Solitaire

That is one of the things on my bedroom door. Solitaire. It is a cardboard cut-out of the word, white letters with a black outline, that was part of the packaging of a hand-held game one of my nephews bought my mom for Christmas a few years ago. It is part of a collection of things on my door that kind of define my life.





Being a caregiver is a lot like a game of solitaire. You can sit in a room full of others, but ultimately it is you who needs to make the choices about what is done next and there is no one else that can be turned to to take the hand you were dealt away and play it out for you. You might have someone sit and watch you play for a little while, but they will get up and move away when they determine they don't know how to play the game. There are the occasional ones that will tell you you're going about it all wrong then hold up their hands and back away when you offer to let them take over. I'm not sure what can be done other than to get up each morning and do my best.



There are a lot of times when I want to cry, a few points where just walking out the door and never coming back seems like the easier road to take, and even times, like now, when I am trying my best but it's not good enough and all I can do it sit and stress out and feel my stomach twisting and knotting as the thought replays on a loop in my head that my best is not good enough.