Nov 20

Today, my dad had his entire sternum removed in a three and a half hour surgery, the bone completely eaten away by infection.

Today, Elise spent the day in sick child care at the hospital with pneumonia and a temperature of 101.

Tonight, Kahlua lays across my lap, laboring to breathe, coughing violently every so often.

Tomorrow, my dad turns 67. Pieces of his body have been rerouted and rewired and removed since his birth 67 years ago. A slice of his abdominal muscle now protects his vital organs in his chest where his breastplate once sat.

That's what's going on.

At times, out of no where, I burst into tears. Kahlua will look up at me, wheezing, with her brown eyes fixed on me, or Elise will cry for me to rock her, or I'll see my dad intubated yet again. And I'll think of how short life is, and what life will be like without Kahlua, and someday, without my dad. Hearing my dog groaning in the night, seeing my dad drift into and out of consciousness, seeing my child's tears, I realize how vulnerable we all are.

Years ago, in cadaver lab, I remember thinking this too. That whole summer, it freaked me out how our skin is really so easily sliced, how the superficial fascia just tears away from the muscle like linen ripping, how it's absolutely amazing we go through all we do in a lifetime and still remain intact.

Life is beautiful and short. We are born perfect. We are beautiful and perfect.