We don’t do well when we have no nanny. The Gorditos are a handful-and-a-half by themselves, and when you throw in Matthew (“All attention needs to be on me!”), the day quickly spirals out of control.

New Year’s Day was such a day. Did I mention it rained? It rained. So we were stuck inside. And that means mischief at high velocity.

Some of it was fun. The kids found a Spiderman mask and took turns modeling.

Matthew’s school has been on winter break. Today is Monday, and teachers have an in-service day; school resumes for kids tomorrow. During the break, Matthew attended Winter Camp, which is nothing but fun activities. But it’s different, and that difference probably explains why Matthew’s sleep pattern is off.

Matthew normally goes down at 9 pm. We start the process at approximately 8:15, and the lights go out around 9. For the past couple of weeks, he has either come to my room at 11:45 pm or 1 am or 3 am because “I scared” or “I hungry,” but he truly just wants to be near me. And for the record, I love that. One night he couldn’t sleep, and he wanted to be near me in bed, so I let him try to sleep. It was harder than we both expected, given that he’d brought his iPad and was watching videos, too. We finally agreed at 3 am that we needed to get him back to his own bed.

If he stays in his own bed at night, then he’s often in my bedroom very early in the morning. A few times, I’ve had an audience while I shower.

“Papa, do all those wrinkles hurt?”
“Only my self-esteem.”
“What?”
”Never mind.”

Two nights ago, he wouldn’t go to sleep. Yesterday, he came downstairs late and wouldn’t eat breakfast; instead, he went over to the couch to sleep. Toddlers move constantly while they sleep, which is one reason why I don’t want to sleep with him. I got this photo of him sleeping in a lotus position, rotated 90º to the right.

I think we’re all counting down the hours until tomorrow’s school start.

One of the high points of the holiday was a visit from my sister-in-law, Tina, and my nephew, Luke. Tina’s husband is my brother John, who passed away in June.

It’s only been seven months since John died. We are still in the year of firsts: first Father’s Day without him, first Thanksgiving without him, first Christmas, first anniversary—and while not fresh anymore, the grief is solid and at times, overwhelming. We all miss him.

It was good to see Tina and Luke. They were visiting family and friends in LA and asked to visit us. They drove to our house on Friday afternoon, and we had dinner out, a rare treat for us. Of course, there were tears. All three of John and Tina’s kids look like John, of course. Luke turns eighteen in a couple of weeks, and right now looks much like John did at around that age.

But Matthew looks like John, too. I don’t think Tina was quite prepared for that. It’s a nice reminder of John.

We had dinner and told stories. When they came over the next day, on their way back to LA, we got some good photos. Will was in Tina’s arms in an instant.

It was nice being around our family.

It has taken me a long, long time to realize that grief never goes away. It’s always there, surfacing in dreams, with favorite foods, near old haunts, and in countless other ways. I am learning to live with it rather than to fight it. I’m not very good at it yet—the anger I feel is still there, just below the surface. I have come to believe that discussing the dearly departed is part of healing and that keeping it all inside is counterproductive. It can be liberating. And I’m not just talking about grief surrounding my brother’s death; what I wouldn’t give to have back Mom, my grandparents, my friends.

Some time ago, I ran across journalist Anderson Cooper’s podcast about grief, called All There Is. There are other resources about grief, too, and you can find them easily.

It appears that grief often touches on trauma and emotional scars, in ways we barely acknowledge or discuss or even really know about. Obviously, one would then need to work through (and thus discuss) the trauma and accompanying feelings. Concomitant depression deserves attention. The scope expands—and that’s before you even connect physical ailments to psychological ones, because we’re starting to understand that medical health affects psychiatric health and vice versa.

A couple of friends have advised me to write about all the grief, not just about John, but in general. I have started that, and it looks like it will have to be a multipart series due to the volume of material. I hadn’t realized how much I’ve been carrying, and I’ve already made some more realizations about myself. Also, it’s slow work because the tears come easily. I think that says my subconscious is still working on something. Shit. It’s not something I want to do, but it seems important.

