I feel no guilt in the enormous relief I find in being freed from witnessing and absorbing the accumulated daily traumas of Dad’s last three years of life with paralysis and pain.  My struggle with guilt will settle in, however, as I contemplate my struggles to be happy and cheerful—and failing—in my care responsibilities, in my silences and avoidances, in my angry and impatient outbursts and imperfect sensitivities.  My resentments, certainly, were not Dad’s fault, but rather haunt me as beacons of my own depression and selfishness and lack of resilience.  Still, I am determined to not be sucked into to the vortex of guilt, the shamefaced guilt which will come if I measure my imperfections instead of honor my humanness.  The facts remain that I offered to the endeavor all my energies, gave all my love and found a little more, persisted through the difficulties, and prevailed.  Our objective was for Dad to live and die in his own house, comfortably, happily, well-fed, in good company, with his books, with his wife and sweetheart.  And we did it.  We overcame.  We prevailed.  We protected.  We cared.  We endured.  We loved.  For Dad.  For Mom.  For family.

(Pictured: the funeral boutonniere.)