There has been a running commentary on my phone for the past three years. Each evening I write a few sentences about how Benjamin weathered the day, ending with a heart if it was seamless, and a thumbs up if it was only somewhat bumpy.

It is a way to stay calibrated, both when my faulty memory suggests that it is and will always be terrible, as well as those times of amnesia when I forget what all the fuss is about. I can go back and have a moderately objective assessment of Odhner existence. 

This past Sunday was one of the no heart days. He was ramped up to a fever pitch for several hours, sucking up the oxygen like a forest fire. But in the five days following he has been a complete peach. Which leaves me with a question that rumbles beneath the surface of my continuous review.

"How good is good enough?"

The decisions that have bounced around our family conversations use scary words like hospitalize, and assisted living. At what point do we say he has to go away? 

My father reached that point in his marriage, and quietly moved to an apartment across town. He considered himself still married, but co living was not viable when she was manic. Few of us escape such junctures, deciding if this job is too demoralizing to keep plodding, or this volunteer work is still life giving. It takes energy to reassess, yet ignoring the signs of demise keeps us enmeshed. 

Although I write more when things are rocky, with specifics like how we responded to Ben's outbursts, and whether anything helped, the real story is in the gaps between. The banter at the table about movie characters, and laughter over fresh jokes. 

"What does a snowman say if you are upset?"

"I don't know Ben."

"Chill!"

I keep these records in the interest of knowing when things are hard. But the miracle is it also reminds me of how often they are just fine.