Bernadette Walsh's Blog

So I heard second hand that some 40 something lady called me “old looking”. To this lady I say, respectfully, fuck you.

I am 56 years old and while, yes, I wish I had my 30 year old ass and wrinkle free face, I accept that those days are gone. And I am ok with that. Because I am lucky to be here. Not everyone makes it to 56. Just recently I saw that one of my fellow Bona alum will not be reaching that milestone.

I also would ask this 45 year old to grow up. Be a better role model for your children. Be kind to others and also to yourself because this vitriol directed to me must be coming from somewhere within. You are not your exterior, not an easy lesson to learn in our appearance and youth obsessed society. A lesson you may want to learn before you also reach 56. Because if you are lucky, 56 will be here before you know it and all the ozempic and Botox will not slow that train

To all my fellow “old ladies” you are fabulous inside and out and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise

Sixteen years ago, after a night out with friends where waaay too much red wine was imbibed, I woke up with the mother of all hangovers. I was at that point also a mother myself and instead of being able to go back to bed for a few hours until recuperated enough to meet my fellow Saturday Night Survivors for brunch as I had done for most of my twenties and thirties, I had to change a poopy diaper. My head felt like it was in a vise as I shoved a bottle in my daughter's mouth. Never again, I swore to myself. Never. Again.

Of course I'd said that before. Since that first weekend at college, I had loved alcohol. Unfortunately, it had never loved me back. Whether I had one drink or twenty, I always suffered the next day and I would swear, never again.

But that time I meant it.

Since that long ago day, I don't think I've had more than three glasses of wine in total. Which, to be honest, most people think is weird and rarely understand. They either think I'm hiding some big secret (is she an alcoholic? Was she in rehab? DUI?) or they try and push alcohol on me (Just have one!). Surprisingly, it's in the work context where I feel most uncomfortable as a non-drinker. At one work dinner in a fancy restaurant in Manhattan, I felt pressure to sip at least some of the wine the waiter kept pouring. After a decade of not drinking, I was rewarded with a migraine by dessert.

Looking back on it, I think I enjoyed drinking so much and for so long because it was a way for me to get out of my own head and that is one thing I do miss -- to be honest, I sometimes need a break from being me. I also miss the social lubricant part of alcohol -- try getting through the office Christmas party without some tepid Chardonnay. Let me tell you -- it's brutal. I think the hardest part of not drinking is that there are some relationships of mine that have suffered -- and continue to suffer -- because of my teetotaler life choices. That said, I don't think it is any coincidence that I only started writing seriously after I gave up the booze. In order to be a good writer, I think you have to be able to examine yourself without any protective filter. I needed to be stripped of my Cosmo-girl haze before I was able to have anything meaningful to throw on the page. All in all, not a bad little silver lining to have.

Which is sad, isn't it? Because she's the new hot thing and I know I would've adored reading her when I was younger. Now, despite my best efforts, I cannot connect with the angst and endless self-reflection and unrequited crushes and even the period pain. All of that, for me at least, is so long ago. Another lifetime.

Maybe that's precisely the problem. Maybe reading Sally Rooney is so uncomfortable for me because I don't want to remember a time when my feelings were always just below the surface. A time when I felt the frisson of attraction when I walked past a crush or the agony of a it's not you it's me note slipped under my dorm room door. A time when I was certain that it would never happen for me. A time before those intense bursts of emotion were dulled by conference calls and commutes.

A time when I still felt like the real me.

Although who is the real me? Is it the five year old who clung to her daddy's hand? The tween who was banished from the sixth grade clique? The nerd who won the Economics Award? The idiot who wasted too many years pining for someone who didn't love her enough? The organizer of conference calls? The not always good friend or mother or wife?

I'm lucky that I've lived through several iterations of me -- I know not everyone makes it to double nickels. And I'm grateful that I've reached the stage in my life when, unlike a Sally Rooney heroine, things aren't so damn painful -- at least not everyday. My psyche is no longer tender and the pricks of disappointment and disillusionment don't hurt so much anymore. One benefit of middle age.

But maybe it would do me no harm to remember, at least sometimes, the earlier versions of me. After all, what's the point of living through all that angst if you bury it beneath layers of suburban busyness? The twenty-something me was fierce and confident and fun and shouldn't be erased from the narrative of my life because she was a wee bit melodramatic and unnecessarily angsty and made more than her fair share of mistakes.

