November 19

Tonight I saw my dad in the hospital. He has a PICC line in now, and is scheduled for surgery tomorrow morning. The plan is for debridement of the infected tissue inside his sternum. Tonight, as he talked, the air exchange was audible in his sternum. While we were visiting, a male nurse came to fill the hole in his sternum with gauze. It's bloody, pus-filled and foul smelling.

Tuesday, my dad will be 67. Sophie and I took him cards we'd made, one "Get Well" card and two "birthday" cards, along with a gift. He seemed like he was holding back tears reading them. What a birthday.

My poor dad. As he ate his dinner tonight, he said, "well, this might be my last supper." He is very down, frustrated, and understandably so. He says he doesn't know what he is living for.

As Sophie and I walked down the hall toward my dad's room, we looked up to see he and my mom 20 feet up the hall in front of us, then slip out the emergency exit door. We found them down on the patio, in the dark, smoking. Hiding in the dark, like criminals or closet lovers. Hiding from the rain, in shame, in the dark, smoking.


ALL of this could have been alleviated or made better by quitting smoking: the heart disease, the breaking of the wires that held his sternum in place (which broke from coughing from emphysema), the lack of wound healing, ALL of it. And yet, this addiction is so strong, he stands outside in the rain with a staph infection, suture line visible through his hospital gown and jacket, smoking.

I wish my parents could see the sad irony of this.

On top of all this, Kahlua vomited a pool of bright red blood this morning. The time is coming very near. And Thanksgiving is Thursday.

Thank you for my voice, and not being afraid to use it.
Thank you for my sense of justice, and trying to make sense of the world.
Thank you for my family.
Thank you courage, grace, compassion.
Thank you Sophie, Elise.
Thank you Foxy, Mandy, Jack, Marley.
Thank you Kahlua.
Thank you reality check and karma.
Thank you balance.
Thank you, God, for this moment, and for every moment of my tiny little life.
Thank you grief.
Thank you hurt.