We are mortal. If we are lucky, we manage to live a few decades before confronting what this really means. In the past year both I and my partner have received news that a parent has cancer. Mine had a good prognosis. His does not. We just received the news of his parent’s illness today.

We take turns in our relationship. When my mother was ill, I cried, was scared and sad. I felt plagued by regret and doubt (have I been a good enough daughter?). Then I had my own health scare, a reminder that I too could develop cancer. Suddenly life felt more tenuous to me. I’m almost 41; it’s time to accept the inevitable. Now that my partner has learned of his father’s illness, I feel detached and numb. Is there something wrong with me, I wonder? But I think it’s a coping response. One of us needs to remain steady, and he did that for me.

We have also had some employment concerns that raise the possibility of relocation due to his imminent layoff. With this recent news, I feel as though the ground has disintegrated beneath us.

So what does a person do when life is thrown into chaos?

The answer: the best one can.

Someone asked me how I’m feeling, and I replied I was okay, though I feel a little insane around the edges.

So here is what I will do. I will focus on whatever tasks present themselves to me. Routine gives structure: meals need to be cooked, dishes washed, workouts done, showers taken, beds made, laundry folded. The bills continue to arrive and need to be paid. Cats want to be petted and fed.

Here is what else I will do. I will give my partner what he needs, whether it is a hug, a listening ear, or quiet time. I will seek the support I need from my friends and family, who are many in number and generous in heart. I will put my own agenda aside for awhile. (You know, the “what’s in it for me and where is our relationship going?” one.)

Living in the present means experiencing. So I will savor the earthy flavor of my morning coffee. I will read my books, being grateful that I have an alert mind and live in a country that does not restrict my choices. I will remember to breathe, to feel my body fill upon inhaling and empty with exhaling. I will marvel at the changes in my friend’s one year old son. I will take pleasure in the weather and notice the change of seasons. I will move, stretch, and feel the power of my own body, and enjoy that. I will cherish these small moments of awareness and, each time, recommit to life.

I may not be able to live mindfully every moment. That’s not my goal; in fact, it’s akin to an obese smoker with high blood pressure suddenly attempting the decathlon. Assessing mindfulness from a perfectionist stance misses the point. It’s not about accruing X minutes of awareness. It’s about simply being present as much as possible — it’s the journey, not the destination.