Doing Her Best

She always tried to do her best.

The best she could at being a mother.

The best she could as a writer.

The best she could at work.

Somewhere along the line, people confused that with being “the best.”

She had to slow down on her writing to make time for work.

She delayed her son’s surgery for weeks to find a day when the surgeon could perform it on a non-work day, all so she wouldn't let her boss down.

She saw the scabs under her boy's ears where he had been pulling at them again, and she thought:

Was this my best idea? Delaying his surgery?

Then all of a sudden, it seemed like the only thing she was doing her best at was work.

No wonder she wasn’t feeling herself.

One night, she went to bed; something felt off.

It started small, but seemed to grow.

She tossed and turned through the night as the illness continued to creep in.

She woke that morning with good intentions. She got up, got dressed and prepared to wake her son up and go to work.

Finally, she had a moment of clarity.

Was this really her best decision?

Should she be driving on the road all day when she’d been awake all night?

Should she be out there bending and reaching, scooping and collecting when she was feeling so shaky and weak?

She was a mother first, and she thought of her beautiful boy.

She couldn’t look after him if she was injured while working or driving because she wasn’t feeling up to it.

She couldn’t look after him if she made herself sicker by pushing herself when she was really not well.

She paced the room, picked up her phone, put it down, picked up her phone, put it down.

It wasn’t easy, but she made the call.

That day, just for once, she wouldn’t go to work.

She called with no answer; a message was left.

The bubbling in her tummy from the stomach bug mixed with the anxiety that was beginning to ferment.

She hated waiting.

Waiting, when she knew she’d let someone down.

Waiting, for him to call back and tell her it was okay, she should rest.

Eventually the call came back.

It was full of questions, accusations and statements about staffing shortages.

He scrambled, trying to get her to work another day instead.

But she was still a mother. She had other priorities.

Maybe she could come in later that afternoon?

Possibly, but how could she rest and recover with that pressure hanging over her head?

Why did working seem more important than her health, her family, her writing?

When did this happen?

She started to crumble.

She was already feeling so fragile and unwell.

She was wracked with guilt over letting someone down.

That’s never been in her nature.

In her moment of weakness, she told him not to worry; she’d come to work immediately if it was such a big problem.

Finally, he realised that maybe he was being unreasonable. He told her he’d make some calls and get back to her.

Not that it was okay. Not that she should rest.

Just to wait and see.

More waiting.

When would rest come?

Ten minutes later, a call back.

The problem was fixed.

Someone else can do it.

It was that simple.

But it was too late.

Her world had been crushed.

She never wanted to let anyone down.

How could she rest now?

She was only trying to do her best.

And then it occurred to her.

Was picking up shit for someone else really my best?