My mum just sent a message saying that my dad just re-broke his other hip. I don’t even know how to process this.

Last night, Craig got his first proper look at the Northern Lights. I’m always amazed that our atmosphere keeps working, that it doesn’t just get blown away when bombarded with solar particles, or (for that matter) that all the cells and bacteria in my body remain in the specific delicate balance that allows me to be alive.

Of course, at some point on a personal this will stop working and I’ll die, and on a galactic level everything will all be incinerated or sucked into nothingness. But for now, it’s pretty neat.

At Christmas, I indulged myself in some off-time away from thinking about family-stuff by playing a Star Wars game that had been ported to the iPad. It was really well-made in every way, from having an actual story, feeling consistent with my childhood sense of that universe, down to a graceful way of handling the actual play.

Yeah, “play” is the word. Weird how we adults denigrate play.

I finally finished the game last night:

This morning, Mom dropped me off at UPEI, whose beautifully ugly Brutalist concrete library has been my haven of late — just as it was in my teens, when I went there to read all the pop-psychology books in an effort to learn how to use my mind.

So, not much has changed. Except now I’m creating instructive articles andillustrations for my client’s audience and trying to figure out my life by writing and drawing in my sketchbook.

It’s easy to think of artists as insecure little attention-seekers, but my experience today in the library reminded me of what art is for: processing experience.

Or maybe it’s not even that, it’s just stating our experience. Having a thought, opinion, or emotion at all does reassure us that there is a perceiver (us), but I wasn’t motivated by any Cartesian inquiry today. Simply drawing what was in my heart was a balm.

I’m weary, beat, tired of trying to guess and hope at what’s going to happen with my dad, trying to reach out to someone who is closed to me, despite our love for each other. Drawing that today — admitting it in words and pictures — was comforting, even if it solves or advances nothing.

I’m reminded of the Monet exhibition in Edinburgh, where amid the sedate fields and ponds I found one shocking picture of the artist’s wife on her deathbed:

How courageous, I thought, to turn to one’s art in the worst possible time. Now I think it wasn’t courage, but simple necessity. When there’s no comfort to be had, nothing to do, at least expression is available. Before we can hope to understand, we first have to look at what it is we’re trying to understand.

Not to paint too a dire a picture of my family. We’ve been very lucky in our lives, and the situation with Dad could rebound some more.

I stayed here following the dictates of my heart; but now I’m at a loss. I want to do anything I can for my dad, but whatever needs doing has to come from him — whether it ultimately will or not.

P.S. My mum and I just watched a BBC Scotland program called “Two Doors Down” that aired at New Year, and we had a right giggle at it. Ahh, that’s what we needed: some laughter.

What I was going to say was something like this:

Dad is back! The last few days, he’s been completely himself again, and I’ve really been enjoying his company — his great stories of his days in social work, his acerbic take on world events, and his deadpan sense of humour.

He’s back on his feet, too: I can’t believe how much mobility he’s got back. He can’t go far or for too long on foot, and he needs the walker, but he’s taking steps instead of shuffling, and he’s transferring himself to and from bed and in the bathroom on his own.

I’ve been going to church with Mom. The people there are very friendly, and intellectually awake and inquiring folks. I can see why she relies on this community, and I’ve found comfort in it, too.

It’s not a crutch, as our materialistic age would sneeringly accuse. Neither Mom nor I are Christians„¢©®, but we want to think about this aspect of life, and science, commerce, and the other quotidian processes of our society have no vocabulary for that (save a dismissive one).

[Mom talks a lot. Yes, that can be frustrating, but as I was drawing these yesterday, it occurred to me that her talking is exactly the same world-ordering that I do by journalling, blogging, writing, doodling…]

I got to talk to my darling via the magic picture frame that is FaceTime. I really miss him, and it’s time to go home. I don’t feel bad about that, because things here have reached a new state of normal.

But then…

Last night, Dad fell when trying to manoeuvre around his bed. The ambulance was diverted — Queen Elizabeth Hospital is full — so we’ve been in the Summerside hospital overnight. But Dad’s femur is broken above the knee, and they can’t operate here. So we wait for an opening, then an ambulance to take us back to Charlottetown.

I sat up front for last night’s ride. At first I couldn’t make conversation, but then I slipped into a mode I’ve learned from my work in the last few years: the interview. I learned a lot about paramedicine, and the journey went quickly — for me, at least. [Edit: On the ride up, I talked to a paramedic just starting his career; the journey back was with two seasoned vets who have seen it all and are happy now to just to “transfers”, like Dad’s journey.]

Dad’s been incredibly strong, even been joking with the people working around him. Pain medication interacts badly with his Parkinson’s drugs, but thankfully he hasn’t hallucinated much.

So what now? Does he lose his nursing home room, the one we just decorated yesterday? Can I return to Scotland this weekend, or should I stay? I’ve been away two months; when do I see my husband again? Do I need to move here?j

I’ve no idea.

Ha! That’s the English name of the Japanese movie I found on the in-flight system about a 42-year-old man who’s going through a mid-life crisis and decides to be a manga artist.

How silly.