On My Father and Facebook

My father had a relapse. On Saturday, he woke up with slurred speech. Mom rushed his grouchy butt to the emergency room, where they determined he had a very tiny stroke.

My father was admitted to the hospital. Again.

I announced his latest minor crisis on my Facebook Author Page, but I haven’t updated it.

Over two days, they ran multiple tests, reset his pacemaker, and treated a kidney infection. They practically had to strap him to the bed to keep him there. He was awake and alert and ready to go home. Mom was about to kill him.

We’re grateful he’s well and home now.

And now I’m going to make a conversational u-turn. Bear with me. I’ll connect the dots.

I was talking with my friend Debra last week on FaceTime. It was a tough day for me. I dragged a trunk load of books to Florida, and I needed to sell them. Yet, at a couple of key events, people extolled my presentation, carried on about how passionate and energetic and awesome I am, and kept their wallets shut. (More groups were generous than not. A couple of disappointments in a row set me back temporarily.)

When Debra told me she found out about a longstanding friend’s death on Facebook, I stopped complaining. Nobody called her to tell her about this friend’s death. No one reached out via any other method. An announcement on Facebook someone else mentioned to her in passing was the sum total of this friend’s passing from her life.

I’ve been hating on Facebook for ages, but I wonder anew about what it’s doing to us as human beings. Isn’t it human to need people around us when death visits our homes? I mean, physically there? Or lending their voices when they cannot offer their real-life arms?

How many people have I failed because I thought quick thoughts and prayers on Facebook were enough?

Between worrying about my own behavior and my father’s health, I’ve haven’t slept much this week. Though I try very hard to be there for others, I often fall short. In 2018, I’ve already lost count of how many beds I’ve slept in, hands I’ve shaken, miles I’ve traveled. I have other worries/problems/struggles. I’m overwhelmed 100% of the time.

Of course, it’s easier to scroll, click like, send hugs and thoughts, and consume the tragedies and victories of humans like a peeping tom. I don’t have to invest much in anyone, especially since I have no  water in my own well. I can convince myself I’m there for people when I’m not, because I flew by something in passing and acknowledged it with a quick blip of a fragmented thought. I’ve done this so, so, so, so, so many times to so, so, so, so, so many humans who needed so, so, so, so, so much more.

To the people who reached out via text in recent days to either 1. see how Dad is doing now; 2. encourage me when I desperately needed it; 3. give me a few seconds to a minute of your time

Thank you.

Haven’t read about my father? GET MY BOOKS HERE.