The Best He Could Do

As a child, I was told I could do better. I was smart and should never be satisfied with the status quo. I should imagine how I would feel if I got an A+ instead of an A. Maybe if I had spent more time, took it more seriously, stopped fooling around. This is how I became a perfectionist. This is also how I became one who expects others to be perfect, too.

Even in Jim's death, I have learned from him. He did his best. I can wish he lived his life differently. I can point out the many times he should have made different decisions and think about how is life, and death, would have been different. But, it was his path to take. It was his row to hoe. Just like I have mine.

Jim's funeral service was this past Saturday. Interestingly enough, the same date as my son's birthday. Two Marines performed the military funeral rituals. The flag went to Jim's young son. People spoke of what it was like to have had Jim in their lives. He did some pretty amazing things like stealing an airport golf cart with his buddy and driving around the airport in it, throwing airport security into a tizzy. He offered a different way of life to a drug addict living on the streets. He didn't know her, but followed the voice in his heart. Nearly twenty years later she continues to do well, is married, and runs her own business.

As I think about Jim, his life, his actions, his funny Jim-isms, (You: "What's that smell?" Jim: "That's your upper lip.") I realize more and more he just did his best and I have to be okay with it. Perfectionism is an unrealistic unattainable goal. It's also not necessary.

I have learned that even though Jim's best sometimes hurt those that loved him, it compounded his sorrow, too. Superman has his kryptonite. Why shouldn't Jim be afforded the same forgiveness?

Dear Jim

Dear Jim,

I spent time with you tonight. Your brother and his wife were there, too. It was good to see them; they look well.

I am no longer angry with you for putting yourself in this position. My heart is only filled with love and sadness. You did your best. That is all any of us could have asked of you. 

Your body was hot from fever so I kept changing the washcloth on your forehead. I gently let my fingers glide across the skin on your arm and hand as I sat next to your bed. I didn't dare use a firmer touch as I was afraid I would cause you physical harm if I did.

When your brother and sister-in-law left us so that we could have some time together, we had a good chat, even though I was the only one talking. I could tell you were listening, the morphine notwithstanding. I told you how much I love you. That you are my Superman. Yes, I cried. I couldn't help it. You always told me there was no shame in crying. If I felt like I needed to, then I should cry and without apology.

I saw your body in a state I never imagined of you. Your pallor was grey and your muscles without tone. Even so, I love you. You will always be the handsome man that held me when we swam in the Gulf. The one that I could go to when I couldn't make up my mind, couldn't untangle logic from emotion enough to make a decision. You were so quick to decide the path you thought to be the right one and then explain to me why. I'm laughing remembering the many times you would say to me, "Fuck 'em." In other words, let it go. It's not worth worrying about or struggling with. Let go and move on.

I put my hand on your chest and told you to be at peace. I told you I would be back tomorrow to see you again but I'm not sure you will be around for another visit. I didn't say that to you, but that is what I was thinking.  

I also told you to visit me, if you want. I would know you were there.

I am glad we had our talk tonight. I am now at peace. I'll see you tomorrow.

Love,

Nancy