Stirring The Pot

by Bella Rum


H is at our house this morning. He hit the road at 6:30. This was his third or fourth trip over the past few weeks. The car was packed to bursting with all but the things we can not bear to part with until the last minute: computer, television, medications, a few t-shirts, clean underwear, toiletries,  and a couple of other things.

This is really going to happen. I’m hoping that C will be able to do this. I’m not sure what I will do if she can’t deal with the solitude and the monotony of the rigid routine that keeps Dad’s world on track. The Brother says we’ll just figure out something else, but I know he really means that I’ll have to figure out something else.

He’s a good son and a good brother, but this responsibility has not fallen to him. I could be angry with him and my sister, and I am at times, but it serves no purpose. Life is complicated. People are complicated. They’re seldom all good or all bad.

I’ve certainly had my own moments over the past few years that I’d like to forget. I did the best I could do, and I did it for as long as I could. That will have to be enough to satisfy me for now. I’ll look back on it later when I have the luxury of time and distance.

Dad isn’t saying much. He just says, “Okay.” No  matter what I say, he says, “Okay.”

I know it isn’t okay. It must be terrible to live too long, to have to depend on others to make the right decisions for you, to be forced to do what they say, but being the one who makes the decision is unsettling, too.  It stirs the inner pot, brings the uglies to the top of the stew, forcing one to look at all the ingredients that make the whole.

I’m always asking myself if I’m doing the best I can do, and I think I am. I’m going to go with that for now.