"I'm fine."

What I really mean when I say this

I dreamt of my parents last night.

It’s a variation of a recurring dream I’ve been having, one of me at the airport going through the stages of leaving. Sometimes I make it onto the plane, oftentimes not. Last night I made it to the boarding gate, but just as I was about to approach the airline staff with my carry-on, I woke up.

In the version of the dream I’m used to, there’s someone at the airport sending me off, but I never remember who it is once the dream is over. Last night, though, that someone was my mom.

Even now, hours after waking, I vividly remember her gentle face breaking into that smile I love as we say goodbye, her small frame being swallowed by the crowd as I turn back for one last look.

My dad makes his appearance earlier in the dream, before the airport. We’re having a meal together, as we’ve done a thousand times. I don’t know where we are or what we’re eating. But dad is siting opposite me and we’re talking.

Then the scene changes and I find myself at the airport with mom—dad is gone.

“It’s cancer.”

Five months after I moved to Vietnam to be with my partner, my dad found out he had terminal cancer. His voice was so quiet when he called me with the news, I could barely hear him.

The diagnosis caught all of us unawares. Up until the point when he developed the severe back pains that led to the scan that revealed the metastasised cancer cells, dad had seemed in perfect health. Despite pulling six-day weeks at his dental clinic, every morning before work he went to the pool or the gym, and twice a week he played badminton, a sport he loved and was ridiculously good at.

But then came the searing back pains, and on Monday 30th August 2021 we discovered he wasn’t healthy after all—far from it. He might have months or years, I was told. These things are difficult to predict.

Since then, dad has undergone rounds of chemotherapy, radiation therapy, spine surgery, plus prolonged periods of being hospitalised due to infections and mystery fevers.

After his cancer diagnosis, dad shuttered the clinic that had fed our family for over three decades and set me up financially for life. In his forced retirement, he picked up watercolour painting, a hobby he’d always loved, was also ridiculously good at, but never had time for. At least dad has that, I told myself. This passion project was the silver lining in a time of darkness.

But of late, dad’s condition has deteriorated to the point where he can’t paint, and there’s no telling when—or whether—he’ll ever be able to pick up the brush again. The silver lining, for now, is gone.

“I’m fine.”

More people than I can count have asked me over the past two and a half years, how are you? And my answer is always, I’m fine.

Which isn’t a lie—I am fine—though a more honest answer would include:

• While working on my boss’ newsletter the other day, I had tears in my eyes reading his advice to a reader who’d written in about his wife dying of cancer.

• Sometimes when I’m enjoying Netflix at the end of a long day, my thoughts drift to my dad silently suffering back at home and suddenly the evening’s entertainment isn’t so entertaining anymore.

• When a relative asks why I’m not in Thailand more to care for my dad, I feel like shit.

• I visited dad at the hospital every day for a week when he had his spine surgery. For a couple of days post-operation he was in excruciating pain, and though it hurt to see him wince with every little movement, I made myself watch because I didn’t know if that would be the last time I’d see his face move.

Before you begin to think I’m not fine after all, here are all the other things my answer would also include:

• A few weeks ago, a newsletter reader I don’t know in person left such a heartfelt comment on my post about failing—saying I hadn’t failed in life because I took care of others—that I cried big fat tears of joy reading it.

• I feel incredibly lucky every morning drinking my freshly-brewed coffee and watching my partner go about his morning routine, unaware that he’s being observed by the crazy woman he’s chosen to spend his life with.

• Every time I get my laptop out to work at a café, I stop for a few moments to acknowledge how privileged I am to have the flexible, fulfilling job that I do.

• I’m thankful every minute of every day for the greatest gifts from my parents—the gifts of life and love. A love never explicitly stated, but abundantly expressed when dad says, on the eve of an operation that might end his life, to enjoy my life in HCMC and not worry about him, or when mum wishes me a safe flight home when she walks me to the hospital lift at the end of my week-long visit.

At the end of the day, I really am fine. But these three words hide so much more than they reveal. They can never convey the full range of emotions that I feel from hour to hour, the gamut of thoughts—from the whimsical to the uplifting and the disturbing—that occupy my mind every second of every day, the myriad reactions that I have to the countless experiences that make up my existence.

But when someone asks how I’m doing, are they really asking for an invitation into the messy depths of my soul? Maybe. Maybe not.

For now, I guess “I’m fine” will have to do. And if someone wants to know more, they can ask.

Then I’ll tell them.

What do you think?

I do realise you never asked how I’m doing, yet I invited you into the messy depths of my soul anyways (thank you for indulging me). Now it’s your turn:

How are you?

Are you also in the habit of replying “I’m fine” when asked this universal question? Should we be more forthcoming with the messy realities of our lives? Or does it all not really matter so long as we’re “fine?” Please hit “reply” or leave a comment—I read every response and I’d love to hear from you. If you want, share this with a friend by way of asking how they’re doing.

Until next Friday… Stay thoughtful,

Val

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Photo by Jonathan Daniels on Unsplash