I want to tell her that she always worries, and always has. But doing that might add another worry to her list of worries, thus making her worry more, and I don’t want to do that. Not now. Not on the way to a hospital. Not on the way to see my dad.
She says at another point during the day, this time in the hospital room, this time with Jesus slipped safely and reliably in her purse, that “tomorrow” is her new thing. Quite literally, she says that.
“Tomorrow is my new thing.” Her Filipino accent crushes the “th” in “thing,” and I smile.
She says, “Today might not be so good, but tomorrow will be better. I have to tell myself that, you know. I tell myself that.”
I think about it for a moment as I watch my dad. He grimaces as he pushes himself up in his bed to eat the soup they have brought him for lunch. A grimace. Completely out of character. Worried. Completely out of character. Not invincible. Completely out of character.
But I realize, leaning up against a window with a view of nothing that Grandma is right. She is normally right about these things. Tomorrow can be better. 2011 can be better, not because 2010 wasn’t, but because there is always the hope for improvement. For me, for you, for our families and friends, for the human condition. It is that hope that can make 2011 a good year. And it’s one of the only hopes we can really hold on to.
I think of my dad sitting in his hospital room. The Discovery Channel plays some repetitive reality show while he bounces his knee. Nurses walk in and out. Everything is so orderly. And I think of the nameless feet I can see through the propped open doors of the other hospital rooms. The white rubber tread on the bottom of the socks is the only interesting thing about that view... save for a stray balloon. Even that... even the most ridiculous of the ridiculous... is mundane in a hospital. And I think: Tomorrow is all they have. And most of them are happy for tomorrow. I am happy for tomorrow. And I think, friend, that you should be, too. We all should be.
Amen.