One good thing about John’s death is in remembering the stories we know we shouldn’t tell. I spoke at the gathering on the night before John’s funeral, where I was supposed to tell a story. And I had a hard time thinking of one that I could tell because the statute of limitations had not yet run out for his friends and some family members. And that still makes me laugh.

When he was younger, John had a habit of getting in trouble.1

I wrote in an earlier post:

One day, I was talking to my Mom when she told me that John had spent the night in jail. “John? What happened?” John had come out of a bar and started to drive off. It was common in college towns for police to wait for someone to come out of the bar and then pull them over. In an epically poor example of decision-making, John took off instead of letting himself be pulled over. He got onto a highway with policemen in pursuit. At high speeds. Across a county line. In Texas. Involving the Texas Highway Patrol.

Somehow, a few cruisers and John pulled over in a grass median on a highway late at night. John challenged the patrolman to a fistfight. John got a good beating and he got to spend a night in jail.

Now, my grandparents were upstanding citizens of Comal County (where brother David and I were born, where our grandparents lived for much of their adult lives). They certainly knew (and were friends with) Sheriff Fellers. My brother David shared this image with me from a November 1, 1984 article (there is a paywall) in Texas Monthly.

Sheriff Fellers was not the kind of guy you want to cross. Sheriff Fellers retired from the force after being sheriff from 19522 to 1984, right before John’s incident with The Law—which happened probably in 1986. Which means retired Sheriff Fellers had to have called in a favor at the jail after his retirement. Interesting fact: Sheriff Fellers died in 1998 and is buried in the same cemetery as my Mom, Grandparents, Uncle, and a few other relatives.

Anyway, our grandfather, Willie, got John out of jail the next morning without posting bail because John was Willie’s grandson and Willie would take care of him.

EDIT at 5:42 pm on 1/5/2026: I got some of those facts wrong after misreading what my brother sent to me. Sheriff Fellers was in office until 1988 and he dealt directly with my grandfather. Back then, there were no ATMs in that town and the jail didn’t take checks; the Sheriff let John out on the promise by my grandfather to pay the bail the following Monday. END EDIT.

I can’t even imagine what that car ride was like. And that’s just one story.

As I said, it was nice to see Tina and Luke.

It’s been a year and a few days since I had my thyroid and a few lymph nodes removed. The scar is barely visible, especially amid the folds of skin in my fully developed turkey neck. The lasting effects of the surgery are minor. I’ve had the follow-up appointments with my endocrinologist, and they’re good:

• I’ve lost enough weight that we’re adjusting my Synthroid dosages. It’s a simple blood draw every six or eight weeks, and the tests measure the level of synthetic thyroid hormone. We’ve adjusted downward three times now, from 200 mcg to 175 mcg to 150 mcg to 137 mcg.

• More importantly, we tested my blood for antibodies to recurring cancer, and there are none. I am non-detectable for all thyroid cancers. That’s great news, and I feel like I can relax a little now.

I still have numb regions of skin in my face and neck. I’m told that’s more or less permanent, a result of the surgery. It’s not too noticeable, except when I shave my face and neck. I use a blade, and I have to guess at how much pressure I’m using. I guess if I press hard enough to hit a carotid artery, I should lighten up—yet another thing to remember.

I have sung all my life. I adored being in our high school choir, and I had the opportunity there to sing in our student musical productions, our madrigal group, and a barbershop quartet. I auditioned for and sang in our District and Regional Choruses, although I never made it to State Chorus.3 I still sing a lot when I drive—I’m in the car so often—and always have. The nerve damage appears to have affected not only my skin but also my vocal cords. It’s difficult even to carry a tune (let alone a harmony), and my range is even more limited. It makes me a little sad. It doesn’t stop me from singing, but it’s sad.

Next month I have a visit with my cardiologist. He has all the personality of a blank sheet of paper, so that will be fun.

And thus begins 2026.