When my father died earlier this year, we created a photo collage of all the stages of his life and the mosaic of his life was beautiful. My father was as much the skinny boy on the beach and the handsome young cop as he was the doting grandfather. If I can appreciate each stage of my father's life, should I not cast a similarly forgiving eye on my own?

Maybe, once I accept and forgive my younger self, I'll be able to appreciate Sally's young and earnest heroines.

When I was in high school I used to imagine my parents’ death. Not in a macabre way. I mean, it’s not like I sat in study hall picturing how it would happen — there weren’t visions of car accidents or plane crashes dancing in my head. No, it was more the aftermath I pictured — me as an eighteen year old bravely working two jobs while selflessly putting my younger brother and sister through school, my own academic ambitions sacrificed on the altar of family fealty. Or, when I was feeling particularly anxious, I envisioned myself as a skinny sixteen year old, separated from my siblings and living in the basement of some faceless nameless relative.

Thankfully, my parents were alive and well as the three Seery siblings graduated from St. Dominic High School and beyond so, despite my overactive imagination, there was no need for me to forgo higher education or spend my adolescence in anyone’s spare room. Thus saved from my imagined melodramatic fate, I marched through college and law school and eventually marriage and motherhood without thinking too much about my parents’ ultimate demise. For decades, my parents were happily retired in Florida, golfing and bowling and gambling to their hearts content and, I suspect, they didn’t give their final destinations too much thought either. That all changed with my father’s first heart attack. Still, they the parents and we the children, weathered that particular storm and the ones that followed. Life, as it must, continued. Christmases were celebrated and grandchildren graduated from sippy cups to drivers permits and we all focused on our daily routines. My macabre “what-if” scenarios were, for the most part, successfully held at bay.

But then my father’s heart started to give out. He had procedure after procedure and the time periods when they would “work” and he could resume a somewhat normal life became shorter and shorter. I thought about what I would say to my father as his time grew near. I imagined all of us gathered around his death bed, taking turns telling him how much we loved him. I even selected the songs I would sing to comfort him as he crossed the veil from this world to the next.

Of course there was always another procedure. Another reprieve. When I saw my father last Christmas and he looked, to me at least, better than he had in years, we played cards and talked about my new pool and Biden and the Florida real estate market. And then a month later when I had a few extra carryover vacation days and decided to take advantage of cheap post-Christmas airfares, we talked about Ukraine and whether I should interview for a new job and what type of car I should buy when my lease was up later in the year. It never occurred to me that I should tell my father any of the wonderful things I imagined saying at his death bed. I certainly didn’t croon for him his favorite Irish ballad because he was fine. Sure he was getting another heart ablation the following week but that was no big deal. He’d had them before. Piece of cake.

His ablation went perfectly and when I spoke to him on the phone that week and the next he sounded great. And besides, I’d see him in April when we were all coming down for his eightieth birthday. There’d be plenty of time to talk then.

My father ruined all my plans by collapsing in the kitchen. There were no last words. No favorite ballads. No chance to hold his hand one last time. Within an hour, he was gone.

My father died a week ago today. Below are a few things I wish I could’ve told my last week self:

YOU ARE NOT PREPARED

My father was 79 and had been in ill health — off and on — for several years. I knew this day was coming. If you had asked me a week ago whether I was prepared for the death of my father I would have — quite confidently — told you yes. Guess what? I was not prepared. At all.

Because the truth is that nothing can prepared you for the tsunami of grief that will hit you when the man who has held your hand emotionally and physically for fifty-five years is no longer there. And instead of fighting this undeniable fact — and chastising myself for not keeping it together in a better way — I wish I had just ridden that wave and accepted that, yes, I was a wreck and that that was okay.

CELEBRATE THE PEOPLE WHO SHOWED UP FOR YOU

The most amazing people have shown up for me. Work colleagues who told me to “take all the time I need.” My husband who took care of everything on the home front while I’ve spent the last week in Florida. My in-laws who had masses said for my father. Facebook friends — some of whom I haven’t seen in decades — providing heart-felt messages of support. The Florida neighbors who made us casseroles. The family members who called and sent flowers and — most importantly — shared the collective grief for the loss of the wonderful man I was honored to call father and they were honored to call cousin, brother-in-law, uncle and friend.

AND IGNORE THE ONES THAT DIDN’T

You will be shocked by some of the people who didn’t pick up the phone or send a card or send flowers. It will make you angry and, in some ways, it would feel so good to focus on that anger and disappointment — because if you’re angry, there’s less room for grief. Don’t do it. Ignore them for now.

