We’re in this together

Ask, and you shall receive

I broke down yesterday.

I woke up with my alarm at 6:30am, went downstairs to brew my coffee, and immediately spotted a note my mom had helpfully placed on our dining table: don’t forget to refuel the car before Saturday’s dentist visit.

And I freaked out.

I’m a competent driver, but lack of practice over the last four years has made me a reluctant one. I’m still the designated chauffeur whenever I’m home for a visit, but wherever I can, I avoid driving. I’d rather take the taxi, or the train, or walk two kilometres down a busy street with no sidewalk than take the wheel of our Toyota Altis.

When we made the dentist appointment weeks ago, I was under the impression we’d take a taxi. I’ve been to the clinic twice in my lifetime, I’m not familiar with the area, I have no idea where to park—I’m not even sure I can parallel park if that’s what’s going to be required.

I went into the kitchen where mom was preparing breakfast. Am I driving to the dentist’s on Saturday? To which she responded, aren’t you? To which I should have said, I don’t want to, let’s take a taxi, but I didn’t. Instead I walked back to the dining table where dad was sitting. He offered, what if I gave directions? Will you feel better about driving? To which I should have replied, no, I don’t trust your imprecise directions and delayed reactions. Instead I mumbled something incoherent and turned my attention to a flurry of messages from my partner who’s back in our home in Ho Chi Minh City: Honey, I’ve been drinking your coffee. I’ll buy you a new bag of beans before you return. Oh! Let me know where you bought your V60 filters so I can replace them as well.

I’d found said filters on the shopping app Lazada, which I now went into to find exactly which product I’d bought so my partner could get the correct one. My purchase history was empty—likely a result of switching countries—and upon seeing that my mind started racing: What if he buys the wrong filters? Then I can’t brew my morning coffee when I’m back! But maybe he won’t use up all the filters? What if I Google a photo of the right filters? Will he buy the right ones? What’s the brand again? Wasn’t there a choice of brown and white paper? Aaargh.

Then I saw a work message from Jess, our Social Media Manager and dear friend of mine, which shouldn’t have pissed me off, but majorly did. Then I got on a work call with Jamie, our spicy Head of Marketing, and couldn’t wrap my head around simple to-do’s that she was patiently breaking down for me.

Two hours after waking up feeling fine, I was now on the verge of tears.

I can’t do this, I concluded. I began writing a message to my boss.

Ask, and you shall receive

Mark, I’m struggling. I’m going to take today and tomorrow off and hopefully by Monday I’ll feel normal again. If you have any sage advice, please share.

This was the gist of the message I sent my boss, an acclaimed self-help author, which was paragraphs long and detailed the ways in which I was struggling visiting my dying father and healthy mother. As I was typing, tears started falling. I was horrified. Can’t let mom and dad see me cry. Thankfully, a mountain of snack boxes blocked me from dad’s view, and mom was busy with laundry outside. I did my best to hide behind the snack boxes and cried as quietly as I could.

Then I responded to Jess’ work message that had pissed me off. I have thoughts, but they’re not fully formed and I’m kind of having a breakdown, so let’s talk next week. Her reply was instant: Stop working! She then messaged me on WhatsApp and asked if I wanted to chat. Can you get on a call? I asked. Not right now, but send a voice note and we’ll go from there. It’s going to be long, I warned. Dig it.

I wiped my tears, closed my laptop, then went up to my bedroom to pour my heart out to Jess. Twelve and a half minutes and more tears later, I pressed Send, feeling marginally better.

I’m going for a walk, I announced to my parents when I came back downstairs to find both of them in the dining area. I want to cry and I don’t want you to see, was the reason. But I said, I want to stretch my legs. My parents, oblivious to the breakdown currently taking place, wished me a good walk. Mom joked about it being the perfect time for a stroll, what with the blazing late-morning sun. It’s breezy, I’ll be fine. I laughed and closed the door behind me.

During my thirty-minute walk, messages poured in from those I’d reached out to for help. Jess sent back a five-minute voice note, joking that she considered matching my twelve minutes but thought better of it. My therapist sent tools that she hoped would help. My partner suggested speaking later that night. My aunt replied with the days she’d be free to come see me. Another friend said I was in her thoughts and of course I’ll pick you up for coffee next weekend. My boss replied with sage advice, as requested, and sent his warmest wishes to me and my family.

A while later, after another bout of tears, I was sniffling as I helped dad into our car to go out to lunch. Do you have a cold, he asked. No, I said, then decided to come clean. I’ve been crying. My dad quietly listened as, on the drive to our lunch spot, I told him everything. I’m stressed, I’m too overwhelmed to work, I feel so alone.

I’ll be your onsite therapist, he joked. Then, instead of simply holding my hand to steady himself walking the twenty steps from our car to the restaurant, he put his arm around my shoulder and leaned his entire weight on me, the hug that I so desperately needed.

We’re in this together

It’s one day later and I almost feel myself. My mom took my dad to the hospital at 5am this morning. It’s now 10am and I’m at a café writing this newsletter.

I’m six days into a three-week visit. And today the next fifteen days feels doable.

My time at home, since dad’s cancer diagnosis three and a half years ago, has always been bittersweet. However much I’m enjoying being with mom and dad, death is always present—this could be the last time. And there’s a constant tug and pull between wanting time for myself and spending every minute of every day with my parents—after all, I’m back for them—a battle that leaves me guilt-ridden whenever I choose time for myself, like today.

But it’s not guilt I feel the most right now, it’s gratitude. I am grateful for my partner, who last night listened to my barely-coherent attempt to talk through my breakdown for an hour and suggested it might not be so much the social isolation that I suspect is tearing me apart, but the mere fact of seeing my father disintegrate before my eyes. I am grateful for my dad for recognising the emotional struggle I experience being home and not asking me to visit more often, my mom for going on a pilgrimage for my favourite cake roll while out on dad’s hospital appointment despite myriad demands on her attention, my therapist for responding when I’m in need, my friends for voice notes and virtual hugs.

More than this, I am comforted by the knowledge that I am not alone. In response to my cries for help yesterday, I received an outpouring of empathy. I’ve been there, I know how difficult it can be, my thoughts are with you.

A friend may not have a father with Stage IV prostate cancer, but they have lost someone dear to them after a protracted, painful battle. My situation may be unique, but my suffering is shared. And being reminded of this is incredibly comforting. I am not alone.

For hundreds of thousands of years, billions of humans have loved and lost. For hundreds of thousands of years, billions of humans have made the best of bad situations and supported one another through genuine suffering. For hundreds of thousands of years, billions of humans have cried tears of endless joy and unfathomable pain.

For hundreds of thousands of years, we have lived.

I am not alone, and neither are you.

What do you think?

There will be a lot to unpack in next week’s session with my brand-new therapist. Speaking of, I will now go complete the Thought Record she sent me yesterday to help me process this messy, entirely common, life.

How are you not alone in your suffering?

Whatever difficulty you’re facing, reach out to the people you trust for help. If you want, hit “reply” or leave a comment to share with me your suffering—I read every response and I’d love to hear from you. If you know someone who’s struggling, feel free to send them this newsletter so they feel less alone.

Until next Friday… Stay thoughtful,

Val

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Photo by Arthur Poulin on Unsplash