Dispatches from Home – New Year’s Eve 2019.
As Father Time shuffles off this mortal coil and awaits the arrival of the New Year Baby, I’ve come to the end of the year and the decade, amazed at how quickly 3,650 days disappeared. I’ve also pondered about the lost days that have sifted through the hourglass of my life. I can, however, remember those lost days because I’ve kept a series of journals filled with my thoughts on family and friends, my deepest secrets, and injected with my own brand of humor and pathos. My first entry was dated June 26, 1966. It will prove interesting to know what my last entry date will be.
But on New Year’s Eve 2018, my thoughts were of my dear mother and what 2019 might hold. In one journal entry, I wrote: “Mother started going to the bathroom about 3:30 this morning, up and down until around 11-ish. She’s somewhat agitated. What will 2019 bring? Mother’s physical health—for being 92—is good. Her mental health is not! I’m almost afraid to leave her alone anymore. Kare In Home is great, but it can run into money at $16.00 an hour. Scrooge the Musical cost me over $3000.00 in sitter fees—I can’t do that anymore. The Kalbergs ain’t made of money. LOL!” At that point, my humor ended, and reality set in.
“I’m also feeling somewhat trapped, trapped in a world that seemingly has no exit to which I can run. I know Mom can’t live much longer, and when she goes, I’ll be left totally alone for the first time in my life. It frightens me. There will be no ‘Andy’ to look after me like I’ve looked after Mom. I must trust God, though, to provide a way.” My journal entry then turns again, indicating a shift toward darkness that sometimes overwhelms me. It was the inky darkness of depression.
“There are times, though—after watching some maudlin old movie or hearing a certain song—that I feel like checking out on my own. I don’t have enough sleeping pills to transport me to Glory, and they’re not foolproof anyway. Don’t own a gun; it’s much too messy. What about an accident? I’m too much of a fraidy cat for that. Head in a gas stove? Might talk too long. Having exhausted my options, I guess I’ll hang on to the bitter end, trusting God to provide. I must remember, HE AWAYS HAS!”
Then, I wrote something too personal to post on Facebook. Thankfully, those words will die with me because it’s in my will that my journals be destroyed. So, if you’re wondering if YOUR secrets will be revealed as you related them to me, rest easy, my friends. (LOL!) I ended that 2018 New Year’s Eve entry with a quote, “I can plod,” from the Baptist missionary William Carey, and a poem penned by yours truly:
Oh! Glorious day when I’m called Home,
And see afar Heaven’s golden dome.
I hear the angel’s cheer,
And thankfully, never shed another tear.
Heaven’s gate will open wide,
As into Glory, I will glide.
Gone will be my earthly struggles,
And trying hurtful days.
As down the streets of gold, I’ll dance,
And sing God’s holy praise.
With that bit of bad poetry ringing in your ears (LOL!) and my last Dispatches from Home of 2019, I bid you a happy and prosperous New Year, my dear friends and family!
May God bless. Big hug to you all.
(Originally posted December 31, 2019)