BUSY WORK IS YOUR FRIEND

Cleaning out closets. Organizing papers. Things I normally hate provided me with a focus that was oddly comforting and took me out of myself for at least a few hours.

IT’S OK TO LAUGH

My brother, sister, mother and I have had more laughs this week than you would imagine as we sifted through photos and cleaned closets. The one bright spot of this week has been the extended time I could spend with them. Treasure it and remember it’s okay not to cry all the time. Dad would want us to laugh.

IT’S OK TO TURN OFF THE NEWS AND NOT READ YOUR EMAILS

Yeah, I know we’re in the middle of WWIII and before last Thursday I read every article and watched hours of CNN. I have absolutely no idea what’s happening in the Ukraine. After day two, my head felt like it was stuffed with cotton and I couldn’t even think about opening a work email. That’s okay. The world will be there when this week is over.

PAY IT FORWARD

When a friend or work colleague lost a parent — especially one who had lived a “good long life,” I have to admit, my condolences were always rather perfunctory. After all, death comes to us all. However, now I get it. And I hope in the future to be able to show others the understanding and compassion I’ve received this week.

My daughter was recently complaining about her chemistry class. Do you remember chemistry class? Does anyone remember chemistry class? I took chemistry almost forty years ago. I suppose I can be forgiven for not remembering how to use a bunsen burner.

The one thing I do remember is where I sat in chemistry class — the row furthest to the right, near the front since I was nearsighted and at the time too self-conscious to wear the thick plastic-rimmed glasses provided for free by my father’s union. To my left sitting in the next row was Christine, Chrissie to her friends. I never called her Chrissie. We weren’t friends.

I remember one day Chrissie arrived in chemistry class having shed the single curl that had previously framed each side her face. The same style the majority of the class wore and a style I slavishly followed despite the effort — and hairspray — needed to bend my stubbornly pin-straight hair into a sad approximation of Chrissie’s perfect flip. But then Chrissie shocked us all by abandoning our collective hairdo for an edgier bi-level cut. “Why would she do that?” we all wondered. “It’s kinda ugly, isn’t it?” But a possibly questionable hair style choice couldn’t keep someone like Chrissie down. By the end of that semester, I’d say about half the class had copied her style, myself included.

Every high school class has a queen bee, and I suppose I was fortunate that our queen bee, Chrissie, wasn’t cut from the same cloth as the “mean girls” from the movies. She was smart, hardworking. A cheerleader, of course. She was not a bully to those girls several tiers below her in the popularity rung. She was never cruel to me. I don’t think she said much to me in our four years together. I was as invisible to her as I’m sure girls lower than me on the oh-so-important popularity ladder were invisible to me. I watched from the sidelines as she had a big sweet sixteen party I wasn’t invited to and was ferried around town in her older boyfriend’s car. Instead of proms, I went to sleepovers with other girls of my ilk. My braces eventually came off. I went away to college and made friends with some of the popular girls. I went to keg parties and kissed boys. I was fine.

I ran into Chrissie the summer before I went to law school. She remembered me. She was nice. All the cool swagger I'd acquired over the previous four years evaporated immediately and I transformed into the invisible nerd ghost from chemistry class. But it was fine. Despite embarrassing myself in front of the homecoming queen, I went to law school, graduated, got a job, found some cool NYC friends and went to trendy bars and even kissed a boy or two. It was one of those boys — a football player from my old high school — that, over the din of mid-90s pulsating dance music, told me about Chrissie.

She had died. Some kind of cancer.

Which was sad, of course, but didn’t stop me from making out with the former football star and gyrating to songs my daughter would now think were lame.

The next day, after my hangover cleared, I let his words sink in. Chrissie was dead.

If my high school class had to vote for who they would've liked to see make it past age thirty, me or Chrissie, there is no doubt who they would've picked. I guess I’m lucky that that’s not how life works.

As years passed and others in both my close and not so close orbits were felled by fate, including, quite tragically, that same football player, I didn’t allow myself to contemplate those forbidden thoughts: Why him? Why her? Why not me? I’ve survived enough years on this earth to know that there is no answer to such questions. Because it’s not fair that Chrissie never got to commiserate with her own daughter about the horrors of the chemistry regents exam or that the cute football player never tossed a ball with his own son. The fact that I'm blessed to have a daughter to roll her eyes at me is something I should thank God for every day. But of course, I don’t. I mean, who does? What with work and laundry and figuring out what to make for dinner again, I don’t stop often enough to smell the roses and count my blessings. In that I suspect I am not alone.

