Sometimes you can’t decide

(First appeared in The Baldwin Times for Gulf Coast Media, June 5, 2026.)

Dorinda when we first bought our condo in April 2022.

Do I or don’t I?

On the eve of meeting my new granddaughter — actually the early morning hours ahead of meeting her — I struggled with a decision.

That’s nothing new — much like my father, I struggle sometimes making life decisions. Dad, now, he’d call one person after the next asking their opinion when faced with doing this or that. Ultimately, he’d most often listen to the advice of one of his siblings. I can still see my mom rolling her eyes when he would be camped out at his wooden desk, calling this person and the next, seeking advice.

Well, I am my father’s son.

Now, the backstory before telling you a couple of things I am sure about.

Today, June 5, I’m supposed to close on selling my condo — barring red tape throwing another monkeywrench into the best laid plans. It’s been a long process. A close friend is buying my unit — not because I don’t like it or the beach. It’s because my unit is on the second floor.

Because of my worsening mobility issues — a genetic neurological condition coupled with arthritic knees — I can no longer safely navigate the staircase.

The unit itself is one I love — primarily because it’s one I picked out with my wife, Dorinda. Enough said.

So, now back to the decision at hand. Do I move into a nearby ground-floor unit — one a little larger that would give me the opportunity to host my kids and grandkids at once? Or do I look elsewhere in the area? Or — and this is the big one — do I say goodbye to the beach and move closer to my four precious grandchildren?

And at this hour — 4:22 a.m. — I honestly can’t tell you what I will do. I wish dad were here so I could call and ask him his opinion. I’ve asked my two children for their opinion. I’ve asked a trusted friend or two.

Dorinda would know what to do.

Actually, I know what she would do. As much as our dream was to retire and live our golden years at the beach, I believe a new baby girl — our fourth grandchild, and this one carrying part of her name — would have my wife packing her bags and heading North on I-65 as soon as possible. That would make my decision easy — I’d follow her.

Truth is, that’s not happening. My best friend — my soulmate — is not here.

She died April 25, 2025.

And on this morning just over a year later, I need her as much as ever.

What do I do? I don’t know, can’t decide.

My three oldest grandchildren play at the beach near the Gulf State Park Pier in March.

But there are a couple of things I do know, no doubt.

First, I don’t like losing my legs. It’s a genetic condition — from my father’s side of the family. Add in arthritic knees and walking, well, is hard. And the fear of falling — this time, falling wrongly and doing more damage to my health.

Particularly after being motionless for a while, I weave and wobble around like Keith Richards of the Rolling Stones. See me out and you'd think I'd been drinking all day at the beach. Nope. My legs just don't work like they used to.

And for some reason, they seem to have gotten much worse during the past month.

My legs weren’t an issue when we bought our condo in April 2022. Now they are. I remember the day I noticed something was wrong with them — I was working at NASA’s Marshall Space Flight Center. I stood up after having been seated at my desk for a while, and I couldn’t walk normally. It took a minute.

I thought it was just a passing thing. Maybe my legs had gone to sleep, that I just needed to move around.

It wasn’t.

But I’m still trying to move around as much as possible, to prevent a steeper decline in my ability to walk. I try to do some type of exercise or swim every day. A walking stick is almost always a companion. And I know my walking, balance and gait will never vastly improve. That means my vanity, too, must be left behind.

I don’t want to fall.

I adore my grandchildren — two boys and now two girls. I see a bit of Dorinda in each one of them.

And I also love living near the beach — the sunrises and sunsets, I see Dorinda in them, too. The slower pace. New friends. Music all around. The seafood. The water.

What do I do? Sometimes you just can’t decide.

But the thing I know most is that I need her here now — not only as I write this, but for this morning’s sunrise on a new day, the sunset on another evening. That would make my decision easier.

It would make life better.

No doubt.