I'm Fine

My last letter home was the first in quite some time and seemed to be a hit with my siblings. They laughed. They said they love my work —yadda, yadda —but then my older brother phoned me sounding slightly concerned as he asked the dreaded question, “Are you happy?” It is not the first time he’s asked me this question, and I appreciate the effort, truly, but every time the response is the same, “F*ck no, I’m not happy,” followed with quickly changing the subject rather than endure the awkward silence that accompanies brutal honesty.

The truth is I will never be entirely happy again. I recognize that, and I'm okay with it. That is not to say that I am unhappy, or that I don’t experience flashes of joy, or fits of laughter, or times of contentment and gratitude. A good day is when I can string several of these moments together.

Sometimes I feel that since it was I who lost a child, I should be able to say what I am feeling; miserable, lonely, furious, despondent, guilty, but instead I will reply, “I’m fine.” I’m fine is the go-to phrase for the parents of dead children. Sometimes it means, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, and sometimes it means I don’t have the energy or inclination to think up a better response, but after a while, I’m fine simply means, I’m as good as I get.

My aunt gets it, having lost a son herself. We are members of the secret society who recognize what fine means. Moreover, we are apologetic when we ask the same question out of habit, “How are you? Fine, right?” She mentioned once that I can call her anytime I need someone to talk to who understands, but I wonder, who does she call? Is she fine or merely fine?

So, here’s the thing – ask me how I am – and don’t tense up fearing the answer. This question will not require you to become my grief counselor. I may tell you that I am gutted—it’s okay. If you need your own go to phase, try “I’m sorry.” I don’t expect you to produce the magic words to make me whole again, because the truth is, “I’m fine.”