"Are you happy today?"
“Are you happy today?”
“Yes.”
My mom continues to mumble. I think it’s an involuntary motion, she’s not trying to speak and it’s not some kind of loud breathing. Something is forcing her to keep making short, gentle “huh”-like sounds.
“How come?” I press.
“Because my son made me dinner.”
She continues chewing on a piece of chicken, which I think has become her favourite thing I cook. At least one of her friends has asked me how I make it.
I smile back, and leave it at that. At least she’s happy.
“Are you happy today?”
“Yes.”
“How come?”
“I got to see Luke’s show.”
She means my younger nephew, whose preschool is putting on a musical/dance show of sorts. The kids sing (i.e. make sounds) to recorded music and make random hand motions, but it’s kids, so it’s kind of cute. And when it’s your kid, it’s extra cute, and everyone stampedes to the front to grab photos and videos that they’ll look at again, maybe once.
“Are you depressed?” I ask on the car ride home.
“Yes.”
“But you’re happy?”
“Yes.” This seems contradictory to me, on the surface. My mom must be able to read my mind, because she follows up with, “It is not related to depression. Depression is just hormonal imbalances.”
I’m surprised she still knows what words like “hormonal imbalances” mean or that she even remembers them. Maybe she’s just saying them out of habit and programmed memory.
“You like to see Noah and Luke, huh?”
“Yes.”
She didn’t really see them. Or even talk to them. But I’m guessing the underlying subtext is that she’s happy to be involved in their childhood. Everything has subtext. Nothing is ever explicitly stated.
I take a note of this.
“So, how are you doing?”
“Depressed.”
“Why?”
“No reason. I’m just depressed.”
So goes a conversation—not with me—but with my mom and her psychiatrist. I’m sitting next to her on a super soft couch, but instead of relaxing into it, I lean forward with my elbows resting on my knees. I’m too on edge to be comfortable.
My mom has long complained of depression, which is why I wonder if it’s actually just a habitual reaction for her; it’s simply what she knows.
“What activities have you been a part of lately?” the psychiatrist asks.
She makes her “huh,” “huh,” involuntary mumbles. “I go to church. And Bible study.”
“Good, good. I want you to be more active. I think you are dealing with a lot of anxiety. You used to do a lot of things in the past.”
My brain fires up instantly, as if it’s been waiting for a reason to do so. I start brainstorming other activities my mom can do, other friends she can see, other ways for her to relieve herself from her depression. I can feel the figurative wheels turning in my head and suddenly it’s almost as if a very real pressure starts pressing against my skull.
The conversation then turns to the medications my mom is still on, how much she takes, and whether or not she should take more.
It’s at this point I think the person who’s most anxious, is me. I feel some sense of responsibility, and failure, bounce between my brain and my heart. I’ve made it a point to write down all her medications, but I don’t actually remember what she’s taking, how much, and how any of it affects her. I frantically pull out my phone and search Google to see what each medication is, just so I don’t have to ask the psychiatrist then and there. If I were an actual case manager or social worker, I really should have been fired by now.
I also know that, of people who are hard on themselves, I’m very near the top.
Looking back on it, I feel like I’ve actually done pretty well at the mental adaptations I’ve needed to make over the past couple of months. I’m still learning, but strangely I understand the behavioral changes that need to be made.
Apparently, I’m not so good at the practical stuff. Helping my parents take medications. Taking my dad to the library. Reading up on their will.
I silently tell myself just to breathe, to focus on taking the next breath, to do one thing at a time.
On the way out, something compels me again to ask my mom a question I’ve started asking her lately:
“Are you you happy today?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. How come?”
“No reason.”
In the moment, decide to try something different: I start a new journal, and in it, I record the answer, every day, to that simple question I ask my mom.
“Are you happy today?”
“Yes.”
“How come?”
“Because there’s sushi to eat.”
I think my mom is one of those folks who appears to like the idea of sushi—clean, fresh fish on rice with some occasional flavours attached—but actually likes the fact that we only go on special occasions. Like today, where we eat at a family friend’s sushi restaurant. We used to go all the time, but since I moved away, we’ve come a lot less.
