasking. I got to sit in the a/c and relative quiet and start working on a project. One of the librarians came up to where I was sitting and asked me if I had received the check for my event there last month. I had not even thought about it. In fact, I just assumed that I had done the event for free, except for the books I sold. This was the peak of the luck. Not only was I multitasking while my laundry was going, but now I was essentially getting paid to do work in the library. Sadly, I know if I go to write at any other libraries locally, they won’t be handing me checks, but I can always dream, right?


11. We have reached the halfway point of summer. No, summer doesn’t end Labor Day Weekend, sorry. It ends on September 21st. As of this writing, we are in another hot stretch on Cape Cod and the Northeastern United States in general. Don’t get me wrong, I am lucky and blessed to have access to air conditioning so as not to slowly cook myself in August. That being said, this is also the time of year that I start counting down the days to my favorite time of year. Fall is my favorite season. In fact, as some of you might already know, my favorite time of year is Labor Day through New Year’s. The weather is still good through most of October. There are several birthdays of loved ones, including my own. There are also several amazing holidays to celebrate. Sure, we could get a freak snowstorm before Thanksgiving, but that’s a fair trade for the good vibes I feel during the last third of the year. I don’t hate summer, but it is my third favorite season behind fall and spring. Once the sweltering, humid days break, which is typically later in August, then summer becomes alright. That just happens to coincide with Labor Day, so lucky me.

6 Years and What Have I Learned? Dear Grampa

 

Dear Grampa,

It’s been 6 years now since you left this world. I still remember it like it was yesterday. I remember every excruciating detail of those last few months as you slowly deteriorated due to Alzheimer's. I told myself that if I truly thought of you as my hero and role model that I needed to be there as much as I could through those dark times.

The truth is, it scarred me. It scarred and traumatized me more than anyone knows. It’s a trauma I don’t speak of much because I don’t know who’d listen or care.

That first time in the room with you, where you got stuck in a loop of getting dressed and undressed for work was a cold slap of reality, I think I didn’t want to believe. I made my choice though to be there until the end.

Some times felt almost normal. We’d talk about the 1950s, jazz music, old friends, and you remembered my name. That might have been the biggest blessing and curse. You remembered my name almost to the end. It also meant that when you begged me to help you escape the nursing facility, it was my name you used. All I could do was wait it out until the thought floated from your mind like dandelion spores.

Then there were the bad times. Me sitting at your bedside while Nina begged me to help you. There was nothing I could do but apologize and say I didn’t know what to do. Few things are more heartbreaking than your grandparents who had been married over 70 years begging their grandson to do anything to help the situation and knowing there was not a damn thing I could do but be there.

I would hold it together for the sake of my mother and siblings until I was by myself. That was when my alcohol issues took center stage. I would drink until I couldn’t feel and then hate myself for wanting to scrub the final memories of my supposed hero from my mind.

In those final weeks, I had many times that I was torn between hoping you passed so you wouldn’t suffer anymore and wanting desperately for one more memory of you, even a traumatizing one. Then the end came.

They say even when you’re unresponsive, a person can still hear you, which is why it is good to speak to someone even if they show no signs. I remember that last night, that last time I saw you. I left work to say my goodbyes. Sitting at your bedside as you lay with your eyes closed, looking peaceful, I knew it was the last time I’d ever see you.

It hurt. It was a new kind of hurt, though. When my dear old friend Matt died 18 months earlier, I got the news but never saw him. This time with you I was staring you in the face, knowing that it was my choice how long I stayed, what I said, and how I reacted to what was coming.

I’ll keep my final words to you between us because I know you heard them. I could have stayed longer as my coworkers told me to just go home after I saw you but I needed to not be alone, at least not right away. I knew alone time was drinking time and I needed to feel for a little longer.

I stood in that doorway looking at you trying to imprint everything permanently into my memory. It worked. It’s still there. Even now I get that familiar pang of emotion knowing that my next move was turning and walking away leaving you forever only a memory. I’m sorry.

The photo I took after leaving the nursing facility that final night.

It’s been 6 years now. So what have I learned?

I learned that you cast a big shadow. It feels even bigger when it’s been taken away. I learned a lot from your life and death, but that doesn’t mean that I’ve done anything with what I’ve learned.

I learned what real love was from you and Nina being married for over 70 years. I learned how important real love was by how she slowly faded away once you were gone. Me, I am more afraid to love and be loved so I have chosen to bury myself in chasing my dreams since you’ve been gone.

