By Mary Kate O’Donnell
“How are you?”
It’s the question that starts nearly every conversation. Most people answer on autopilot—
“Good, good… I’m doing well!” “Things are great. How are you?”
I can’t.
I stopped asking the question because I can’t lie when it comes back to me. “I’m terrible,” I say, with a practiced smile.
Honesty That Hurts
When I tell the truth, I’m met with hugs—strong arms that can never hold all my pain. And then I feel guilty for expecting a hug to somehow take it away. I worry that my weakness might seep into the people who’ve fought hard to stay strong themselves.
Sometimes I wonder if anyone really wants the real answer. But if I bite my tongue, I lose my honesty along with my health. So I tell the truth and brace for the quiet, sympathetic “Awww, Mary Kate,” or the well-meaning “I know, I’ve heard.”
But they don’t know everything. They know only what my mother shares in church pews or grocery checkout lines, while I stand in another room—or miles away. By the time I meet someone’s eyes, it feels like they already know.
Acting Happy
Bravery is a costume that never fit me well. Still, I perform every day.
I once thought acting would be a career. Instead, it’s my unpaid, full-time job. To everyone I meet, I smile, I joke, I make them laugh. But I rarely laugh myself. I act like a happy woman, living high above the clouds. Yet I hardly remember what clouds look like; my eyes are too full of tears as I look up, asking God why.
People love to say, “God only gives you what you can handle.”
Well, He must think I’m stronger than I feel—because most days, I barely have the strength to return a hug.
Faith Through Pain
I believe in a God who doesn’t hand out illnesses, but who holds my hand as I face what science and chance deliver.
God didn’t give me brain tumors, epilepsy, celiac disease, cracked ribs, broken shoulders, POTS, migraine headaches, or the pinched nerve that left my fingertips numb after a slow-motion car accident. A doctor once smiled and said, “I guess you’re just lucky.”
Some call me strong. Some pity me. Some can’t imagine how I keep waking up. I don’t judge them; pain is pain, and it wears a different face for everyone.
Searching for Light
I do have blessings: loving parents, a brother who’s my best friend, a home, friends, a church, a God to pray to, and two sweet cats who never ask how I’m doing. Many people would give anything for that.
So why can’t I always let those joys outweigh the pain? I don’t know. But I keep trying.
The Longest Day
August 4, 2015, will always be the scariest day of my life.
A man I met only once would cut into my brain for six hours, and I had to trust I’d wake up during the seventh. I’d read his glowing reviews online, but my hands still shook as I wondered if even those credentials were just another internet rumor.
When people asked about the surgery, I’d laugh lightly and say, “It will be fine.” Inside, anxiety devoured my sleep. Days felt shorter, nights darker.
Yet I still went out, painted on a smile, pocketed a few jokes to fill awkward silences, and stopped for coffee.
“How are you?” the barista asked. “I’m terrible. Large iced coffee, cream only.”
That was before my first brain surgery. Since then, I’ve survived five.
Still Answering Honestly
“How are you?” remains a complicated question.
Sometimes I say, “I’m okay.” Sometimes I still say, “I’m terrible.”
Either way, it’s the truth of a life that holds both unbearable pain and undeniable grace—a life I keep showing up for, one honest answer at a time.