Tomorrow I am going to the beach and I am going to stick my feet in the sand. I will undoubtably say or do something that my daughter will find embarrassing. But I am not going to get annoyed. I am going to wring every bit of enjoyment I can out of our day at the beach. And I will say a little prayer for all those who have entered my close and not so close orbits and can no longer feel the sand between their toes. And I will push aside all the minutia of daily living that I allow to occupy too much space in my head, and try — for at least this one day — to feel truly grateful that I am still here.

Yesterday I was scrolling through Google News and came across an article about Bridget Fonda. The article and the accompanying photos compared her appearance 20 plus years ago with her appearance today. Bridget and I are about the same age and I associate her movies with my own carefree single self. As a fellow skinny redhead I was told once or twice that I resembled Bridget -- which while not really true, I took as a major compliment. To say I was appalled by the article is an understatement. And it wasn't Bridget's 2022 appearance that I found appalling.

Apparently Bridget's great sin was to walk around in her very normal 58 year old body wearing shlumpy clothes while running errands. And for that heinous crime, some imbecile on Twitter renamed this accomplished wife, actress and mother as "Bridget Fonda Pastries." This all comes on the heels of the recent age shaming of the cast of Sex & The City. And if these women are seen as ugly -- what hope is there for the rest of us mere mortals?

I think a more interesting question is why is this ridiculing of middle-aged women and their appearance occurring now? What about fifty-something women is so threatening? Is it the fact that after a long hard journey women are (finally) making inroads in professions and positions in society that had been closed to us? Or is it something more insidious? Is attacking women's appearance still a "safe" prejudice? After all, who needs to feel bad about mocking an overweight over-the-hill "Karen"? No fear of being cancelled there.

Look, getting older is not fun for anyone. I am certainly guilty of deleting unflattering photos. Hell, my author photo that I've posted all over my social media is more than ten years old, so I am certainly not 100% comfortable with my evolving appearance. We all know that aging is particularly difficult for women. My husband's silver hair is seen as distinguished and attractive. I feel compelled to cover mine with harsh chemicals every four (ok three) weeks. Like Bridget, my size 2 days are far behind me (hell, single digit dress sizes are a distant memory as well). But you know what, I am lucky to be here. I turned 55 earlier this month. I have friends and schoolmates who were not as fortunate.

So I am going to take one small step towards acceptance by posting a picture of my current self. And if anyone wants to mock my double chin or wrinkles they can just kiss my fifty-five year old ass!

DUMP THE FLASHCARDS. No seriously, throw them out right now. I tormented my daughter when she was in pre-K with these things and honestly she learned to read when she was ready to read. Me shoving pieces of cardboard in her face didn't make her read any better or faster and that time could've been spent doing things that were a lot more fun.

BUY THE DAMN PUPPY. My daughter had begged for a dog for years. I love dogs but I couldn't imagine adding one more thing to my to-do pile -- and let's be honest, a five year old is not about to pick up dog poop. During the pandemic -- because we were all delirious -- we bought a pandemic puppy. We all love the puppy/now dog but a sixteen year old doesn't experience the same exuberant joy holding a puppy as a five year old does. I so wish I could go back in time and hand that five year old girl a puppy.

DON'T LET YOUR KID'S ACTIVITIES INTERFERE WITH FAMILY TIME. For over ten years my daughter was involved in competitive dance, so there were a lot of late night practices and weekend competitions. That meant many missed family dinners and even several Thanksgivings. Don't get me wrong, there were a lot of positive things that resulted from dance but I wish I had put the brakes on some of it. When you're in the midst of it, it is easy to get caught up -- you think, if she doesn't attend this class or that competition then she won't progress. But as soon as my daughter hit high school, other interests took priority and she hung up her dancing shoes anyway. As the adult, I should've better balanced her extracurricular activities with the overall needs of the family.

LET HER PLAY WITH THE BIRTHDAY BALLOONS. The day after one of my daughter's birthdays parties (I think either 6th or 7th), she was scheduled to attend a dance competition. That morning she said she wanted to stay home and play with the twenty or so helium balloons we took home from her party. Of course I told her that was silly and she could play with them later -- I had paid the entrance fee to the competition after all. So we got in the car, drove the hour to the competition and she was sad all day. I should've just let her stay home and play with the damn balloons. As a working mom, I was focused on squeezing in as much as I could on the weekends and "sticking to the plan." While that was the right thing to do most days, on that particular day that was the wrong choice.