I learned about what a real man is and what having a real male role model means, especially when one is taken away. I’ve had so many ‘second fathers’ in my life, because my ‘first father’ didn’t want to be a father at all. I tried to soak up all of your wisdom while I could. Now I find myself wishing I could ask you a question or share a problem with you, usually a few times a week.

I have sunk deep into personal development over the last few years, desperately trying to find the road that I was paving while you were still here. Through this journey, I have learned one sad truth. I don’t feel like I am honoring your legacy the way I wish I could.

There was a great question on a self-help podcast a few months ago that hit me like a ton of bricks. A man asked how best to honor his brother, who had recently passed away. The podcast host said the best way to honor someone you’ve lost is by living the life they would have wanted for you. I don’t feel I am doing that.

There are times that I think about all of the advice, words of wisdom, and lessons I got from you. Then I think to myself, ‘Did I even pay attention?’ I swear I did.

I said to you that if I grew up to be half the man that you were, I would consider my life to be a success. I don’t consider myself a success. This is where I’d ask you for advice on what to do next, but all I can do is comb my memories of you to see if I can find a stone I’ve left unturned.

I could sit here and tell you I feel like I’ve failed you in terms of the lofty praise and expectations you would heap on me. Maybe it was just what good grandparents do. I don’t know.

There are two things I will leave you with, Grampa. One you said to me and one I’ve learned through the years, and all of the losses of loved ones.

One is the words you scratched down on the piece of paper I still have to this day. It’s never too late to be what you might have been. Yes, I know that George Eliot said that quote, but I had never heard of it until you gave me those words. Until I am dead and gone, I will continue the search for whatever I might be. Not giving up my dreams is the best way I can honor you. Well, except for one other way.

It is said that a person dies twice. They die once when they take their last breath, and again when their name is spoken for the last time. As long as I am alive, you will be as well.

I will celebrate. I will mourn. I will share stories. I will pursue my dreams in your honor. It’s all I can do to stay warm in the chill of your giant shadow. It is why I am writing a letter you will never receive.

How I picture my grandparents.

In closing Grampa, I love you and miss you everyday. Please take Nina out for a fun night dancing and singing at the best jazz club heaven has. Save a big table for Nana, Uncle Eric, Auntie Chris, Brenda, and Marylou. Matt probably won’t go to a jazz club, but you can always send him a box of donuts.

Until we meet again, thank you for everything.

Love,

 Chris

What I've Learned In My 40s(so far): 3. There's No Textbook For Dealing With Grief and Loss

I turned 40 on November 2, 2017. There is an old saying that ‘life begins at 40.’ I used to think that was just something middle-aged people said to make them feel younger. Maybe that is a part of it. I do believe that the wisdom behind that saying is that you spend those first 39 years accumulating all kinds of knowledge that you then can start to put into practice when you hit the Big 4-0.

For me, as I stare down 47, I can honestly say that my 40s so far have been the most difficult and also rewarding decade of my life. I never thought I’d find a time where I’d feel more unsure, insecure, lost, and yet filled with optimism. My teens used to be the benchmark until my 40s.

I’ve learned a lot in my life. Some of it has been useful as I’ve aged. A lot has been pointless. No amount of studying prepares you for coming to grips with your own aging, your own mortality, or your own demons. No amount of preparation can soften the blow of loss and grief. My 40s have been a trial by fire. They have seen me dropped in hostile environments mentally with no survival gear and having to learn on the fly.

So what have I learned in my 40s so far? A lot.

What I’ve Learned In My 40’s(so far): 1. Being A Slave to a Demon, and Also Slaying That Demon

 

I turned 40 on November 2, 2017. There is an old saying that ‘life begins at 40.’ I used to think that was just something middle-aged people said to make them feel younger. Maybe that is a part of it. I do believe that the wisdom behind that saying is that you spend those first 39 years accumulating all kinds of knowledge that you then can start to put into practice when you hit the Big 4-0.

For me, as I stare down 47, I can honestly say that my 40s so far have been the most difficult and also rewarding decade of my life. I never thought I’d find a time where I’d feel more unsure, insecure, lost, and yet filled with optimism. My teens used to be the benchmark until my 40s.

