When Dad went into the hospital, I was so busy with all my work commitments, working late into each evening, I decided I would see him on the weekend. Thing is, he didn't wait until the weekend to die. I received the call from the doctor around 2 a.m. on a Thursday.

That was when I was 24, a year after college. I lost Dad to his 10-year fight with multiple myeloma, a few weeks before Christmas. At Thanksgiving I instinctively felt he wouldn't make it the rest of the year. Still, I delayed visiting him ... and never really said good bye. We really never talked, much. So, did he know how much I loved him? Did he understand what he meant to me? 

That was my first major regret in life, and a major turning point. I swore I would do whatever I could to live a life with as few regrets as possible. 

Building the Path to No Regrets

My jobs, my vacations, my relations with friends and family were directly impacted by Dad's death and the resulting decision to live with no more regrets. 

Most important, in addition to being the golden employee, I planned on being there for my family. 

While my brother-in-law had multiple myeloma, and he didn't have the funds to fly across the country to his mother's funeral, I paid. I didn't want him to experience any more health-risking stress.

He hand wrote me a thank-you letter, my only letter from him, that I protect in my fire safe.

No regrets.

When I talked to my sister and heard that things were scary with her husband's health, it took a few delving questions from me to determine that my brother-in-law's health was likely critical, and my sister needed support.

As a caregiver who had done so much on her own, she was not capable of saying, "Come," on her own. Gut instinct told me not to delay.

I immediately booked my Chicago-to-Seattle flight using a colleague's credit card, since I had left mine at home. And I called my brother and told him to book a Kenosha-to-Seattle flight.

While neither the Doc, Sis or my brother in law expected this to be "it," I arrived just hours before Randy died. I was blessed to be the last one he talked to. My brother arrived just in time to support my sister, at Randy's death, while I took care of my niece.

No regrets.

When my sister, the young widow with children, fell on relatively rare Puget Sound ice, and seriously butchered her knee again, of course she didn't ask for help. She had been a caregiver herself. Caregivers rarely ask for help.

I packed my laptop and corporate cell phone and flew out to be her patient advocate. 

Thank goodness. When I was in a meeting with her and the  doctor, asking the questions we had written down, and writing down the answers, I realized that I had to play two-way interpreter! The doctor wasn't understanding what Sis was saying. And Sis, who was in serious pain, wasn't hearing what Doc said. Neither "got it."

How long had this been going on?

No regrets.

Each of these experiences left me a much stronger person. A better person. And so much more experienced.

Seeing Mom care for her father with dementia, then her husband with cancer, also helped.

Accepting the Best I Can Do

Now there is Mom's care to focus on, and I have few doubts that I'm doing the best I can to "do right" by her.

Recently, I realized my other experiences, and Mom's, were just practice for Mom's care. 

With experience, I've gained the insight to always go with my gut instinct. Always.

With experience I've gained the confidence to politely but firmly question the health care professionals. To push harder and challenge them, when necessary. To better understand when I can influence change, and what I need to accept as reality. To not second guess myself. To pinpoint the best manner to work with each medical pro's ego, to achieve the best care I can discover for Mom, in the given situation. To try to make smarter decisions, if not always the smartest.

Nothing ever is perfect. But, I'm better at accepting it is good enough: the best I can do, within the given situation. 

With more confidence, I worry less now. So with less worry, I feel more free to truly enjoy, and cherish, each of my visits with Mom ... while I have her.

Most important: I made sure that during the past three years,  Mom has had no doubts about how much each of us love her.

Mom turned 87 this week. Doc recently told me he didn't expect Mom to live more than six months after she arrived here in March of 2006. (Mom's health is always precarious enough that we could lose her any day, or year, to another stroke, or to pneumonia resulting from aspiration.) Doc said we should have no regrets: She is still going, because of family support.

For once, I agree with the Doc: Absolutely, no regrets. Dad would agree.