Sometimes, you're not even adequate...and sometimes, well...
And that's OK. You have the hardest job on the planet, caring for a dying spouse, because illness has stolen all of your corporate dreams, and is holding the present hostage.
And you know that the hostage will be killed.
Everything you worked for, everything you planned for, all of the secrets you traded, hopes for a golden tomorrow whispered across pillows or spoke of more loudly, at Starbucks.
It's all been hijacked, and twisted, and torn.
It's upsetting. And you can't keep it all inside.
So some days you're impatient, and some days you're downright resentful of the illness that is personified in the individual whose bedpan you have to empty, and whom you must then wash.
Even if you've shared dreams that would make God envious...now it's down to faeces and carbolic.
You're not perfect.
But you're human, in all of your frustration.
And you're loved.
Madonna will graciously provide the musical theme, with Live To Tell.