Doing the best that I can

I belong to a Facebook group of widows, and it's pretty active. Everyone posts prayer requests and shares the moments of "widow-ness" when the grief hits again (even when it's been a few years since our husband's death). One lady posted that she had a meltdown after cleaning out the garage and seeing all her husband's junk ready to go to the dump. Another lady sighed that she is tired of being a widow (we all responded with "I hear you" and "hear hear"). Others have shared the trials of being a single parent, dealing with grieving kids, teens, older children and all through it: the grief.

There is one refrain that I hear, see and feel when I read over those messages: I'm doing the best that I can.

Someone said to me yesterday: you're a good mother. I have to tell you, most days I feel like the worst possible person. I'm tired and stressed out. Work is far too busy and I'm struggling to keep my stress level below unreasonable. I'm cranky when I get home. I'm issuing orders and my daughter is doing her best not to lose it when I come through the door. (in my defense, I am coming home to a living room and dining room full of her stuff from one end to the other, and it is a MESS).

I"m doing the best that I can and that's all anyone could ask of me.

Sometimes, my best just doesn't feel good enough. And other times, my best is far beyond what I should be doing (why am I burning myself out for something unnecessary?

Maybe where I'm going with this is that I need to be able to say NO more without guilt assailing me. And I need to have a sign around my neck that says:

I just had half my body amputated 18 months ago. Some of the bandages have come off. Some of my organs are functioning on their own. I'm getting used to the ones that aren't working fully. Some of them never will. On the outside I probably look pretty normal. Maybe I look just like I used to before my body was amputated.

But I'm not, and I never will be the person I was. I lost an integral part of myself. It will never be restored, and my life doesn't close over and regenerate like most wounds. I will always bear a scar from top to bottom. I guess it isn't visible, even for those who know me and know my story.

At the same time, I know that I have to get up and walk in places where I wish I could lie down. I have to push myself harder than I've ever done before because I'm the only one. I hate that. It feels unfair, and I could whine and complain for quite a long while about it, but a fat lot of good it would do.

So I'll just do the best that I can with what I have.