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The deep discomfort of the in-between-who-knows-what.

What do you do when you are faced with two potential futures, and have no idea which one will come true?

You sit with it. And it is so deeply uncomfortable.

When I wrote The Grief Handbook, I wrote about the harsh realization that anything can happen, and how, in the face of that, it doesn’t make sense to worry because worry does nothing but spoil the present moment.

Yes yes yes.
And also: that is so hard.

Life for me, right now, is half a day at a time. In the wee hours of yesterday morning, my dad was rushed from the stepdown facility where he was getting intensive physio after his hip replacement to ICU. All day yesterday we weren’t sure of the diagnosis, or the prognosis. Words like ‘cardiac failure’ and ‘critically ill’ were offered up like poisonous treats wrapped in leaves.

Today we were told it was a pulmonary embolism – serious, but good news because it means he’ll be able to go off oxygen soon, move out of ICU, come home. Then, after the CT scan, a change in diagnosis. Back to cardiac failure. Infection. Fluid in the lungs.

What are we looking at here? I don’t know. I think it’s super serious, and then he sends me a message on WhatsApp and I think I’m over-reacting. Two paths are diverging in a wood and I do not know which one holds the future. Is this a blip before a recovery? Is this the beginning of the end? Both are possibilities.

And so. Half a day at a time. A daily walk in nature. Sitting in the deep discomfort of the in-between-who-knows-what.

There is such a deep life lesson here, and I just hope I’m getting it in the midst of getting through each half day…

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