Well.
We're even.
I am watching you struggle to catch your breath and I ache with you. I am confused and hurting right alongside you, and I want to make it all better for you but I can't. I'm powerless.
(I wrote that out in my head on my way to the hospital after work this afternoon. Am I living my life, or am I living a life that I can blog about? It's a hazy line I tell you.)
(Anyways, like I said, I wrote that bit about my divorce and his end-of-life breathing this afternoon because it IS hard watching your parent suffer. Just like it was probably hard for him to see me suffer. And I thought I was being all clever, making that comparison. My visit with dad on Sunday evening was so quiet. He mostly slept the entire time I was there and when he was awake, for 3 minute intervals, he was very non-responsive. "This is it," I said to myself. He'll be gone in the next day or so.)
(And then? Today...)
Dad? What the heck? What are you doing to us? Today? You were sitting upright. With your eyes open. And you were seeing things... like the movie (Ben Hur) on your DVD player. And what George was up to. And you smiled when I came in. And you didn't fall asleep, not for one minute.
What the frick? Today's Pete was nothing like yesterday's Pete.
YOU ATE YOUR SUPPER. YOU. You, who was supposed to never swallow again (according to the docs) swallowed a cup of tomato soup, a bowl of pureed peaches and a full container of chocolate milk (ensure)... and you stayed awake the entire time. And when I asked you to squeeze my hand three times (our I. Love. You. secret signal), you squeezed the crap outa my hand. Like, you crushed my hand. I got it. You're not weak. You're very, very strong.
So dad.
You are not boring.
And I love you.
Jane
Three things I'm thankful for:
1. Happy surprises.
2. Reasons to celebrate.
3. Good books.
Shalom,
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