Things seemed to settle for a while, with a suspicious sort of calm. My brother got married. I ventured out on my own again, cautiously. Mom and Dad found a new empty nest at the shore of Lake Huron, and with it, they clawed back some of the independence that had been slipping through their fingers. The soul-healing waves rolled in beneath pastel sunsets, and life carried on and found a new rhythm in that way that it does when you’re not looking.
Read part one here
Disaster struck again too soon in the form of a lump. Mom endured surgery, months of gruelling chemotherapy, and its legacy of nerve damage, chronic pain, and depression. Through it all, Dad’s condition continued to worsen, with no explanation or treatment forthcoming. The emotion and strain were borne valiantly by my eldest sister, who had years of experience in healthcare and was no stranger to all of this. She coped by pouring herself out to help in any way she could, gathering strength from a close network of supportive friends, and applying her practical knowledge to handle the daily needs of both patients singlehandedly. I coped the way I was wont to do. I ran.
I buried myself in work that took me further and further from home, crisscrossing Ontario, practically begging for the projects that would take me furthest afield. At times, I worked 80 hours a week, subsisting off various drive-through paper sacks and collapsing into anonymous hotel beds for a few snatched hours of sleep, starting again before the sun came up. I was away from home for weeks that turned into months at a time. I obsessed over my work, using it as a protective wall to hold the emotions at bay. No time to think of anything else meant no time to worry, no time to feel, no time for reality to sink its vicious teeth into me. It never occurred to me that along with the painful emotions, I was shutting out love and happiness too.
Dad held on. Nearly every morning during my prolonged absences, my phone would ping with a short email. Even when he received no reply, the little notes kept coming. Even when he was having a rough day, when he was in the grips of pain and couldn’t get his left hand to cooperate, a few lines would arrive—short messages reminding me, connecting me to home, preventing me from slipping from the moorings and getting lost entirely.
I’d like to say that I had some sort of epiphany that changed my life, but it wasn’t that specific. It was a gradual shift, a dawning awareness. . .
I’d like to say that I had some sort of epiphany that changed my life, but it wasn’t that specific. It was a gradual shift, a dawning awareness that I approached every day mechanically, robotically. I had sought refuge in a complete lack of emotion, but something within me started to want to feel again. Without even noticing, the obsession with my work had slowly faded, replaced with disenchantment. I was tired—bone-tired to the point of catching my head nodding on early-morning drives to work. I took my frustrations out on my boss. He, in turn, offered generous amounts of time off, a reduction in responsibilities, a transfer. I resigned. Not knowing how to do half of a job that had once consumed me, I walked away from it all.
Six months later, the world was in the throes of a pandemic, and I was discovering new ways to be more present and more available, both emotionally and physically, for my family. It was under these conditions that finally, in May 2020, the doctors confirmed an official diagnosis—ten long years after that pivotal tumble on the beach in Nova Scotia. Dad has slow-progressing ALS. Why did it take so long to discover? What could the doctors have done if they had caught this sooner? How much time do we have left? These are cruel questions that do the heart no good to ponder.
As Dad’s health deteriorates, at times it feels like we’re back on that beach. New challenges wash over us relentlessly, sweeping our legs from under us just when we think we’re gaining our footing. Life is constantly shifting, and more than once I’ve felt like we might drown. But we’re in it together, and in the midst of it all, Dad’s always got some tiny piece of happiness clutched in his undefeated hand. When we most need a moment to catch our breath, he’ll share it with a crinkled grin. He’s made a conscious effort to find the little joys, what good that’s left in life, and seize them. He’s decided to hold on to happiness.
Holding on to Happiness was first published in the June 2022 issue of Blank Spaces Magazine
Aly Writes 