“What are you thinking about?” I ask, tired of the silence, and also of playing with the caterpillar roll’s antennae which are toothpicks with edamame beans.
“How to hit my son.”
I glance up at her. “How are you going to do that?”
“I’m still thinking.”
“Okay let me know when you figure it out.”
Eventually, the owner walks over to our table, pulls out a chair and sits down to chat. My dad folds his arms and grumbles at her, not wanting to be bothered.
“Don’t mind him.” I say flatly.
“I know, don’t worry,” she responds with a warm smile.
She talks with my mom about the restaurant, her kids, what my mom is up to these days.
Then, she turns to me. “Your mom looks better, Daniel.”
“Really?” I’ve been present in the conversation, but now I’m really paying attention.
“Yes. More energy.”
I feel myself exhale a sigh of relief. It’s nice to have external validation. It always is. Especially when you’re in a situation where you can never trust your own instincts, data points, or even your own senses.
My parents’ home is next to Mount Diablo, one of the nicest geological sites in the Bay Area and home to a number of great hiking trails. For some reason, I typically pay no attention to it despite being able to see it from our backyard, but today, on one of our daily walks around the neighbourhood park, it’s all I can focus on.
This winter brought a lot of rain to California, which means for once in a long while, Mount Diablo looks green. I love the look, the rolling hills with trees peppered here and there.
Something in me starts thinking about the size of Earth, particularly when compared to the sun. We’re like a tiny pebble if the sun were a basketball. Which is to say, adding in the size of the entire universe, nothing.
And yet, when I briefly glance at the sun from where we are, the sun doesn’t look that big.
Some people use the size of the universe to tell you that your problems aren’t that big of a deal. I feel the healthier attitude is that the size of the universe should simply give you perspective. The universe goes on no matter what happens. My tiny, tiny slice of it, my reality and all my experiences, are just that: tiny. And yet, somehow my slice still matters. It’s possible to accept both things to be true.
And in the moment, only one question really does matter.
“Are you happy today?” I ask after running a lap and catching up with my mom on lap two.
“Yes.”
“How come?”
“Because I can walk with my son.”
Depending on the day, sometimes I ask her follow up questions. Where she wants to be in ten years. What she thinks about nursing homes. Is there anything else she’d like to be doing.
One day, she abruptly asks me a question.
“What’s your plan?”
“What do you mean, plan?”
“Are you going to get a job?” I assume she means a full-time job that I would move out of the house for. She forgets that I already do some contract work on the side.
“I don’t really know. I’m going to stay here through August,” which, is really the extent of my plan. But I start wondering for myself, and start thinking out loud. “Maybe I’ll go travel for a little bit. I’ll decide later. Maybe I’ll move out.”
“No,” my mom says much more forcefully that I would’ve thought, “don’t move.”
So, she wants to know my plan, but doesn’t want me to have one. I don’t understand. Unless her plans is to have me stay here forever, which sorry mom, ain’t gonna happen.
I tell an old friend about these walks with my mom. These random conversations that pop up throughout the day. Usually on a walk. Sometimes at the dinner table.
“That’s precious, Dan,” he says with a sigh that’s equal parts admiration and longing.
He’s right. I wonder if I’ll miss this someday.
Learning from earlier notes, I take my mom and dad to visit my brother’s family for dinner. Like clockwork, the kids finish eating quickly and run off to play, leaving the adults still at the table.
“So how are they doing?” my brother asks me. It’s funny that we can talk about our parents with them right at the table, and they still won’t really notice.
I figure I could answer with a simple “fine, I guess,” but I opt to show him my new little trick.
“Hey mom,” I say to grab my mom’s attention. “Are you happy?”
“No.”
“Oh, how come?”
“Because my son is misbehaving.”
I glance over at my brother and shrug.
“Oh good,” my brother turns to me and says, “she’s joking again.”
He’s right. I don’t know when she stopped. But she’s started again. I doubt my asking has anything to do with it. But sometimes I wonder if she’s just happy that I even ask.