The Most Difficult Question

I am blessed to have a significant number of caring people in my life, some close friends, some acquaintances, who from time to time express concern for my well-being. One of the most difficult things for me to do is to accept their compassion, and I don't know precisely why that is. One of the hardest questions they can ask me is, "How are you doing?"

Here's the thing: I've never been the guy who can just say "fine" when I'm not. I don't like deceiving people, but by the same token, I don't necessarily want to explain Mum's situation and how it's impacting me and the people I love ad infinitum. My typical course of action is to express the truth but in a minimalist fashion, like "Oh, you know, getting by." Maybe, "I'm still hangin' in there." Or perhaps, "Taking it one day at a time."

And you know, these do have the advantage of being factually correct; Tara and Audrey and the girls and I, we are getting by, and we are doing it by taking things one day at a time.

Mum's transfer by ambulance from the U of A to Leduc Community Hospital really took a lot out of her and left her far weaker and more tired than before. After a couple of days, she seemed to recover a little and began eating a few bites of her meals. She is still prone to confusion and extremely tired, sleeping for much of the day. Her frustration over her language issues is being to spill over into the perceived helplessness of her situation, so Mum sometimes expresses herself angrily. It can be difficult not to take it personally.

With no clear view of the future beyond a few days, we have little choice but to take things one day at a time. There is a chance of Mum being moved from the hospital into an extended care facility or hospice, which is frightening because of how the last transfer impacted her, but also in terms of available resources to help her recover from her strokes. We've asked for them not to move her if they can help it, but who knows.

We all think it would be a good idea for Tara to return to Texas for a week or two before Christmas, to touch base with her new job there and the life that she will eventually return to (and, you know, her incredibly patient and supportive husband). But with so much up in the air and Mum's immediate prognosis still largely unknown, even this simple act seems impossible to implement.

Likewise Christmas; where will our family meet? Will be there be stockings and presents and a turkey dinner, and if so, where will it be cooked? What will we do? Significant questions that required a nuanced approach even before Mum was hospitalized now feel random and insurmountable.

For now, all we can do is keep plodding forward. Visiting when we can, supporting Mum, and increasingly importantly, each other. Learning more, asking more questions, exploring courses of action in not only medical but also personal and professional contexts.

In the end, I'm confident we will get by, and get through this. By taking it a day at a time, and hanging in there for as long as it takes, cliched or not. Remembering to interface with our other lives, and seeing these concerned faces through tired, headachey, sleep-deprived and occasionally tear-streaked eyes. Doing unrelated, silly stuff that feels strangely more imperative than it did a month ago: playing games with friends we don't see often enough. Carving out time for a television show, together. I'd love to blog about them at some point, and hopefully will before too long.

Thank you for asking how we're doing, even if we might look pained by the inquiry.

We're still hangin' in there.