ARE YOU REMEMBERING TO EAT and drink, Mom?” I asked. Judging by her appearance on FaceTime, sleep was out of the question.
“I’m fine,” she insisted. My dad was heading into a second surgery that day to correct the second-most–occluded vessel. The need to be back on the table so quickly underscored the continued severity of his condition.
When Erik died, one of Casey’s early posts was about a friend coming over to give her an IV of fluids after she became terribly dehydrated. The worst happens in one person’s world, but trains keep running and the sun rises and sets and our bodies still require food and water and clean clothes. Our boring, everyday needs still rudely demand attention.
I finished talking with my parents and then stood to rinse out my tea mug. As I placed it in the dishwasher, I realized I needed to take my own advice and ask myself the basic questions I was asking my mom. My sister-in-law was gone, and my parents were halfway around the world navigating a medical crisis. Life felt dangerously, wildly precarious, so I did the only thing I could: I took care of myself in small, detailed, granular ways.
I swallowed my Zoloft every morning. I took my vitamins. I sipped water from a massive pink water thermos with a matching silicone straw. That evening, I planned to work on a new puzzle. I had therapy with Kim on my schedule. I focused on what I could control, which, as it turned out, was very little.
My dad’s second surgery was only partially successful and nothing short of traumatic. My dad wasn’t properly sedated and so he lay awake on the table for a nearly seven-hour procedure, watching his soaring heart rate on the monitor to his right. At one point, he remembered hearing the doctor say, in crystal-clear English, “We’re in trouble.” At another point, my dad’s pain was so great that the nurses had to hold him down as he writhed. An American surgeon would later tell us that my dad experienced a heart attack while restrained on that table.
I spoke to my parents the morning after. My dad told me he knew his heart couldn’t take the stress.
“I just kept thinking, Please don’t let me float away from the table. I don’t want to leave,” he told me, and at that point his face crumpled and my mom took the phone, telling me they would call me back. I put my phone down on the counter and sobbed.
Once again, I did all that I could do to take care of myself. I took a shower. I ate breakfast and I swallowed my meds with the water sipped through the pink straw. Allie offered to take the kids to swim practice for me so I could pick up Mando, who was on his way home from Nashville,and I said yes. I remembered to eat. I watched two episodes of The Good Place, the only television show I could tolerate, before I went to pick him up.
I was going through the motions, just as Autopilot Julie had done to make it through the spring. But this felt different: these motions were intentional,aimed at carving out space for my feelings, and aimed—at long last—at caring for myself.
When I pulled up to the curb at the Oakland airport Mando was there waiting for me, uncharacteristically pale, nearly washed out by the bright glare of the afternoon sun against the white exterior of the terminal.
I put the car in park and stepped out to hug him. I held him tightly, feeling his fingers grip my waist. As we drove away, we were both quiet.
Mando asked about my dad and I updated him. “He’ll be stable enough now to come to the States for any further surgeries. Mom said no more surgeries in Japan.” I didn’t share all the details or elaborate on the emotions I was feeling. It didn’t feel right to give Mando anything else to hold, but I wasn’t neglecting myself either—I was grateful to know I’d have my hour of therapy with Kim to process my feelings.
I merged into traffic on the freeway and reached over to squeeze Mando’s leg, wanting to be physically connected to him.
“I love you,” I said. “I’m glad you’re home.”
When we walked in the door, the boys were tender with him, caring for their dad in their clumsy, beautiful way.
That night, Mando was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, but I lay awake listening to his heavy, even breaths. I was keyed up, so I began to count my blessings as I tried to quiet my mind, a practice from childhood that I’d recently resurrected. 1. My family, 2. My family, 3. My family.
And then, mercifully, I was asleep.