The hardest column I have ever written

“I’ll do the very best I know how - the very best I can; and I mean to keep on doing so until the end.” (Abraham Lincoln)

For over 30 years, he has sat at his desk, sharing his opinions with readers in a weekly column. Today, this 84-year-old columnist faces the hardest column he has ever had to write.

He’s writing it not because he has wisdom to spare, but because he needs to find a way to comfort himself. Too, he hopes that by sharing his struggle, he might offer a little light to others who are, or someday will be, walking down this same dark road.

It is January, the season of making New Year’s resolutions. Some resolve to lose weight, save money, and so on. These are reasonable goals for a normal life. But the Ole Seagull’s life is no longer normal.

For 64 years, his world has revolved around one person: his wife, Lois. Now, he watches helplessly as Alzheimer’s Disease pulls her into its final, foggy stages. She is fading and will soon be with her Lord, leaving behind a man who is so thankful that he had her in his life for so many years and will miss and long for her with every beat of his heart.

In the face of such a loss, the standard New Year’s resolutions feel hollow. He cannot resolve to “fix” this or the heartache of it all. He can, however, keep on keeping on, and as he has often done, found comfort and direction from the words of Abraham Lincoln: “I’ll do the very best I know how - the very best I can; and I mean to keep on doing so until the end.”

For an Ole Seagull, this is not a resolution about success; it is a resolution about survival. It is the only vow that fits the heavy reality of his days.

When he promises to do “the very best I know how - the very best I can,” he is admitting his own powerlessness. This is a difficult thing for a man used to tackling problems, win or lose, head-on until they are resolved based on the effort and persistence he puts forth. He’s not a doctor who can heal her brain. He is not a magician who can bring back the woman she was ten years ago.

He is simply a husband whose “best” right now isn’t about curing the disease; it’s about presence. It means giving the medications that will relieve her pain and keep her comfortable, sitting by the bed, holding a hand that might not squeeze back, and speaking softly to her even when he isn’t sure she understands.

Grief is exhausting. It is a marathon without a finish line. The promise to keep going “until the end” carries a double weight. It refers to the end of his wife’s long battle, a day he dreads but must prepare for. It also reminds him to let her know that he will not give up and will keep on keeping on to his last days, a blessed and better man because of her and her love, which he will carry with him into eternity.

This column is an act of protest against the helplessness he feels. He cannot control the disease, but he can control how he behaves in the face of it. He can resolve to do the very best he knows how, the very best he can; and keep on doing so until the end. It’s a vow to honor a 64-year love story by seeing it through to the very last page.