I’ve learned a lot in my life. Some of it has been useful as I’ve aged. A lot has been pointless. No amount of studying prepares you for coming to grips with your own aging, your own mortality, or your own demons. No amount of preparation can soften the blow of loss and grief. My 40s have been a trial by fire. They have seen me dropped in hostile environments mentally with no survival gear and having to learn on the fly.

So what have I learned in my 40s so far? A lot.

1. I’ve learned what it’s like to be a slave to a demon, and also what it’s like to slay that demon.

Alcoholism has been a part of my life since I started making memories. Until I hit 40 however it was always a cautionary tale dealing with others. My father was an alcoholic from as far back as I remember. I can’t remember a time when he didn’t have an open can of beer and a cigarette sitting in an ashtray. The smell of smoke and the sound of him belching loudly was as much a part of my Sundays at my Nana’s as Wiffle ball games and hot dogs and beans.

As I grew older and my connection to my father faded further away I made a decision to not become an alcoholic to spite him. My greatest fear in my adult life was hearing someone tell me I was just like my father. I couldn’t help if I looked like him or sounded like him but I could make sure I didn’t wind up a drunk like him. It wasn’t that easy.

I enjoyed having a few drinks once in a while in my 20s and 30s. Every so often I’d overdo it and wind up with a hangover but those events were the exception, not the rule. I feared the alcoholism gene being switched on when I was in my 20s. I can still remember being 21 and sitting in the living room at our house on Broadway in West Yarmouth. I had a 6-pack of some sort of winter-flavored beer and was knocking them back when my mother gave me a stern warning.

She mentioned the gene. She also mentioned that she had gone through dealing with an alcoholic with my father at roughly the same age I was then. My mother said she would not go through that with me. That triggered the fear. The fear of becoming my father’s son was more powerful than the beer, at least at that point.

I kept it in check until I hit 40. It was the death of one of my oldest friends Matt a few weeks before Christmas in 2017 that gave the alcohol the opening it needed. In looking for a way to dull the pain of the grief I turned to a friend I swore I’d never turn to. The only difference between 21-year-old me sitting at Broadway with a 6-pack, and 40-year-old with a pile of vodka nips, was that there was nobody to hold me accountable.

The booze helped me cope with Matt’s death, or at least that was my reasoning. I still wasn’t an alcoholic, I was just a sad person who had lost a friend. These are the lies you tell yourself when you know you’re going down a bad path. There’s always an excuse.

My routine barely wavered for nearly 3 years. I was in a liquor store every day, except if I grabbed enough to last me 2 days. I had preferences on what I bought to drink and didn’t stray from them. In fact, if I switched up my order the folks at the liquor stores would remark about it. That’s how familiar they were with me, they knew my daily haul. Being confronted with this I would frequent a different liquor store for a while rather than taking it as a sign that alcohol was too big of a part of my life.

I used to shake my head in disapproval when my father would stop at a liquor store on the ride home from work every single time he drove me home. Now here I was in my 40s, the same age he was then, doing the exact same thing. I was more like him than I ever thought. A lot of sons want to follow in their father’s footsteps. It’s just too bad that my father’s footsteps always led to a liquor store or the unemployment line.

Sure I could blame the deaths of friends and family. I could blame the financial hardship brought on by taking a chance at a career change. I could blame hitting 40. The truth is that I didn’t want to stop drinking. It was a warm blanket of detachment. If I was drinking every night I didn’t have to actually do the work of dealing with all of the issues I just mentioned. The fact that ended up quitting drinking and have been sober for over 4 years shows that I could have done it if I had truly wanted to.

Maybe I say that with 20/20 hindsight. I don’t know. I think there were times during my time as a functioning alcoholic when I was angry and embarrassed that I seemingly had no self-control or self-respect. These times were typically not long after I’d finished my nightly allotment of booze, or first thing the next morning. By early afternoon though all was forgiven and I was back in line at the packie. Thankfully those days are now long gone but for a while, it felt like the demon was my master.

Next: Part 2 - Learning To Let Go of Toxic People, Even Those Close To You

4 Years Alcohol-Free: How I Got Here & Why I Stay Here

     September 12, 2024, is a milestone as I pass four years alcohol-free.

     Many of you know my story of how and why I did it. I will give a bit of an overview for those who might not know.

     How? It was simple and yet arduous. I had to quit cold turkey. September 12, 2020, the first night without alcohol after drinking nearly every night for close to three years was incredibly difficult. I essentially had to tie myself to my couch and bribe myself by saying I could do pretty much anything else except for drinking alcohol.

