Today I wake up and go into my day and I hope it goes well. I thought of this song and how it was the soundtrack for my father’s decline. When I listen to it, it makes me miss him, fiercely.
My mother is having out-patient surgery and although it should be minor and quick she is mired in all of her dread and childlike awfulness. She looks to my sister and me to hold her up. Our arms are not that strong but we stand by her side and try to stay sturdy when the wave of her blackness washes over us.
She does the best she can.
I remember the last Christmas we had with my Dad still up and about and how he gingerly and lovingly said, “You know babe, if it’s a big deal to come get me next Christmas, you can just forget bringing me because I wouldn’t mind staying home…..If that’s okay with you and your sister.”
It wasn’t okay with me. I wanted him to be 50 again, in his white mustang, on Christmas Eve, pulling up in the driveway with a trunk full of presents.
“Of course it’s okay with me Dad. Whatever you want to do.”
At this point he’d be sure to remind me that I was one of the good guys.
He was getting so tired then. He didn’t care about the tree or the food. But we did and, looking back, maybe we dragged him out of his cozy place to be with us at dinner because we wanted things to remain whole, we wanted things to never change.
We all did the best we could.
If I was stranded on a desert island and I had only one sentence to keep with me it would be that:
Everyone’s doing the best they can.
Even though it so often seems like they’re not trying at all. They’re all just wanting a little golden in their days—like us. And if we’re lucky we get it.
Here’s to being golden. Here’s to all of us doing the best we can.