Throughout my life, I have been able to apply energy to a problem. Behind at work? Work late and through the weekend. Irritated by clutter? Organize and put things away. Behind schedule for entertaining? Figure it out, work harder, get it done.

I don’t know if it’s a consequence of my advancing age or perhaps lack of sleep or maybe the soul-sucking reality of running a household that contains three small boys, but I am having a hard time powering through tasks now.

• Curtis had to decorate the house for Christmas. He normally takes care of the tree, but in the past, I have often done the little things: candles, nutcracker placement1, lighting, stockings, etc.

• Curtis did the outside decorations.

• For quite a while, we have used plastic fencing to create a playpen so the kids could play safely in our upstairs TV room. Curtis took all that down, and he assembled the IKEA tables we got for the kids.

• I usually have all my shopping done by the first week of Christmas. That certainly didn’t happen. For the first time in a long time, I went to physical stores this year and loved it.

• Christmas cards (managed by a spreadsheet to track progress) usually go out by December 15th. This year they will go out as New Year’s cards and may be sent (with absolutely no commitment by me to the date) by January 15th.

• We typically have a large turkey dinner with all the trimmings as our holiday meal. For Christmas this year, we had regular food.

I could not pull it together. Am I depressed? I don’t think so. Am I just too busy? That seems like a stretch: yes, I have lots to do, but it’s not like I don’t control that. It’s far easier to think that I’m just getting old, but I don’t like that explanation—it’s easy to use as an excuse, but everyone has something to blame and that just seems too obvious. True, I cannot see nearly as well (it’s so irritating); and you can hear me coming from a mile off, what with the clicks and snaps of bones and ligaments in my knees and ankles; I can’t hear shit; and it annoys me that the people up the street still haven’t figured out how to put their cardboard properly in their recycle bins.

Ok, maybe I’m getting older. Get off my lawn.

Matthew is in “winter camp,” code for holiday daycare. He’s annoyed he has to go because he would rather stay home and play with his toys and pester Papa and Daddy. It was a tough call by us.

In normal preschool, he’s in a pre-Kindergarten class with Ms. Vered. Vered runs a tight ship, and at first, Matthew was unaccustomed to all the rules. He has told me nearly every day that he hates school. When I mentioned it at last month’s parent-teacher conference, Vered was surprised. “He loves school. He participates, helps me, and loves the activities.” My first reaction was disbelief. “Oh no—my kid is Matthew.” “I know who he is.”

Well, well, well.

Here at winter camp, he has Ms. Wanda, his teacher from last year. We love Ms. Wanda. And Matthew asks me every day, “Papa, when can I go back to Ms. Vered’s class?”

Will and Max weigh more than Matthew does now, so we can hardly continue calling them The Chicos. I have to find a new name; they are, after all, pretty big and chunky. I can pick up Matthew just fine, but the Gorditos have lower centers of gravity and are surprisingly difficult to swing into the air. Plus, my shoulders don’t like it.

Their personalities are bursting forth, and they have opinions. Max talks a lot and needs to share everything with you. Will is fully capable, but talks less. My favorite part is that they both love hugs and kisses from me, and that is a happy place.

All three kids love Christmas lights. Matthew turns them on when he enters a room. Will and Max both always inform us: “The lights are on!” It’s one of their few full sentences.

Until this week, the days have been quite warm—exactly how we like them.

Matthew announced that he wanted to light Hanukkah candles this year. I didn’t quite believe him, but he persisted. I didn’t get my ass in gear to get a proper menorah, so we used the one he made in class—the one that was never really meant to have candles. We got Hanukkah candles (which are not, for future reference, the same as Shabbos candles). I read the prayers from an internet page, and Matthew surprisingly recited them with me, since he’s been learning them at school.

Matthew was happy to receive a lighted balloon from a family friend:

The Gorditos rode on the train. They are ridiculously happy about trains.