     Alcohol had been my nearest and dearest confidant for so long that giving it up was a big change. It took weeks to feel like the change might last. After that, it was a matter of being diligent but also easy on myself. That meant doing pretty much whatever I had to do to keep me from drinking. This included eating loads of bad foods to replace the hole left by alcohol.

     Naturally, this led to a weight gain issue but I figured it was better than the alcohol issue. I did my best to not totally lose who I was as I tried to remember who I was before alcohol. I parlayed my lucid evenings I now had into an idea for a podcast which ended up being the thing I focused on to keep booze in the rearview mirror.

     Why did I quit drinking? The short answer is I had finally run out of excuses not to. My last drink I had was on September 11^th and I said I ‘had’ to drink to mourn those we lost on 9/11. Noble? Maybe. Not the way I meant it. Like I said it was my last excuse to continue down a road that had led me so far from who I wanted to be.

Sunset on September 11, 2020

     Alcoholism runs in my family so I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t know falling into that pool was possible. I just thought I was stronger than that. I wasn’t. There were extenuating circumstances that started me down that road.

     Losing one of my oldest friends, Matt, suddenly close to Christmas in 2017 was tough, especially because I’d had the chance to speak to him a few days before but passed on it because I was tired from work. The guilt I felt was tough to take sober so I started drinking to numb it.

     In the past, I had been able to drink once a week or something like that, you know, have a few drinks but not have it become my defining characteristic. My friend’s death shattered the illusion that I had control.

     I battled being basically a day from being flat broke. Not getting the hours I needed in a new career I had begun as a personal trainer made me question my choices. I had no cash, had maxed out my credit cards, and was so broke that I couldn’t even afford a bottled water and protein bar at a supermarket. I had my card declined and had to return the bar.

     I had to borrow money from a client I was training in-home to stabilize my life. I hate being in debt to people so this was a hard pill to swallow. Over time I had to go back into cooking for a consistent paycheck. These things only strengthened my bond with alcohol.

     The first half of 2019 saw my hero, my Grampa deteriorate and ultimately pass due to Alzheimer’s. Being there every step of the decline was a trauma I’ve honestly yet to get over. I’d go from visiting him at the facility to drinking as soon as I left to wash the pain from my heart.

If I can be half of who he was I will have lived a successful life.

     My drinking only got worse coping with Grampa’s loss. Then came Covid. Mere weeks before I had left my cooking job at a retirement home where his wife, my Nina, was a resident. I wanted to take another retirement home job with fewer hours so I could refocus on personal training.

     I got to the new job with fewer hours and Covid hit. I was stuck there and couldn’t do any training. Worst of all my Nina was stuck on the inside at my old job. The family couldn’t see her except through her window. If I hadn’t been so impatient I might have stayed there and been on the inside to comfort my Nina. Again, that is a guilt I have yet to get over.

     Flash forward about six months. I had run out of excuses to drink besides admitting I was a weak, sad, addict that was not in control of his life. Up to that point I had suffered in silence. This was both in my drinking and my coping with the losses of my friend Matt and my Grampa.

     It was a tough go but day by day I’ve made it to where I am now. But why do I stay alcohol-free? Surely I could attempt to go back to being a ‘social drinker’ right? The funny thing is that the further I got from alcohol the more I realized I didn’t need it, and I never did.

     Looking back over my life I can say there is nothing I did or experienced that was made better with alcohol. I didn’t miss it. What I started noticing was that my own story of recovering from alcohol dependency was inspiring others. I finally opened up about my weakness and the fight I’d been going through and it resonated with people. My family and friends were proud of me.

     This leads to two of the biggest reasons I choose to remain alcohol-free. My sister Ashley and my Uncle Bob. Both of them battled their own demons and had broken free of alcohol. They were both so proud of me and I felt that if I took a risk of even one drink I’d be letting them down.

     If I went back to drinking I’d be just another person to fall off the wagon. Just another person to talk a big game but gave up when rough patches came. And came they did.

