I was in classes at Washington State University when he died.
I went back to school while I was watching them decline — my father getting weaker, Judy losing more of herself week by week — and me in classrooms online, learning theory I might or might not ever use. Taking exams. Writing papers. Meeting deadlines.
I have what I would call an addicted mind. By which I mean: when I am under pressure, I tend toward filling the space with activity rather than sitting in the discomfort. Going back to school during caregiving was a strategic choice with that in mind — fill the space with structure rather than substances. Replace one kind of obsession with something that might produce a credential at the end. Give the mind something to organize around other than the grief and the logistics and the daily helplessness of watching people you love decline.
It sounds absurd from the outside. Taking classes while managing medication schedules. Writing papers between doctor appointments. Attending online lectures while simultaneously monitoring whether someone with dementia is safe in the next room. And it was absurd. And also it was a way to survive.
Social media wants the clean narrative: pause your life, care for your parent, grieve properly, then return to productive life. Real life is: you need structure, you need something that feels like forward motion, you need a reason to get up and do something other than manage decline. You make the choices that keep you functional. Mine happened to involve enrollment at WSU during one of the hardest periods of my life.
Thich Nhat Hanh teaches: “Life is available only in the present moment.” Whatever you’re doing to stay present, to stay functional, to stay in the game of your own life while the caregiving and the grief do their work — that counts. The form it takes is less important than the fact that you’re still here, still choosing, still moving forward however imperfectly.
