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I love my job. I really do. Most of the time.
Except at times like these. I just told one of my closest friends that he has a degenerative brain disease, and that he is going to fade away into dementia and helplessness over the next year or two. He’s only 70 years old. His wife has her hands full. She’ll be changing diapers before she knows what happened. There is no treatment. Well, nothing that works.
He buys good scotch. So I’ve spent a lot of time on his patio, drinking better stuff than what I generally buy, laughing and talking about funny stories. But early this morning, I sat in his living room, drinking coffee, talking about awful, horrible things. Unthinkable things. Things that happen to somebody else. Usually. Until it happens to you.
And then, tomorrow looks dark and bleak.
I left his house, and instead of going home, I drove to Starbucks, where one of my daughters works. She was her usual ray-of-sunshine self, laughing with the customers, and her co-workers. She’ll work there for another month or so, and then she starts a great job as a tech consultant for an international company. She can’t wait to get started.
For her, tomorrow looks so exciting.
My brief exposure to the joy of youth helped, but not as much as I’d hoped.
I’ll have some scotch tonight, some of the good stuff that I keep in the back of my cabinet, in honor of my friend. Probably more than I should. And it will probably help. But not as much as I hope that it will.
I hate my job. I really do. Some of the time.
Life is beautiful. Even when it’s not.
Tomorrow, we give thanks. As we should, every day.Published in