The weather is now more seasonal, with lows in the 40s and highs in the 60s or 70s (depending on how much fog there is). This is basically Antarctic, and I’m never not cold. Curtis won’t turn on the heat yet, so we walk around the house watching our breath form in front of us and waiting for death by the severe cold or marauding hungry polar bears. I often think we should build a fire in the middle of the front entryway, but so far, I am too weak from the cold to follow through, despite its obvious appeal.

On Christmas Eve, in The Before Times, when it was warmer, I took the Gorditos to the park. We had a blast together. We recognize that we’re not too good at composing a shot, but we were happy.

Christmas Day was chaotic indeed. One of my favorite aspects of the day was that the kids didn’t know it was Christmas until we told them. So there were no pre-dawn awakenings and no rushes for presents. The kids were playing outside (again, in The Before Times) and having a blast when we discovered that Santa had delivered his gifts.

We bought big gifts and had a couple of gifts per child, as well as stocking stuffers. However, our generous friends provided an embarrassing abundance of gifts. That was sweet.

Max contemplates his orange ball…

…and then has more to say.

Will and Max comment together:

Everyone was happy to open presents.

Even Daisy and Cooper got gifts, thanks to Aunt Pat and Uncle Bruce:

A good day was had by all.

Daddy and Papa collapsed later that night when the kids were all in bed and the dogs had been fed. What a tiring day!

Results from Phase 3 trials have put a new drug called Retatrutide (sometimes called Reta) back in the news again. This is a promising drug.

Background: GLP-1 Drugs

Retatrutide is a triple-agonist, meaning that it targets receptors in three separate but related chemical reactions that affect how blood sugar is stored and used. The general class of GLP-1 drugs targets at least one of the reactions; some drugs target only one, some target two, and Retatrutide targets all three.

Depending on the chemical pathways that the GLP-1 drugs affect, the effects (and side effects) are predictable: slower stomach emptying, more satiety, fewer feelings of hunger, and so on.

GLP-1 drugs were developed to help people with Type 2 Diabetes (T2D). GLP-1 drugs, by their nature, help with obesity and quite a few other conditions and there is quite a demand for them. The numbers look good, and while there are side effects, there are also huge benefits.

Retatrutide is manufactured by the American pharmaceutical company Eli Lilly and Co. In the USA, the drug is currently in Phase 3 trials. FDA approval for Retatrutide is projected for late 2026 or early 2027. However, several people have been using Retatrutide on their own. I am one of them.

GLP-1 drugs also have a profound effect on people with fatty liver disease. Fatty liver disease is a metabolic disease (like diabetes) in which your body stores abnormal amounts of fat in your liver. The liver becomes less able to complete its tasks and becomes more rigid. Unchecked, the liver develops cirrhosis. Nobody wants a liver transplant. The only way to treat fatty liver disease is to lose weight. And by the way, fatty liver disease is not necessarily caused by excessive alcohol intake. It can be, but some forms of the disease are independent of alcohol use.

Background: It’s All About Me

I was diagnosed with non-alcoholic fatty liver disease five-ish years ago. I stopped drinking alcohol, even though my condition was not caused by alcohol. Also, we had kids. The main worry for me was that fatty liver disease would presage the development of another metabolic disease, Type 2 Diabetes. I don’t have time for that. I gained weight instead of losing weight after stopping alcohol.

I began using Retatrutide in March 2025. Its obesity-related effects are well-documented and are slightly better than those for drugs already on the market, such as Ozempic, Zepbound, Mounjaro, and a few others. But that’s not why I began taking it. I started taking Retatrutide because:

• Phase 2 trials showed that not only did it slow fatty liver disease, it actually reversed it.

• It could theoretically delay or stop the development of Type 2 diabetes.

• It could help me lose weight.

Phase 3 Trial Data

The data from Retatrutide Phase 3 trials became publicly available in early December 2025. You can look it up. I was worried that the data would show some red flags, such as an increase in stroke risk. But it doesn’t. The Phase 3 trial data supports the Phase 2 trial data, which is a huge relief.

Here’s what I have focused on:

• The weight loss is real.

• The positive effects on fatty liver disease are demonstrable.

