The Goat Effect

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. The 45-minute drive from my mom’s place in Maricopa, Arizona, to my apartment in Gilbert felt longer by the day. Miles of dry, dusty land dotted with scrub grass as far as I could see. Nothing stood out. Even the occasional house seemed to fade into the flat, featureless landscape. A landscape as desolate as my life.

I’d driven this lonely stretch of road hundreds of times in the months I’d lived in Arizona. I had moved with my teenage daughter from our home near Chicago to care for my mom. Her cancer diagnosis had come around the same time my stormy 23-year marriage ended. I’d thought I would help my mom recover her health. I’d wanted a fresh start, a chance to find joy again.

But things didn’t go as I’d hoped. My mother’s cancer spread. The doctors were saying she had only months to live. As usual, my best efforts hadn’t been enough. I wasn’t enough.

Truthfully, I’d felt like this since my parents would love me enough to get back together. That didn’t happen. My mother remarried and started a new family. My father moved on. I stayed stuck, believing I lacked something that made me worthy of love. Maybe that’s why I related more to animals than people—dogs and cats seemed to accept me as I was. And why I felt drawn to other folks who were hurting.