I have a bi-monthy appointment with a therapist, because - well - wouldn't you?
She asks how I am managing.
I am pretty good at that.
I am managing pretty well. Very well. I am managing most excellently.
Managing means things like: Are you eating? Are the clothes relatively clean? Are the bills getting paid? Have you completely forgotten to claim any or all of your children for more than an hour or two?
I think so.
Only once, and he was cool with it.
Rico is wiped out, but gets to daily appointments and aside from nausea and some serious fatigue, seems to be tolerating things alright. We are managing. We really are.
Living. Now that would be another question entirely.
If she had asked, "How are you living?" I would not know how to answer that. Because had you asked us last year what living felt like, we would have said things like: Feeling the ocean on our toes. Laughing together until we couldn't breathe. Playing frisbee in the park. Planning road trips. Hosting parties in our basement. Having people in and out of our house so often that we can't tell which kids are ours, and not really caring at all. Dancing in the kitchen. Guitar playing in the living room. Late night board games and brownies. A constant sarcastic banter in the background. Holding hands. Smiling - just looking at each other and smiling.
If she had asked me how we were living, I probably would have said, "We're not. We are surviving, but we are not living - not really."
Thankfully, she is good at her job.
Because the conversation went more like this:
"How are you managing?"
"Bull$#!+ - plus you know that's not what I meant."