• The positive effects on Type 2 Diabetes are real.

How Retatrutide Has Affected Me: Results

The effects on my own fatty liver disease have been astonishing. A year ago, a Fibroscan showed that 67% of my liver was affected by fatty liver disease. That’s not good. I’m now at less than 10%. The effects of fatty liver disease have been reversed. This is what I was looking for.

While I am completely happy with the accompanying weight loss, it wasn’t my primary focus. I lost about 3-4 lbs/month, which is agonizingly slow. I had been expecting 10 lbs/month, so what I got was disappointing. (Although I lost over eleven pounds this month due to the flu.) Overall, I have lost close to fifty pounds. As a direct result of the weight loss:

• I have cut in half the number of medications I take to manage hypertension (high blood pressure). Of the two I still take, I have lowered the dosages.

• I have lowered the dosage of daily Synthroid (the synthetic thyroid hormone) I take.

• I will likely not develop Type 2 Diabetes. Further blood testing is scheduled for early January.

I have an appointment in February with my cardiologist to discuss my heart health. Losing weight is an important factor. Cardiovascular tests last year discovered the stage 3 papillary thyroid cancer in my body. Before that, he was more concerned about chronic inflammation. I don’t know much about what that is or how to measure it or treat it. I hope that I’m at a lower risk for heart attack and stroke. Now that we’re not worrying too much about thyroid cancer, cardiac health is going to be a focus.

How Does It Feel?

Retatrutide is administered weekly by injection. Injections don’t bother me at all; I use the same kind of hypodermic needle as is used for insulin by diabetics. Often, I don’t feel the needle at all. It’s not a thing for me.

But Retatrutide makes me feel shitty for five or six days after I take it on Monday evening. The discomfort starts about an hour after the injection, which is why I take it at night after dinner: I go to sleep within a couple of hours anyway. By Wednesday, I feel absolutely awful. I’m not hungry, but the effect on my mood is that I’m hangry: I’m short-tempered and irritated at everything. (“But Paul, how can we tell?”)

I’m never hungry. By the time I make dinner for the twins and a separate dinner for Matthew, and separate dinners for Curtis and me, I’m not really interested in eating. I like the textures and flavors, but if Curtis weren’t here, I probably wouldn’t eat dinner half the time.

I’m cold all the time. That’s probably more to do with weight loss than the direct effect of the drug itself, but regardless of where it comes from, I’m freezing. We keep our house pretty cool anyway, but I’ve had to get some sweaters just to stop the shivering. Maybe one day we can turn on the heat. Or start a fire. Or live inside a fusion chamber and bask in the healthy radioactive warmth.

One of the big results from the Phase 3 trials includes reports of the lowering of inflammation. I think people mean that their joints hurt less: they report less pain in their knees and hips. I’m unclear if that’s a direct result of the drug or of weight loss. My knees and hips didn’t hurt to start with, so I don’t feel the effects of this. There are also reports of the easing of symptoms for rheumatoid arthritis. I have arthritis in my hands and I don’t notice that they feel better (or worse), but maybe that’s just me.

Other people in the Phase 3 trials report increased skin sensitivity and I do feel that. Specifically, my hair hurts. The hair on my head is sensitive and while it’s not exactly painful, it’s very uncomfortable to shampoo and condition my hair. When the kids grab my shirt, the shirt pulls on my chest hair—and that is uncomfortable, too. It feels like a deep sunburn. And it’s there all the time.

Overall, this has been a very positive experience for me. It’s probably something I’ll have to do for the rest of my life. But I’m good with that overall.

I’m not recommending Retatrutide. It’s not a magic pill; it’s a tool to fight metabolic diseases and associated conditions. Only you and your doctor(s) can make the right decisions for you.

Matthew continues to develop his independence. Sadly, it is not in the ways approved by weary adults; he likes to operate outside the box.1 And that means we have to monitor everything.

