Some goals are light. They are fun… but largely inconsequential in the grand scheme of life. No social media after 8pm, run the race in under yada yada minutes, stay out of Target so you can actually retire someday….
But some goals are weighty. They are not nice-to-reach. They are need-to-reach. Eight months ago, I acquired one of those.
My new, need-to-reach goal is one I never wanted. One I wouldn’t wish on anyone. My new goal comes with an unfamiliar to-do list that is comically long, where the additions far outpace the cross-offs. And the reasonable assumption of how long each task will take rarely matches its reality. Almost never, actually. But I have to keep going because two very important people are counting on me. People I love endlessly and to whom I owe everything. And even though they do not know the sum total of what they’ve lost or what they now need, I know. I know that the non-negotiables on the table are dignity, care, and proximity to each other. These are the last things they will ever need, and they are all that matter.
So everyday, I chip away. I call again. Leave another message. Fill out the form. Send a follow-up email. Verify the last four digits. Mail the proof. Get it notarized. Mail the proof again. Make another appointment. Set another meeting. Ask for help. Beg for it. Make a case for their mercy and understanding. Appeal to their humanity. Document the neglect. File the complaint. Get loud. Helloo? Is anyone on the other side? I park myself outside their office and wait. Make them look me in the eye when they tell me why they haven’t returned my call, done the thing, or made it right. Request the contact information of their supervisor. Remind them that there are actual people counting on them. People who have a combined 155 years worth of memories and dreams and mistakes and contributions. I say, I do my job, can you do yours? Because what is at stake is bigger than you know. What hangs in the balance is everything.
A teacher. A giver. 52 years a wife, 48 years a mother, 17 years a Nana. A tradition-loving, life-long New Yorker. An unapologetic superfan of Hallmark Movies and Little House on the Prairie. A lover of the Today Show, All My Children, the ‘86 Mets, and all things Christmas. A second-generation Italian-American who never liked to cook. A fan of lobbies, benches and stops for coffee. A loyal and overly generous gift-giver. Inventor of “rock-and-hug”. She has lists, she has photo albums, she has more lists. If the weather permitted, she’d wear sandals all year round. If one of her grandkids made it, wrote it, or gave it - she still has it. I remind her of all of this, but I know her heart still knows.
A fisherman. A commuter. 52 years a husband, 48 years a father, 17 years a Poppy. A rock n roll loving satisfied customer of life. A role-model, an epic storyteller, and a glass-half-full friend to all. A Notre-Dame fan, a March madness devotee, a cam-corder carrying family man. An unapologetic superfan of corny jokes and college visits. Inventor of the “apple and orange game”. A Beetle-driving, sunroof open, encyclopedia of music trivia. He’ll never turn down pizza, he always has room for a bagel or scoop of chocolate ice-cream. If he could, he'd jog or swim everyday. If one of his grandkids wants to tell him about it, have him there, enjoy it with him, nothing could keep him away. I remind him of all of this, but I know his heart still knows.
All we have left is time together. As a family. Time together is all that remains, so I guess it is fair to say I am fighting to keep something that is disappearing. And as time fades, disease expands. For both of them. No longer equipped to fight for their own dignity, care, and proximity to each other, I stand in their place. They are my parents, and for them, I fight on.
Comments