     I lost my Nina in 2021, lost my Aunt Brenda and old friend Pete in 2022, and lost my Uncle Eric in 2023. I faced them all without the crutch of alcohol. In the four years since I last had a drink the only time I came close to falling off the wagon was when my Uncle Eric died. He had been like a father to me and I hadn’t been there at the end when he was dying of cancer. In fact, I learned of his death the day after it happened. It is a trauma that remains an open wound. I am currently listening to a Hawaiian music station on Pandora that includes many songs Uncle Eric shared with me. This is because this music makes me remember him and helps me to go to the places I have to go to share these experiences.

     I sat in the parking lot of a liquor store I used to visit so much that they knew when I changed my ‘normal’ order. In my mind it didn’t matter if I didn’t drink, I was going to die someday so why not just do what you want, right? My memories of Uncle Eric stopped me from going inside. I thought how upset he’d be if he knew I was using his death as an excuse to start drinking again.

Trying to live the life those I've lost would want for me.

     A few weeks before writing this I was listening to a podcast by a guy named Mark Manson. I have become a huge fan of his in 2024 including reading both of his books. His podcast is a part of a deep personal development journey I’ve been on in 2024. I need to build from the ashes of the last several years mentally. I might have stopped drinking but losing so many people close to me in short order drained me.

     On this particular episode of Mark Manson’s podcast, he was doing a Q&A. A question he answered has profoundly affected me since I heard it.

     The question was from someone who had recently lost a family member and they wanted to know the best way to honor them going forward. Manson’s reply was that they should try to live a life that their lost family member would want for them.

     It floored me. I immediately thought of those I had lost. Am I living the life Grampa would want for me? Or Nina? Or Uncle Eric? I don’t think I am. I don’t think I am extremely far from what they’d want for me, but I’m far enough away in my mind that it’s got me looking at my entire life.

     The idea of being an inspiration rather than a cautionary tale is a pressure I’m willing to accept. I don’t have many responsibilities. No wife. No kids. No real attachments. It’s a blessing and a curse. I’d love the security of a family and a house. However, I also love the fact that I can pack and go on a road trip without anything to stop me.

     No matter what if any changes I make in the next year of my life one change that I won’t make is letting alcohol back into my life. It does me no good. If it does you good that’s fine, to each their own. However, if you feel it’s way too big a part of your life and you want to give it up just know that you can.

     If I could do it so can you. My journey is not unique but if it can inspire anyone looking to give up alcohol to do so then I am happy to share my journey.

     It’s been four years since I last had a drink. 1,462 days and counting. Life can still be tough sometimes but it’s about finding better ways to cope with the curve balls. 

It's a long and winding road that is life.

The Power of My Nana's Life

“Ain’t it funny how time slips away.”

14 years is a long time. It’s 5,113 days. Yet in that time period from December 29, 2009, to December 29, 2023, I never took the time to actually tell this story. It was one of those ‘everybody kind of already knows’ types of things. For me though, as a way to remember, I think now is a good time to share, better late than never.

I had never dealt with death really in my life up until my Nana died. Sure, there were family members who had passed, some of them pretty close. However, there hadn’t been a member of my inner circle that had left. That’s what made my Nana’s death a true watershed moment in my life, and likely why all of this is still so clear 14 years later.

High School Graduation 1996

Looking back with 20/20 hindsight my Nana was declining pretty rapidly during the later summer into the fall of 2009. I visited her usually once a week and had noticed the changes. Her mind was still pretty sharp, but there would be moments of quiet and confusion. Nothing like what I dealt with when my Grampa started declining ten years later but still it would perk up my antennae.

I noticed Nana walking less and shuffling more. She sat in her favorite chair more and was up and about less. There were even times that I’d come to visit and she preferred to stay down the hallway watching television in another room. It was hiding in plain sight but things were turbulent in my own life at the time, so I think I registered what I saw but didn’t talk about it.

Visiting my Nana for my 32^nd birthday was the last real moment we had together. At least the way I remember things. It was early November and we sat in the living room at Boxberry Lane, the house I had spent as much time in as any other place on earth.

I can’t remember exactly what we spoke of, likely how much I hated cooking and wanted to be a writer. I am sure we talked about family, old times, and funny stories, those were the things that distracted me from my own life. Even at 32, I felt like I was behind where I should have been in life, but that’s for another day.

I vividly remember leaving in the early afternoon, before sunset. Nana was basically in her pajamas still sitting in her chair. I bent down and gave her a kiss and a gentle hug, told her I loved her, and left. I don’t remember if I saw her again before things hit the tipping point but at my age now I prefer to remember that time as the true end.

