He gives and takes away...

Starting to feel sleepless, but tired.  My eye started to twitch the other day.  Tonight began the un-necessary acid reflux.  I didn’t realize Christmas was so close until I heard Christmas music in the mall.  Thanksgiving still feels like it should be months away.  I’m pushing it all forward because I don’t want this season to be here. I don’t want to rehash what happened a year ago, and I don’t want to have to think about it. 

Looked through the pictures on my phone and realized (as I have before) there was a clear gap between photos of my sister and husband in the hospital waiting room and me sitting on the couch with my dad’s dogs.  I skim the events of the week leading up to the inevitable and I wonder how stupid (or overly hopeful) we must have seemed to nurses, doctors.  

The night I slept in the room with Dad because Janet hadn’t slept at home in weeks.  The night (the same night) that I basically stayed awake the entire time, hearing the ventilator scream when it wasn’t working correctly (which is horrifying), praying things I’d never thought I would have to pray.  

The night my sister, step-mom and I stayed at the hospital, all together, after a particularly rough emergency surgery.  Being incredibly vulnerable, we all knew each-other in a whole new way.  We laughed loudly, nervously, in the McDonalds at Kosair. 
I think I’m still in a sort of denial.  I have been since the day he was put on a ventilator. My dad was big and strong, I knew this.  But the (military) men and women who worked with and under him were very concerned, and this threw me for a loop.  Do you know my dad?  Because he’s better than this.   But the men and women kept coming, became family, but I still didn’t understand.  He’s strong.  (Notice the present tense? Yeah, I didn’t mean to do that. It just happens.) 

The day it happened, when all of them were there, in the hospital room.  I held my dad’s big, strong hand (and believe me, it was huge), and all I wanted was a squeeze back.  The only movement was his chin, which moved with the ventilator.  

I want so badly for him to be home.  I want to spend Christmas morning eating breakfast with him and my step-mom.  I’d give anything to share this new relationship with my step-mom with him, too.  I’d give anything to talk to him about our family, and the stupid things I remember about being his daughter.  I’d give anything for him to be around when (if) I get married, and when (if) I have kids.  I wanted my kids to stare in awe of his size, just like I saw my sister’s kids idolize him.  I’d give anything for him to see me be successful.  I didn’t want to be a barista in his eyes.  I wanted him to be proud.  I wanted him to be here, now. 

I’m thankful for every moment that I’m told I’m anything like him.  I would be elated to have even half of his character.