On a year in which I lost much, gained much, and took on far too much

This past year, 2013, kicked my ass. And my first instinct is to say that I have no right to complain. Others had it much, much harder. Yes, my two older sisters and I continue to grieve the sudden, unexpected loss of our father, last Memorial Day Weekend. Yes, I’m stressed by that and work pressures and my distinctly uncooperative brain.

But when she called to tell me that Dad had died–to which my response was, “You’re kidding, right?”–my eldest sister was just a few days away from surgery, as she prepared to battle breast cancer for the second time, a battle that would entail grueling months of chemotherapy.

As Jeanice will be the first to tell you, we were raised not to wallow, which sometimes means we’re not especially good at admitting when we’re really hurting. We come from good Scandinavian American stock, where a common refrain is “Could be worse,” in response to any sort of calamity. (Author and illustrator James Stevenson apparently came from similar stock–just imagine a working class version of the Grandpa in his book Could Be Worse, and you’ll have a glimpse of our Dad.)

So, I look at my sisters–Jeanice, who continues to heal and get her life back, and Candy, who as the one who still lives near our childhood home and has been relatively healthy this year, has shouldered much of the burden of handling our father’s estate–and think, “You’ve been lucky, Susan. You’ve got nothing to complain about.” I’ve got a satisfying job that pays pretty well, a wonderful wife, a lovely home. I’ve got supportive family and friends, health insurance, and a great therapist.

But I also live with chronic anxiety and depression, which has always made intellectual work a particular challenge, and in the wake of my father’s death, made it even harder to find my way along the tenure path. That spiral of shame and denial spins ever more wildly when faced with Big Writing Projects. And it’s hard to explain sometimes what’s going on inside the chemical soup of my mind, when it’s tilting wildly off course.

I know that I have succeeded before, and I have failed before, and that I have survived and celebrated both.