We have explained to him that we were sick for Thanksgiving and thus, Christmas decorations have been going up more slowly than expected. The resulting whining and bitching have been epic, and he has decided to help. All of his tabletop decorations, including a lighted snowman, lighted Christmas trees, and a string of lights (all purchased from the decorations aisle at Rite Aid before its closing), are now up and running. He helpfully got out the hideous ceramic Christmas tree my mother gave me long ago. He visits the decoration boxes in the garage, looking for items to be installed in the house. It is a constant battle. And every day, there is at least one meltdown because the tree has no star on top.

Vocabulary

Yesterday, on the way to school, he heard me yell the F-word because some clueless idiot stopped in front of me for no reason. I did not comment on his parentage or his lack of driving skill, but I did let out the expletive. “Papa, what does fuck mean?” We spent the rest of the trip describing why we don’t say that word, why I should not have said it, how I’ll do my best to not say it again, and how it’s a forbidden word to him. I’m sure he understood.

I’m expecting a phone call from the school at any time.

It Doesn’t Get Easier

I play a lot of old music for him, like ABBA and Queen and Kansas and Broadway musicals. He wants to see the videos on his iPad, so we watch together and I know he watches when I’m not there. I made the mistake of showing him what those artists look like now and he gets upset.

“Where is Freddie now?”
”Honey, he died long ago.”
”Why?”
”Because he got sick and he couldn’t get better.”

He asks lots of questions. Where are they now? Why don’t they wake up? And then he cries. I try to explain it gently, but I don’t use metaphors. “She’s with the angels now!” and “He’s sleeping for eternity” aren’t very useful. It’s an important topic, and lying seems wrong.

We occasionally point out people in the photos around our house who have died: my mom, Curtis’s mom, my grandparents, and so on. But he catches me off guard sometimes, and I’m overwhelmed. “Oh, sweetie, he died in a car accident. You would have loved him.”

On Monday night, as we got ready for bed, we were looking at photos and talking about toys.

“Uncle John gave me that!”
“No, that comes from our friend David.”
”When Uncle John come visit? He hasn’t been here forever.”

Matthew doesn’t remember our adult friends too well. I’m surprised he remembers my brother, John, at all. We have some photos and toys John had brought, but John’s last visit was well over a year ago.

“Sweetie, Uncle John died last summer.”
”What happened?”
”His heart stopped beating. We didn’t expect that.”
”But you can fix it!”
”I’m sorry, but we couldn’t. We are all very sad and we miss him very much.”
”He not visit?”
”No. But I think Aunt Tina and cousin Luke are coming to visit after Christmas.”
”But not Uncle John?”
”No, honey. He’s just in our hearts now.”
”I no like it when people die.”
”It’s the hardest thing to face. But we all do.”

And then he cried his little eyes out.

Therapy

The increasingly poorly named Chicos are responding well to speech and behavior therapy. Both kids talk all the time, and you can understand much of it. Some is a little garbled: Tattoo is Matthew, for example. They ask about him all the time. But they get a lot of names correct: Martha, Maritere, Daddy, Cooper, Daisy, Papa, Max, and William are all pretty clear most of the time.

Like Matthew, they are obsessed with the Christmas tree and the orments (ornaments). They are mostly enchanting, and all I want to do is hold them and cuddle them—which is exactly what they don’t want. I get a kiss now and then, and that’s good enough.

Today, one of the therapists couldn’t visit, so I took them to the barbershop for a much-needed cut.

They love having their photos taken.

I am hopelessly in love with these children.2 You can’t tell from the photos, but the mornings here have been brisk: 45 ℉. So the kids are in long-sleeved shirts over t-shirts. We’re having a mini-heatwave right now: it’s supposed to get to 79 ℉ this afternoon. Eek!

Food

Matthew is a picky eater. He likes pasta and hamburgers (as long as I don’t make them) and pizza (as long as I don’t make it) and hot dogs. He requires ketchup and shredded cheese at every dinner time. He does not eat anything else.

