I’m happy.
Dad’s words caught me unawares. We’d been discussing the daily pains he suffered in his third year harbouring Stage IV cancer. Left leg, right leg, waist, back, arms, chest, neck—the pain moved at will through his body, the only painkiller strong enough to knock him out for the night the morphine he took every evening.
I stopped massaging my calves—a weekly ritual to loosen the muscles tensed up from supporting the ankle I badly sprained last May—and looked up at dad, sitting on the edge of the hospital bed his brother had installed at our house. My dad is mid-arm stretching, a vigorous routine I’m convinced will pull a muscle one day.
I’m happy. Dad repeated and smiled—at himself or me I couldn’t tell. This is as good as it’s going to get. I’ve got your mom. I’m happy.
I smiled back. There was nothing to say.
“I’m happy”
Months later, I can still vividly recall dad’s quiet but firm declaration of happiness—whether this was for my benefit or his, I never asked.
My dad’s happiness surprises me. He’s not simply resigned to his situation, bedridden and waiting for the inevitable—he’s actually happy. This is a man who spent four decades working six-day weeks, going to the gym daily, beating everyone at badminton—a pastime he loved. A man who believed the cure for any aches and pains was to be more active, not less. Yet, in his much reduced state, he’s happy.
Is his happiness born of a complete acceptance of a cruel fate? Appreciation of my mom’s untiring care and companionship? Enjoyment when I take him out to coffees and lunches and dinners, a ritual that goes back decades, during my infrequent visits? Or is it simply relief on those blessed days when he wakes up and there is no pain?
His happiness is so unlikely, yet it’s real. And this blows my mind.
The unhappiness epidemic
My work in self-help exposes me to a lot of unhappiness. Every week, in my role as Newsletter Manager, I go through over a hundred emails from my boss’ followers, the overwhelming majority of whom distressed and desperate for the advice they hope would turn their life around.
I don’t let myself dwell on these emails. My happiness is solid, but not unassailable. Clinical depression is an old friend, and I know how quickly, sometimes instantly, numbness swallows you whole. I also, importantly, remember how long and arduous the road to recovery.
I don’t take on our followers’ unhappiness, but I’m acutely aware of how pervasive and crippling it is. Everywhere, people are unhappy. Rich and poor, privileged and unfortunate, successful and jobless, healthy and sick, male and female, old and young—everyone equally powerless against the oppressive tide of unhappiness.
Why?
Why are so many people struggling? What is it about life that inclines us towards unhappiness?
Is it the situation we find ourselves in—losing a loved one, a job, a home? The life we’re born into—abusive parents, abject poverty, unsupportive community? Ill health and physical pain? Lack of resources and freedom? Or does it come down to mindset—our expectations of life, resilience in the face of adversity?
I don’t know the answer. I don’t think anyone does. If we did, we’d have found a “cure” for unhappiness, everyone would be sunshine and rainbows, and I’d be out of a job.
When I think of my dad, though, I can’t help but wonder if it’s possible for anyone to find happiness. Whether, in the blackest pits life traps us in, it’s still possible to feel brief moments of joy, to be happy… against all odds, even death itself.
What do you think?
Are you happy?
If you are, I’m truly happy for you. If you’re not, what’s stopping you? Please hit “reply” or leave a comment—I read every response and I’d love to hear from you. If you want, share this post with someone who needs it.
Until next Friday… Stay thoughtful,
Val
Photo by Aziz Acharki on Unsplash