Good Day

Mother has always loved animals--she gave that to me--and I'm guessing that, for her, this day somewhere in the late 1930's was a good day. When I arrived for my second visit, one of the aides greeted me, as she was just getting Mother up from the lunch table. "She's having a good day," the aide said, "she fed herself." I swallowed hard.
 

Probably some day back in her childhood...well before the pony picture...someone rejoiced in the day little Joan could feed herself. She had a good day and was making progress. As she grew, the definition of "good day" grew as well. There were fun days when a poor girl raised by her great-grandmother could get to ride a pony. There was the day she was named Valedictorian of her high school class and the day she learned she was accepted to Pembroke (the women's arm of Brown University). There was her 1954 wedding to my father, and I hope that on the Mother's Day when she entered the hospital to give birth to yours truly she considered that a good day as well. Although probably the birth of my brother was better, since her labor then lasted only two hours!
 

As she went through a lifetime of personal and professional joys and accomplishments, who knew that on a warm October day in her 75th year someone would feel compelled to highlight a day she could feed herself? It's jarring.
 

Of course, like most things with this disease, it's jarring because it gives voice to my own demons. What are the "good days" of my future? Will someone one day praise my ability to stand upright or blink my eyes or have food run successfully through the digestive process? It gives me pause.
 

The irony and sole comfort is that however diminished the notion of a "good day" becomes, we all do have one last hurrah...the goodest of all good days that no indignity of age, accident or disease can steal away. There will come a day when God will, as the old hymn says, "lead us from night to never-ending day." Or at least I think so. And if I'm wrong, I won't know the difference.
 

But I do believe that the end of suffering is a good day and that sometimes the Grim Reaper appears more like a jovial stable master with a pony, inviting us to climb on and trot away to new adventures. Whether that good day comes soon or late, Mother and I will both climb into that saddle with joy.