Good, Bad, Better, Best.
“There are good days and bad days.” The words come out of my mouth. I sense an odd discomfort. The phrase once belonged to my brother Tim and later my late husband John. Each lived with pain awaiting their death. It was a way of saying “Some days it hurts a little less than others.” I live in a pain-free body in apparently perfect health. I hope to become a centenarian. Yet these words were now a part of my pandemic vocabulary. What was I calling a “bad” day? A “good” day? I hit the gene lottery good days. I