FORGIVE YOURSELF. You will make mistakes. You will raise your voice when you shouldn't. Forget to send in the snack and a thousand other things. But you always did the best you could and, at the end of the day, that was enough.

Over the years, I've contemplated joining Catholic writing groups but I got the sense that my fondness for dropping the occasional f-bomb might be frowned upon. I also suspected that my stories -- populated as they are by divorcees, alcoholics, adulterers, witches and even the occasional murderer -- might raise a few eyebrows.

But does that mean I'm not a Catholic writer? What does it even mean to be a Catholic writer?

Andrew Greeley stated that Catholic works of art "assume a God who is present in the world, disclosing himself in and through creation." Do my novels meet that definition? Yes. Yes I think they do.

I am what they call a "cradle Catholic" but despite my many many years of Catholic education, if I'm being completely honest, I would have to categorize myself as a very imperfect Catholic. I miss mass a lot. I drop the more than occasional f-bomb. I can be abrupt and short-tempered and often find it difficult to like -- never mind love -- my neighbor. I allow the inconsequential things in life to fill my brain to such a degree that I find it difficult to quieten it enough to say -- and mean -- even the most basic of prayers.

And yet ---

I am a Catholic. It is core to who and what I am. Catholicism and my experience of it impacts my world view in ways I am not even fully conscious of most of the time. And it comes out in my writing -- often I don't even realize the degree to which it is reflected in my writing until I reread the final draft.

In my fifty-five years on this planet I have:

- railed at God,

- cried "why me"

- at times been so wracked with guilt and self-loathing that I could barely look at myself in the mirror

- been overcome with gratitude when God has provided an unexpected blessing, and

- known the flashes of peace and love when I felt in communion with my Lord

And I have incorporated these experiences into my characters.

I'm not sure if this is enough to make me a "Catholic Writer," but I know that my very imperfect brand of Catholicism is reflected in my writing and hopefully allows me to impact my readers in a deep and meaningful way.

Despite the occasional f-bomb.

I don't know about you, but I haven't been bitten by the genealogy bug. No 23 and Me tests for me. I know who I am. I know where I come from. As I told one particularly obnoxious office mate years ago who chastised me for not wearing green on St. Patrick's Day, I didn't need to. I was green on the inside.

Growing up, being Irish -- or rather Irish-American -- was not something I needed to celebrate once a year. It was something I simply was. And the seeds of that "Irishness" were sown by the songs my father blasted on his eight-track cassettes, my mother's stories of "home," the meals we ate on a Sunday and the afternoons spent in the VFW hall learning the jig and the reel. Some people feel conflicted about their ethnic background but thankfully I've never shared that particular affliction. I have more than one family member who has twisted themselves in knots distancing themselves from their immigrant roots. For those who dove head-first into the inevitable melting pot by wrapping themselves in a spouse's WASP armor thus leaving the Tricolour far behind, I feel only pity.

But how much do we owe to those that first climbed on those immigrant ships, hoping for a better life? A better life that sadly few of them ever saw. The more salient question for me is, how much do I want to know about those first in line?

A distant possible cousin of my father who is a genealogy buff reached out to us via email with details gleaned from public records. The bald facts of my great-grandparents' lives were beyond heartbreaking and stayed with me long after I closed this cousin's email. Premature deaths. Orphans handed out like unwanted kittens. Grinding poverty and prejudice. No Irish need apply. But from that morass of poverty and pain sprouted college educated professionals. Homeowners. Followers of the American dream, most of whom proudly don green on St. Patrick's Day. I suppose, in retrospect, the prior generations' sacrifices were worth it.

But how can I ever live up to the weight of their sacrifice? Prior to receiving the message in a bottle -- or rather email -- the names and faces of these forbears were not familiar to me. As I ate my mother's ham and cabbage and won a medal for a particularly lively jig, I certainly wasn't aware of those banished from their four green fields to live out their too short lives in a squalid Philadelphia tenement. But now that I know their stories and can look at their faces staring out from my computer screen, I owe them something, don't I? Even if its just a quick moment of silence now and then as I sit in my five bedroom colonial that they, in a sense, bought me with their years of sacrifice.

Like those that spilled their blood for our country, I believe on this Memorial Day I also need to honor those that brought me to the shores of what is still, in my opinion, the greatest country on earth.

Happy Memorial Day.