One of the last photos of Nana, she hated having her picture taken.

A few weeks later came word that she had fallen at home. Nobody had been there, well except for her cat Mittens. Nana lay on the floor for several hours before my father showed up and she was taken to the hospital. She was still with it enough to make the joke that Mittens had walked around her and stuck her butt in Nana’s face, but once she realized she wasn’t going to be fed Mittens left to go sleep in another room.

It was only a few days before Thanksgiving. I was living at home and the stress was overwhelming. In my mind, Nana would recover and be home as good as new relatively soon. There was no need to go and visit when I could just see her at her house when she got back.

On Thanksgiving, my Uncle Eric led a prayer for my Nana that she would have a swift and full recovery. It was the first holiday that she wasn’t at that I had any memory of. It was different, but once the food and stories started it felt like any other holiday on that side of the family.

I remember as the evening was dying down my Uncle Eric and Aunt Emma asked to talk to me. They had noticed what was going on with me and the stress of my home life. Out of the goodness of their hearts, they offered me their spare bedroom to move into for a while which I gladly accepted.

I didn’t leave home with anger or malice toward my family. I just knew that I needed some sort of change in my own life and had to do something about it. Little did I know moving would be the smallest change coming.

December came and my Nana didn’t return home. She seemed to be improving so it felt like it was just delaying things. Her going home would be the ultimate Christmas present for us all. A friend of the family worked at the rehab center that she was sent to so we all got routine updates on how she was doing. Then something seemingly innocuous happened that ended up being the turning point in this whole story.

They lost her teeth. Yes, it sounds like a bit from a comedy show and I wish it was, but it ended up being far too symbolic. I don’t know if my Nana took it as a sign, or if things were just headed in that direction regardless of outside circumstances. From the moment that her teeth were lost her decline sped up.

In my mind still, it was just delaying her coming home. Things would go back to normal, they always did. Despite being 32 like I said I had never dealt truly with death so I didn’t know the signs. If I had known then, in mid-December 2009, that my Nana wasn’t ever coming home I would have gone to visit her while she was still Nana.

When it became apparent to my Uncle Eric and Aunt Emma that Nana was getting close to the end they brought me and my cousin Patrick to the rehab center to see her. We had not gone and they knew this was likely the only time we’d go.

What I saw when entering her room was something that still haunts me to this day. My Nana was not my Nana anymore. She looked withered and wasted away, almost sunken into the pillows behind her head. Her eyes were closed and when we spoke to her all that we got were whispers barely audible above the room ambiance.

In that moment reality broke through my rose-tinted glasses. In that moment I finally saw that things were not going to go back to normal. When looking at my Nana’s barely recognizable face I felt the child in me wanting to scream and beg for someone to wake me from this nightmare. However, we were all a part of this and we would all have to deal with it.

Patrick and I held on to each other in stunned and horrified silence. Aunt Emma asked us to kiss Nana goodbye so we did. At that moment, as I slowly exited my Nana’s room, never to see her again, memories flooded my head. I didn’t know when the end would be, only that the end was coming. When we all got back into the truck to leave Aunt Emma said we didn’t have to go back again if we didn’t want to. She had seen our faces and knew at the very least we had said our goodbyes.

Christmas Eve 2009 was the first year of a tradition I have kept to this day. My Nana’s favorite place to be was Englewood Beach in West Yarmouth, MA. If ever I went to her house and she wasn’t there I had a pretty good feeling she was at Englewood doing her crossword puzzles and enjoying the scenery.

I knew how much she loved it there so I went to Englewood on Christmas Eve for a little while because I knew she couldn’t. I took a photo of the sunset with the naive thought that maybe I could show it to Nana someday. On Christmas Eve 2023, I went to Englewood for a little while for the 14^th straight year. I consider it my sunset date with my Nana so that even after all this time we can still spend time together on Christmas Eve.

Christmas Eve sunset at Englewood in 2019

Christmas passed and I can remember there wasn’t a conversation about Nana’s impending death. I don’t think we really talked about it, but I know it was in our thoughts. We hoped that she would at least make it through Christmas. I also hoped that she would make it past December 30^th as that was my Uncle Bob’s birthday and that would have been a terrible trauma to have to cope with every year.

Then the day came. December 29, 2009. I was sitting in a rocking chair, my Dell laptop in my lap as I was posting something irrelevant to Facebook about why I felt I could never find ‘the one.’ My Aunt Emma came in and broke the news that Nana had died. We exchanged a hug but I felt numb and hollow.

