Unexpected Life:Milk

Reality Checks: #1 Don't Cry Over Spilled Milk

Reality Checks:

#1 Don't Cry Over Spilled Milk

August 5, 2026

Monday was about breathing.

Tuesday was about keeping health insurance.

By Wednesday, my nervous system had stopped caring which problem was which.

Monday began with a bang. For months now, I’ve lived underneath people who regularly use tobacco and cannabis.

To be clear, I completely support their rights to use these and other substances. You do you, boo; whatever works.

My body, unfortunately, is not nearly as open-minded.

The problem is this: it doesn’t want to breathe tobacco and cannabis. The ventilation system has embraced the spirit of community. 

Asthma called an emergency meeting.

Migraine RSVP'd immediately.

PTSD arrived with a PowerPoint presentation nobody had asked for.

All of them are working together to remind the body of all of the unsettling events of the last 6 years of the marriage. Fully immersive film festivals are organized while I sleep. All of these fun factors wake Fibro up, who consults with Chronic Fatigue about the need to never move again. Anxiety and depression finally arrive with their teeter-totter fighting about who should be steering my brainpan ship. 

Meanwhile, bills need to be attended to. Algorithms ask to be engaged with. 

The upstairs people were meant to leave at the end of July, according to communication sent to me. I went to the office Monday morning to work it out face-to-face, what was going on. Not surprisingly, I met another new group of management. It seems that over the last few years, turnover has been so high that the office has had different people every three months or so. Of course, the new management had no idea about the issue. Apparently, documentation has a shorter lifespan than smoke. I asked, since the people “broke” their lease by smoking in and around the unit and had been notified to leave, then IF they were digging heels in to stay, I should be let out of my lease so maybe I can 
Breathe
Sleep
Put the whole party in my head down for a nap 

So I can function as a human being instead of a drunk whirling dervish.
Of course, the answer was no. The email I received was, “Oh… you can deal with it. It’s not that bad”.

Tuesday, I got a notice about my health insurance. The ordinary twists and turns of bureaucracy reached my mailbox, informing me that my coverage had been canceled. Dyscalculia and I ran a year-to-date audit of Ms. Frog Lily and resubmitted the financials, explanations, and application. So… webbed fingers crossed. 

Wednesday arrived with a gentle, quiet birdsong. I am exhausted. The Grad leaves on the 10th for her school. Clients are trickling in and out as summer ebbs. My grad school is covered. GoFundMe is open. She’s packing, I’m packing.
I think there are more irons in the fire than wood at this point. 

Where did I expect to be at 58? 

Comfortable with a partner I grew up with. That I had children with and adventures. I hoped to grow into an income once the kids all left and the nest was empty. That all of the diligent work from my 20s, 30s, and 40s would bear some kind of contributive fruit. 

And what I have instead are ashes. 

Ashes are poor companions, but surprisingly honest building material.

Some within the prosperity-gospel culture would suggest that the current unexpected life is simply me reaping what I have sown.
That could be true.
However, the cat is out of the bag, the toothpaste is out of the tube, the horse is out of the barn, and the milk is spilled.

It doesn’t matter how or why I got here.
What matters is what I do with the time and resources I have been given.

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