Not at the Table

I walked into the house and the sound hit me first. Not just noise—life. Kids shrieking with laughter as they chased each other around the furniture, cousins tumbling over one another on the rug, a couple of my siblings and their spouses talking over each other in that warm, overlapping way families do when they’ve known each other forever. My own children were right in the middle of it, faces lit up, completely at home in the chaos.

My heart swelled so big it almost hurt. I love these people more than I have words for. I love watching my kids belong somewhere. I love the way a couple of my brothers and sisters still look at me like I’m one of them, especially since other siblings have chosen not to. I love the little cousins who both adore and are adored by my children. I love the babies and toddlers I only half-recognize because they were born or changed so much during the years my brain was busy trying to survive.

But my brain doesn’t care how much I love them.

Within minutes the room started to tilt. Not dramatically—just enough that I had to keep shifting my weight to stay steady. A headache was already building behind my eyes, that familiar deep pounding that makes light feel sharp. Little spots of static flickered in my vision whenever I tried to track movement. Someone’s toddler ran past and I smiled automatically, but inside I was scrambling. Whose child is that again? I knew I had notes. I always have notes.

I slipped my phone out under the table like I was checking a text and opened the document I’d updated the night before:

Brother - busy summer, looking forward to trip to Switzerland in a month, enjoying having former position again but coworker being inept can be challenging. Built a gazebo for their patio. Wife has busy summer staying home with kids, enjoying it, but getting ready to go back to school year. Will have a fourth school - a Montessori school - added for a half a day. Despite a 15 million dollar referendum adding staff for the district, her position’s workload still increased. Enjoys her job a lot still.

Nephew- afraid of dogs and animals, including cows, was at petting zoo and afraid of baby goats and kittens too. Afraid of fish bumpa caught.

Nephew- 5k in fall at new school, tested well for phonics abilities in 4k, has speech services for “R” and “L” and is doing well.

Brother - new job this summer that he loves making custom furniture. Started an LLC for it. Still doing camp too, this summer will be the last summer working there though. Not driving bus next year before/after school. Expecting baby in January. Working on projects fixing up the new house - replacing toilets / faucets, cutting a hole and adding a dutch door from family room to play room, wants to get a dumpster to get rid of odds/ends on property. No animals yet - planning for possibly chickens and pigs next spring. Wife doing well, very excited for next child and loving the new house and making it a home. Homeschooling still and enjoying it.

Niece - fell out of high chair a couple of weeks ago and is going to the chiropractor to get adjusted. Hasn’t slept great since then. Pulling herself up on things and crawling quickly around. Found the small items on our floor - instantly :)

Nephew - receiving speech services to help with talking but doing well with it. Has mastered “mine” quite well :) had hammer fall from top bunk bed onto next to eye but doing ok besides still some redness, could have been worse!

Nephew - multiple stories of his shenanigans on the new farm land and home getting into mischief in the expected ways for a little boy.

Niece - loves playing with our girls very much - dolls - painting - hide and seek. Enjoyed being on boat with our kids on pond and swimming.

Brother - not here this weekend. Chose to host a pool party at their house instead this weekend…

Sister - not here this weekend - leading a vocations retreat this weekend

Brother - not here this weekend - learned from brother that he is going to Europe for a 3 week vacation in July. They’re watching his dog during it.

Sister - not here this weekend - learned she's tentatively planning on getting married May 8th, 2027 from a save the date on the fridge. Brother commented that the picture on the card could be captured, “Stay down!” LOL

Sister - n/a

Grandma - seemed to enjoy the dinner theatre the most of the activities so far. Enjoyed the pond. Phone was broken the day before, was not able to get a replacement at the phone store so still without and asking for people to take photos of things for her.

Grandpa - moved swingset to back by pond to have a place to swing babies. Brought a pickaxe type tool that his grandpa used to dig through rocky soil to dig holes for the concrete to go into. Ended up deciding that just leaving above ground for now is better.

I read the lines twice, trying to anchor names to updates, trying to give myself something to offer so I wouldn’t sit there completely blank. I wanted so badly to be a real part of this again. To ask a question that showed I’d been paying attention even when I physically couldn’t.

But the conversations moved like rivers in flood season. By the time I found an opening to speak, three other topics had already passed. Someone asked me how my sisters wedding was and I nodded and smiled, inwardly panicking that I hadn’t read those notes today. I couldn’t tell. I had to ask my wife to jump in. They knew, and they were forgiving with it. Even when I did know an answer, the words felt like they were coming from somewhere slightly behind me.

The kids kept getting bigger right in front of me. One of the older cousins who used to fit on my lap now stood eye-level as I sat there and talked about school like it was normal. I kept thinking, When did that happen? The toddlers I couldn’t name kept being handed to me for quick hugs and I held them gently, terrified I’d squeeze too hard or too soft because my body doesn’t always know its own strength when everything else is overloaded.

I lasted maybe ten minutes at the big table.

When I finally sat down in a chair against the wall in the corner, the spinning got worse for a second, then settled into a low, nauseating sway. The headache had teeth now. I closed my eyes and the sounds kept coming—laughter, silverware, someone telling a story I couldn’t follow, a baby crying and being soothed. All of it beautiful. All of it too much.

And then the thought arrived, quiet and strangely gentle: It doesn’t really matter if I’m here or not.

Not in a cruel way. Not because they don’t love me. But because right now I wasn’t adding anything to the room except my physical presence, and even that was costing me more than I had to give. If I wasn’t there, they would keep laughing. The kids would keep playing. My siblings would keep catching up on the parts of each other’s lives I couldn’t track. My absence from the conversation wouldn’t dim any of it.

I stood up slowly, touched my oldest on the shoulder so they’d know where I was going, and slipped outside to head next door to our house. No dramatic exit. No explanation needed. I closed the door, laid down on top of the sheets, and let the darkness press against my eyelids. The headache didn’t vanish, but it stopped getting worse. The spinning slowed. The muffled sounds became something I could ignore instead of something I had to survive.

I didn’t fall asleep right away. I cried at what I have lost and the limitations my disability brings now for what used to be the most enjoyable part of my life - family. As I dried my face and grabbed my wife’s dry pillow to use instead of my now soaked one, I just let my brain do the only thing it was capable of in that moment: rest. Not because I wanted to miss the rest of the day, but because I knew this was the price of being able to be present later. Because sometimes the most loving thing I can do for the people I love is to stop trying to keep up and let myself be absent for a little while.

When I got up, I saw my sister-in-law in our living room with a baby I should know and just simply had to ask, “who is this little one?” with a clear joy that I wanted to know, but an honest humility that I didn’t. When I saw my wife she gave me a small, knowing nod—no questions, just acceptance. That’s the gift of the few people who have cared to stay and watched you live through this: they don’t need you to explain why you disappeared.

Some days I can stay longer. Some days I can even enjoy it. But on the days when the room spins and the notes in my phone aren’t enough and the love feels like it’s drowning me instead of holding me up, I give myself permission to leave the table.

Because being there in body while my brain is somewhere else isn’t really being there anyway. And these people I love so fiercely deserve more than a hollow version of me.

They also deserve a version of me who knows when to go lie down.