I’M AN IMPOSTOR.   When people ask me how Mary Elizabeth is doing, I don’t really know who I am when I respond.  Almost three years later I’m still trying to figure it out.  Am I the cheerful and confident spouse, saying “Fine!” with a bright smile and a thumbs-up? Or am I the lugubrious, over-sharing caregiver, conveying way too much information –  responding to an innocuous, “How’s she doing?” with a 10-minute deluge on her latest doctor’s appointment, insurance challenges and a detailed accounting of her weekly schedule?  

Of course, I’m usually somewhere in the middle but I’ve been both places.  If I were practical, I’d counter with a question, “How much do you really want to know? Do you want the short answer, or have you got some time?” Or there’s the hopeful, but realistic husband’s answer : “On a day-to-day basis, she’s doing well.  But we’re still adjusting to our new lives.” That’s probably the most honest answer, but I’m not sure how satisfying it is.

And then there’s how I feel.  Thoughtful people follow up their first question with an earnest, look-me-in-the-eye-and-possibly-squeeze-my-hand, “How are you doing, Scott?”  What do I say at this point? I could answer with an innocuous, “Oh, just fine thanks.” But that’s probably not what people want to hear, at least not the earnest hand-squeezing types.  I could go into a detailed description of my struggles with depression and acceptance.  I’ve shared that in this space, and got support but also got scolded for whining because as any caregiver can aver, most people are focused on the patient, and not so much on the caregiver.  Which I understand totally, except there’s a consequence.  I’ve become an impostor.

I’m pretending to be something I’m not.  Am I the totally altruistic, long-suffering, self-effacing, thank-you-sir-may-I-have-another spouse?  Or do I focus more on me and my needs?  (That’s assuming of course that I know what they are, which is assuming a lot).  The answer of course is neither, and I’m somewhere in between – some days closer to the martyr end of the scale and sometimes at the all-about-me end. In either case, I’m not being totally honest – which irks me because as somebody who’s been lauded in these pages as being brutally honest, I’m confessing to not being as forthright as I probably could be.

And what others say and feel is important to me. Certainly from a support and empathy perspective – we do need help and are grateful for it.  But also from an attention perspective.  I’d be disingenuous if I said that I write these words without an awareness of what people think as they read them, and look forward to hearing people’s feedback and comments – both good and bad. Because while it’s definitely about Mary Elizabeth, it’s also about me.  And it’s also about the kids. And Lucille.  As I said a few months ago, we’re all recovering from Mary Elizabeth’s stroke.

So where does that leave us?  Neither here nor there, I guess.  But we keep on keeping on, trying to find pleasure in the good moments and acknowledging the not-so-good moments as they arrive.  And I have to say it – sharing our fear of the future.  Mary Elizabeth and I had a good relationship before the stroke, and while it’s different now, it’s still good. But I think that there’s a lot more honesty between us than there used to be.  There has to be. When you’re staring death in the face, it tends to dial-up the candor.

So how are we doing?  Fine.  Except when we’re not.