I sat back down by myself. I stared out the window trying to feel for anything to hold on to in that moment. On the sloped roof of the house next door, I watched as crows began to gather. One turned to two, three, then four. They all perched in a spot where they would be visible to me. Depending on what you believe crows have very deep spiritual meaning when it comes to death and change in general. I felt their presence, but I also felt my Nana’s.

I was sad, but not for the reasons you might think. I was sad selfishly because I knew part of my life was over. Although I had thousands of memories with my Nana I had always thought there would be one more. I was also sad because I should have been there more when she was nearing the end. It is one of the biggest regrets I’ve ever had in my life. In fact, when my Grampa was rapidly declining with Alzheimer’s in 2019 I made it a point to be there every excruciating step of the way because I hadn’t done it for my Nana. Grampa’s final weeks are a trauma that I still haven’t fully recovered from.

Nana's cat Mittens sitting in her chair the day after she had passed away.

The changes only continued. With Nana gone next to go was the house on Boxberry Lane where we had all gathered for countless holidays, cookouts, and random days of just living. The house was sold before winter turned to spring in 2010. We had one last get-together there. I still remember ordering Giardino’s pizza because she always enjoyed it, and always had coupons. We shared stories, laughed, and cried. It was truly an all-encompassing celebration of life.

I felt then, and still do now, that I didn’t allow myself to fully grieve for Nana. Partially due to wanting to be a rock for the others in the family, and partially due to fear and not wanting to accept life had changed forever. Over the ensuing months, the grief would manifest. I would have numerous vivid dreams with my Nana in them, her face, her voice, the way I remembered.

The fact that I was staying at the time with my Uncle Eric and Aunt Emma was no accident. Emma’s mother Neta who lived there too became a surrogate Nana to me. I was laid off from work for the winter which luckily(or unluckily) gave me ample time to think about what was happening. I can remember many times that I sat and had lunch with Neta and just talked. I didn’t confide feelings of grief, or look for profound answers on the meaning of life. No, I just enjoyed her company. In the years that have passed, I look at Neta as a Godsend. I know I thanked her, but hope I thanked her enough for just being who she was at such an important time in my life.

My final time inside the walls of my Nana’s house was in early February 2010 when I had to get anything of mine that had been stored in her attic. For the most part, I was by myself in the quiet of the house. My father who had lived there into his 50s had used Nana’s death as a catalyst to move to Florida. He also took her cat Mittens with him. He would return mere weeks later, Mittens though, would die at some point during the trip.

The house on Boxberry Lane years after it was sold.

The house was silent as I grabbed boxes to take to my car. I amerced myself in the quiet, hoping that there might be some sort of sign from Nana. It wasn’t to be on that day. However not too long after I had a vivid dream of me entering her house and calling out to her. Clear as day she spoke from the end of the hallway as she often did when she was alive. She said, “I’m okay, I’m alright.” I can hear it still 14 years later.

They say a person dies twice, once when their life ends, and again when their name is spoken for the last time. I have made it a point to keep my Nana alive with things like this, and remembering her on her birthday. I do the same for the numerous others that I have lost since my Nana.

I remember my Grampa, my Nina, my friend from age 7 Matt Medeiros, my friend from high school Pete Machon, our family friend I considered my aunt Brenda, and most recently my Uncle Eric. Their memories are still alive in me.

Today marks 14 years since my Aunt Emma told me my Nana had died. She, my Uncle Eric, cousin Patrick, and Neta all kept me afloat during those times, and I hope that I did the same for them in some small way.

In the years since the family on that side has splintered. With no home base on Boxberry Lane, it became harder to get together. When Uncle Eric and Aunt Emma moved back to Las Vegas the gatherings on the Setterlund side stopped altogether. If I am lucky I bump into my Uncle Bob every once in a while which is always a welcomed interaction. Sadly, the last big family get-together was in the spring of 2023 as we had a celebration of life for my Uncle Eric after he passed in January 2023.

It’s interesting, as I write this I feel like a narrator of a film. These words have my voice, but my mind is filled with scenes of joy and laughter with so many people both here and gone. That is the power of a life. Even after someone is gone they can leave you with smiles, and tears, for endless years. After 14 years that is the power of my Nana’s life.