Are you okay?

I trip and fall; someone who saw me go down asks, “Are you okay?”

I have a screaming headache and it shows in my eyes; a coworker asks, “Are you okay?”

I am taking a bath (and Lucy#1 knew I was choosing a book to read in the tub). After 30 minutes, Lucy#1 bursts into the bathroom to say, “You have been in here for a long time. Are you okay?”

It’s Saturday, the only day I don’t have to be somewhere early. I told Lucy#1 last night that I plan to sleep late in the morning. It’s 8:30 a.m. Lucy#1 comes into my bedroom and says, “You’ve never slept this late before. Are you okay?”

The first two of those scenarios seem friendly to me. I appreciate that someone cares that I may be injured or ill.

The last two are my new normal. They do not seem friendly to me. I am growing to dislike the question, “Are you okay?”

A part of me understands Lucy#1’s “Are you okay?” queries are born of care, concern, love, etc. That part of me understands she means well and worries about me.

A part of me realizes Lucy#1 has some dementia. Her boundaries and filters have changed. Her logical thinking capacity has altered. That part of me realizes she isn’t connecting the book with a long, soaking bath; she doesn’t remember that 8:30 a.m. is not “late” to me on a Saturday morning.

A part of me thinks, “Why does it matter how late I sleep on Saturday, or how long I talk on the phone?” That part of me bangs my head against the wall when the bathroom door bursts open as I’m drying off after my shower because Lucy#1 no longer hears the water running and needs to know if I’m okay.

A part of me wants to be alone. That part wants to stay up until 2:00 a.m. to finish a good book, work on the Pampered Chef business in private, take a nap on the couch, talk on the phone, read posts on Facebook, and do many other things that are no longer possible without hearing, “Are you okay?” That part tries to give an explanation for what I’m doing, how long it will take, and why there is no need to worry.

Slowly, we are working toward a reasonable compromise. I am trying to remember to tell Lucy#1 how long I expect to be in the office or on the phone. She is trying to stop checking on me so often.

Neither of us is perfect.

Neither of us is really okay.

We are both doing the best we can.