How are you

burdensome fluff

In the weeks and months following my dad’s death, I came to hate the dreaded how are you. Over time I learned to brace myself when running into acquaintances out in the wild. They would inevitably put on their I’m-a-person-who-is-concerned face, lower their voice an octave, scrunch their eyebrows, and deliver the blow: “How ya doing?” I would dutifully drop my shoulders, glance at the floor, nod my head a little, and respond: “I’m doing okay.”

It was theatre.

A performance.

Somewhere between improv and a scripted drama. The exact dialogue varied from person to person but the essence was the same.

At first I got resentful, assuming the most shallow of intentions. Clearly this person didn’t really care how I was doing. They just wanted to address the elephant in the room because to not address it would be a grave societal offense. They only needed to mark it off their to-do list. Thusly they could move on with their day guilt-free.

Heaven forbid that I actually tell them how I was doing. Heaven forbid that I tell the truth. What if I got emotional? What if I cried tears at them? They would be forced to listen. They’d be trapped in my sadness with me. They didn’t really care. No one actually cared.

Having grown a decade since then, I’ve come to believe that people probably did care. At least a majority of them did. There was genuine concern for my wellbeing. But truth is hard to utter. Saying “I’m thinking about you and I love you and I’m hoping you’re okay because you matter and I don’t want you to be in pain” is too vulnerable. Too complex. So instead we ask “how are you?” Deeply human feelings wrapped up in meaninglessness.

Any resentment and anger was misdirected. My rage landed on the person when it should have landed on the question itself. I couldn’t honestly answer how I was doing because I didn’t honestly know. How was I? I was everything. I was nothing. I was in shock. Disbelief permeated my every thought. I felt relief at his death, a thing I knew better than to say out loud. I was sad and angry. I was worried by how little I cried. I felt like I should have felt more or felt different. The emptiness scared me. The numbness seemed wrong somehow. I continued going to work and living my life and putting gas in my car and making breakfast and watching TV. The normality of it all felt wildly abnormal.

No wonder I defaulted to a room-temperature I’m doing okay. How else does one wrap words around something so infinitely beyond language?

I’ve been pondering this post-death period of time because I have a number of friends going through heavy stuff right now. Marriages dissolving, unexpected death, sick children, affairs, mental health struggles, tragic diagnoses. I find myself tempted toward the default how are you. It’s hardwired, a factory setting that simple awareness can’t always override.

In my more open-hearted moments I opt for “I love you and I’m sorry you’re in pain right now.” But when that doesn’t feel right, I ask a question. I try to narrow it down though. How are you is too big. How did you sleep last night is a little more manageable. What did you have for breakfast is more palatable. Have you been watching any good TV is a more light-hearted entry point. It can provide the smallest rope for someone to grab onto, for us to grab onto together in this moment. Maybe it leads to a deeper discussion. Maybe it leads to bigger truths. And maybe it doesn’t.

And that’s okay.

The last few years have been rough for humanity. The world feels heavy right now. Scary and treacherous. Battered and bruised. Maybe it’s time to treat everyone as though they’re in the throes of grief (personally I think a philosophical argument could be made that the human condition is synonymous with permanent grief but that’s for another post).

In any case, how are you remains too big. It’s too cumbersome, too uncarryable, right now and perhaps always has been. Let’s do away with it. Let’s opt for smaller questions. Let’s gift one another tiny footholds rather than burdensome fluff.

And in a pinch, we could open ourselves toward truth. We could look people in the eye and say what’s real.

I love you. I’m thinking of you.