“Are you comfortable?”
He smiled, and I mentally slapped myself at the stupidity of that question.
His eyes looked tired but scrunched up into familiar little slits at what I had dared to ask. I watched as he struggled around the tubes to lift his arm high enough to give me a thumbs-up. Even in his scariest, most vulnerable being, my father couldn’t help but draw up enough strength to make sure I felt comforted. But, the thing about looking at someone through a screen is that you always catch the slights. We’ve heard the familiar trope of how unforgiving a camera really is—it picks up on the rawest emotions, and the slightest errors. Well, in that moment, I really wished it hadn’t. There was nothing more that I wanted than to buy into the illusion of comfort and believe him when he said he was doing okay. But, I couldn’t. The machines meant to help him live were causing him the greatest discomfort. The barely visible but glaring frown lines, the uncomfortable twitch of the eye, and the slightest tremor of that thumbs-up painted a reality that I desperately wanted to escape. Within the confines of that rectangular box, he merely looked like a puppet, quite literally at the mercy of the tubes.
…………………………………………………………….
“How are you feeling?”
Again, stupid question. Isolated in her room, anxious about being away from my father, frustrated at the helplessness that the situation had forced her into, my mother somehow still always answered with the softest eyes, and the most comforting smile. We talked about the routine she had carved for herself, the calls she had with friends, and the love she felt at everyone showing up for our family. Despite it feeling like the world had shut her out into a box, she never failed to sound full of gratitude for everything and everyone. Sometimes, her optimism was frustrating, I cried at how naïve it felt to watch her be like that. I badly wanted her to admit that everything was not okay. That the world had somehow wronged us, and that we were allowed to dwell in deep cynicism, but somehow that moment never came. Unknowingly but gratefully, that infectious grace slipped into my own quiet moments of resilience—in my decision to leave my bed every morning, in deciding to say yes to a plan while my mind was screaming no, in answering calls from concerned friends, family, and strangers and assuring them with the same comfort.
This seems stupid but somehow the screen seemed to be brighter every time I spoke to her, the harsh borders of my phone almost blurring into nothingness, as if she really was here, and I really was present.
…………………………………………………………….
“You doing okay?”
Honestly, I didn’t know what else to ask. What do you ask your little brother as he watches your parents fight their battles silently? How do you check up on someone when you’re not sure you’re doing okay yourself? I waited as the ticks turned blue, watched as the three dots appeared, and sighed when I received the same answer day after day— “I’m all good, thanks.” Eight thousand miles away in my room, I watched us both barely live in the in-betweens. We split calls, redirected responsibilities (while I guiltily but proudly acknowledged him shoulder most of them), and tried to create a sense of norm by talking about college essays and movie lists.
Soon enough, isolated calls to each of them turned into family calls. All three of their faces in a grid on my phone screen. We spoke about what I was making for lunch, the colleges my brother was applying to, whether I was enjoying my work, and if my brother had done dishes for the night. For that hour, the lines would blur again and I’d almost forget we weren’t at a dinner table at home. It didn’t matter whether we were really at “home” or next to each other in little floating rectangular boxes, my parents continued to create our own little world, just like they always had.
Life Unscripted 