Being Good at a Crisis Is Not the Same as Being Okay

I am really good in a crisis.

This is not a brag.

It's a skill I would happily return.

Something goes wrong and my brain immediately switches modes.

What happened?

What's his oxygen?

Who do I call?

Do we need the ER?

Where's the medication list?

Is everything charged?

Do I have the hospital bag?

Keys. Wallet. Phone.

GO.

Feelings?

Those apparently get placed in storage until further notice.

Very efficient.

Probably not healthy.

But efficient.

Crisis Kari Is Extremely Competent

I actually like her.

She's useful.

She doesn't panic easily.

She asks questions.

She remembers things.

She has screenshots.

She has documentation.

She has chargers.

She has snacks.

Something terrible can be happening and part of my brain will calmly think:

Okay. What's next?

And then I do that.

And then the next thing.

And the next.

It's how I've gotten through a lot of the last three years.

The Problem Is Everyone Thinks That Means I’m Fine

This is the downside of being good at handling shit.

People see you handling shit and assume:

She's got it.

And technically?

I probably do.

Can I manage the doctors, medications, oxygen, appointments and hospital admissions?

Yep.

Can I keep the business running, help manage my mom's care, keep the house functioning and make sure the dogs remain alive?

Apparently.

Can I wrestle a 60-pound wheelchair out of a box with my legs because my hands hurt?

We've established this.

Can I put together whatever new piece of medical equipment just arrived using the stupid tiny Allen wrench they all apparently include?

Yes.

Will I eventually become furious with the Allen wrench, accuse the instructions of being written by a sociopath and consider using a power tool that is absolutely not recommended?

Also yes.

I will figure it out.

I almost always do.

But please stop confusing:

I can handle this

with

This isn't hurting me.

Those are two very different things.

Competence Is Excellent Camouflage

If I were falling apart publicly, people would know I was overwhelmed.

But I don't usually fall apart that way.

I make a list.

I research.

I organize.

I solve the next problem.

LOOK AT HER. SHE'S FINE.

No.

She has simply converted panic into administrative tasks.

There is a difference.

There Isn't Time to Feel Things During the Emergency

If Paul falls, I can't immediately explore my emotional response.

I need to figure out whether he's hurt.

If his oxygen drops, I don't need to process how scary that is.

I need to deal with his oxygen.

If we're going to the hospital, I'm not processing.

I'm packing.

So my brain says:

We'll deal with the feelings later.

Reasonable.

Except apparently my nervous system defines later as:

3:17 a.m.

Excellent scheduling.

That's When the Bill Arrives

The crisis passes.

Paul is stable.

We're home.

Nobody currently needs anything from me.

And suddenly I'm exhausted.

Or angry.

Or crying over something completely unrelated.

Or losing my mind because the Wi-Fi stopped working.

It's not really the Wi-Fi.

The Wi-Fi just arrived after my emotional infrastructure had been held together with duct tape for six days.

Congratulations to the router. You were the final contestant.

“You’re So Strong.”

I know people mean it as a compliment.

But sometimes I want to say:

You're observing functionality, not strength.

I didn't summon resilience from deep within my soul while inspirational music played in the background.

There was shit that needed to be done.

So I did it.

That's what long-term caregiving does.

You become extremely skilled at functioning under circumstances that are objectively terrible.

Eventually, people notice the skill more than the circumstances.

Sometimes even you do.

The Better You Get at Carrying It, the Lighter It Looks

At the beginning, everyone can see the weight.

Cancer.

Hospitals.

Treatments.

Complications.

Fear.

Then enough time passes.

You learn the doctors.

You know which bag to grab.

You know the medications.

You know what to watch.

You know which number to call.

You know where the fucking Allen wrench goes.

You get better at carrying it.

And somehow that makes it look lighter.

It isn't.

You've just had entirely too much practice.

I don't need people to panic with me.

God, no.

But after the crisis?

Maybe don't assume the person who handled everything walked away untouched.

Ask how they're doing.

Bring dinner.

Take something off the list.

And if they say:

“I'm fine.”

Maybe understand that sometimes fine means:

I'm functioning.

I'm upright.

Nobody is currently on fire.

Let's start there.

Because I am capable.

I'm resourceful.

I'm stubborn as hell.

And yes, give me enough time and I'll probably assemble the damn thing myself with the world's most useless Allen wrench.

I'm proud of that.

But I don't want my competence to erase what it cost to become this competent.

I didn't get good at crisis because crisis stopped being scary.

I got good at crisis because there has been too damn much of it.

The Feral Truth: If I look calm while everything is going to hell, don't mistake that for proof that I'm okay. Competence isn't the absence of fear, exhaustion or grief. Sometimes it's just what those things look like when there's still shit that needs to get done.