I noted with some level of excitement when he asked for and ate a breaded chicken cutlet this weekend. He has been branching out into new candy: Starbursts and Reece’s peanut butter cups are now on the approved list. Until this moment, he would not touch anything with peanut butter. This is a huge step for him. Who knows where it could lead now! Bread? Jelly? Chicken nuggets? The possibilities are dizzying.

Holidays

Matthew often asks questions that sound like he’s laying a legal trap for me in court. “Papa, what holidays are coming?” As if somehow I’m holding out on a gift opportunity for him.

He knows Halloween is over. Sadly. He knows Thanksgiving is over, but he never cared about that because it’s not a gift-for-Matthew kind of holiday.

“Sweetie, Christmas and then New Year’s Day are both coming up.”
”When is Hanukkah?”

He has not cared about a single Jewish holiday, which they talk about all the time at school, until now. But because there’s a gift opportunity in there, suddenly we have an interest.

“Hanukkah starts on Sunday. Why do you ask?”
”What we do for it?”
”We could light a menorah for it. It’s the festival of lights!”
”Ok. And what else?”
”There might be a gift.”
”I want that.”
”Quelle surprise.”
”What?”
”I know.”

Apparently, we’re lighting our first menorah and having a gift. I don’t think he quite understands that he’s getting socks and underwear, like all the other Jewish kids.

And Christmas is two weeks away.

Thankgiving was going to be low-key fun. Dad was flying in from Scottsdale and the plan was for a week of sunshine and easy meals. It was to be our first non-turkey Thanksgiving, celebrated instead with a marinated beef tri-tip and all the traditional side dishes. And pie!

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. It has all the warmth of Christmas without over-the-top gift-giving expectations, and here in Southern California, it’s astonishingly gorgeous during the day and frigid at night. Since Dad was coming, I got the eggplant and the tomatoes and the myriad other items for a nice caponata.1 I got the pizza dough and simple fixings for a pizza. I bought a bottle of wine.2 I had the chicken for cutlets.

On the Friday before Thanksgiving, our nanny went home sick. I, too, wasn’t feeling well. It was the flu. By Saturday morning, I had a low fever and was feeling worse. On Sunday morning, Dad and I agreed that it wasn’t a good idea for him to visit. Not only did we not want to expose him, but it’s just not fun being around sick people.

On Monday I took my regular dose of Retatrutide, the GLP-1 I’ve been taking. That may have been a huge mistake because as the flu effects began to take root, the shitty side effects of the GLP-1 drug started to amplify. I lost my sense of taste. I ate almost nothing: perhaps four pieces of toast and a couple of pieces of watermelon until Thursday evening. Between the start of the flu on Friday and one week later, I lost eleven pounds.3 The cramping was off the charts and I considered a trip to Urgent Care, dissuaded only by my loathing of waiting in line.

Thanksgiving week has no school, and just because I didn’t feel well didn’t mean Matthew should suffer. We went to have a burger one day.

The night sweats started on Tuesday evening. Today is Wednesday, one week later, and yesterday morning was the first time in a week that I have not awakened to soaking, sweat-drenched bedsheets. The hacking coughs began on Wednesday morning.

Matthew wanted another burger, but this time, he also wanted to go to a toy store.

He also loves fries.

On another day, we got pizza.

We had no nanny on Thanksgiving Day, so we entertained all three niños as best we could with slow-motion “playing,” hacking coughs in the sunshine, alternating freezing/sweating, and an extended nap period. After the niños had dinner (they wouldn’t eat) and after a sustained whiny protest by Matthew, who was unhappy that the world had not focused solely on him, Curtis and I sat down to a store-bought turkey dinner with all the trimmings.4

It was the worst Thanksgiving of my entire life.

I started to eat tiny amounts of food on Saturday. I did not feel better until Sunday night before school. I am still coughing regularly, and at any moment, I’ll hack up a lung. Who says romance is dead?

I spoke with other teachers and parents. Our Thanksgiving was not the worst—several people spent worse holidays. Our tale is only to record for posterity and certainly not to serve in some contest of one-upsmanship.