It's hard to be a cruise director during a pandemic

I grew up in a very serious household. Between the normal financial constraints, in-law drama, and arguments about food (nothing could start an argument like dinner), my parents had all of the typical stressors of raising two girls in the 80's and 90's. And they also had my dad's cancer.

My father was diagnosed with non-Hodgkins lymphona when he was 30. I was 5. My sister was 2.

As a kid, I had different fears than most other children. They were worried about monsters under the bed. I was worried--quite reasonably--that my dad was going to die.

My parents were shuffling between appointments and figuring out medical bills and trying to be strong for their kids and each other and explaining the latest treatments to everyone and numbing themselves in front of the TV. They were already serious, introverted people before the cancer, and the cancer didn't exactly liven up the party. They were sometimes depressed, sometimes crabby, always trying their best... things I understand so much more now that I am an adult.

My dad is something of a medical miracle in that he survived his diagnosis at age 30 and made it all the way to age 58. Through the years, he had round after round of treatments for the lymphoma, plus diabetes and heart, kidney, liver, eye problems. We called him Duct Tape Man--a piece would fall apart and the doctors would just stick him back together. In the last few years of his life (which, of course, we didn't know were the last years--we'd waited so long for him to die that we were shocked when it actually happened), he seemed to give up. He didn't want anymore treatments, and he avoided check-ups. He felt like he had done what was expected of him as a father and as a husband, and he wasn't sure he deserved more money and medicine poured into him.

It's frustrating to watch someone you love give up.

With all of this heaviness surrounding me as a child and young adult, I have had to figure out how to cope... how to thrive.

And I decided a long time ago that I don't want to be sad and depressed and worried about the next terrible thing to happen. I want joy and magic and laughter and fun and connection. And so I've set out to build a life that is the opposite of my childhood. To the people I care about, I bring the energy, the fun, the ideas, the silliness, the food, the awkward displays of affection, the break out into song, the magic.

I am the Cruise Director.

I play this role with my family, my friends, and often at work. I'm even overly enthusiastic with strangers, one of those really friendly people who will strike up a conversation with anyone.

I've found that the easiest way to have joy, magic, laughter, and all the rest of those beautiful things in my life is to create them. To shower the people I love with them. To fly across the country to take care of a sick friend and make her laugh. To refuse to let go of a friendship that feels harder after our lives have taken separate paths. To insist my old college roommates take a trip together every year, even if we can't afford it and it pisses off our partners. To create Christmas and birthday and everyday magic for my kids. To make my husband break out of his macho façade and dance. To say yes when I'm invited, and sometimes to invite myself.

And I have built a beautiful life in this way. I have joy, and magic, and laughter, and fun, and connection. Most days, in normal times, my life is the opposite of my childhood. And honestly, it's pretty exciting to be the cruise director.

But there are a few things that are never said.

Underneath all the happy stuff is just a scared kid who is afraid to be alone and sad.

It takes a lot of energy to throw a constant party.

A big part of being the cruise director is about having control.

And lastly, there aren't many cruises running right now because we're in a fucking pandemic.

Over the past nearly nine months in quarantine, I've realized how much I need people. I'm just a scared kid who is too alone and a little bit sad. I don't have the energy to throw my 400th Zoom party. I can't control anything. I miss facial expressions and hugs and the energy of being in a room with people I care about.

I realize that this year is the closest my kids have come to having their childhood like mine... crabby, worried parents... fear of a disease... all of us numbing ourselves in front of the TV.

I could be pouring my energy into creating magic for my kids, especially as Christmas comes. But I'm too tired. I'm struggling to find the enthusiasm. My husband and kids are grumpy and listless, each attached to their own screens as they fight off their own boredom, none rallying when I try to create some fun.

I'll still try. I'm struggling for ideas and sometimes if feels like it would be easier to give up, but we need some Christmas magic, dammit.

I've learned a little bit this year that it's okay not to be responsible for creating the party all the time. I don't have to outrun loneliness and sadness. Solitude has its own kind of energy.

But as soon as this pandemic is over, I'm throwing a party.