The drive home is the worst.

All that time to think—to feel and question yourself.

Did you spend enough time? Are you providing enough support? Are you being a good son?

You know you can’t be there twenty-four-seven. It’s not realistic. Even if you could, you’d burnout.

Life moves forward. Bills to pay, relationships to nurture, responsibilities to manage.

So why do you feel this way?

What’s with all the guilt?

One. Two. Stroke.

It’s hard when a parent or loved one goes through a health challenge.

It’s humbling when the roles reverse.

It’s scary.

All you want to do is make them better. You want to make things easier.

Instead, you feel helpless. And, somehow…responsible?

You see, my dad recently suffered two strokes. One to put him in the hospital and one in the hospital.

Neither were caught within the first four-and-a-half hours. (I’m told that’s critical for long-term recovery.) Because he was alone in an isolated basement apartment.

Because he drank too much, smoked too much, and life is too unfair

Because I didn’t visit enough. Didn’t call enough. Didn’t catch the warning signs. (That’s the guilt I’m talking about.)

Give me your lunch money

Now, my dad’s recovering and rehabbing. He’s trying to come to terms with his new reality—the hardest part, really.

He’s fortunate the strokes were considered ‘minor’ (if such a thing can be considered fortunate, or minor). Not that it lessens the impact. 

His life is in upheaval, change thrust upon him by a betrayal of his mind and body. 

As the dominoes fall, so does his independence. One by one, he’s forced to give up things he can’t manage anymore:

• His license
• His apartment
• His dog

And here I am, the bully stealing his lunch money, making decisions that impact his future. Like where he’s going to live and what to do with all of his stuff.

Plus re-homing Mookie… Fuck me, the pill is hard enough to swallow without me shoving it down his throat.

Choke or accept. Imagine how difficult that must be.

Now double it, because my dad can be a stubborn old prick.

Bless his heart.

Adapt to survive, literally

If I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s this: life is just a series of new normals.

Whether it’s a global pandemic or an economic crisis, freak accident or tragic health event. Shit happens.

And when it does, you’re really only left with one choice: accept and adapt. 

Well, my dad is doing his best. From speech therapy and physio to fighting for whatever quality of life he can wring out of his remaining years.

I couldn’t be more proud.

It’s only been a month-and-a-half since the first stroke, and he continues to make progress. His attitude is positive (mostly) and he hasn’t given up.

We’re all optimistic because we’re still early in the process. In fact, I’m told much of stroke recovery happens within 3–6 months.

Still, that guilt lurks in the shadows.

Hard mode: active

Here’s the thing, guilt is a personal battle you wage with yourself.

Sometimes it’s rooted in fact. Think past mistakes, poor decisions, and the consequences of fucking around and finding out.

Sometimes guilt is irrational. This is when your negative narrative takes over, or you ruminate yourself sick.

Sometimes it’s…complicated. 

Like after visiting my dad. I’m eager to get back home to my life, and I feel terrible about it.

I hate leaving him in the hospital all alone. I regret decisions I’m forced to make and feel at fault for things I can’t control.

And this guilt, this self-inflicted pain, it makes everything worse. It makes life harder than it already is.

Turns out my dad isn’t the only one that needs to adapt—to learn how to carry the load without being crushed by the weight.

Did you spend enough time? Are you providing enough support? Are you being a good son?

The drive home is the worst. 

All that time to think.