Isn't it amazing how in the blink of an eye, priorities can change? Life as you know it is interrupted, maybe never to be the same again. I started back to work on August 3rd. Things were hectic and busy and there was all of the "back to school" energy and to-do lists. Ten days later everything changed. My dad had been feeling "off." He saw three different doctors before he ended up in the ER on Saturday, August 13th. He had an infection in his leg that was much worse than we initially thought. I went to visit him the next day, fully thinking that I would go cheer him up while his leg was treated with IV antibiotics and then I would go back to my "busy" life. Little did I know that he would be diagnosed with a necrotizing fascitis (flesh eating bacteria) and be taken for emergency surgery on Sunday afternoon. His surgeon removed the skin, fat, and muscle tissue on his leg from about two inches below his knee to his hip. She talked in terms of "if he makes it through this" we will talk about reconstructing his leg. If.
All of the things that seemed so important to me the day before quickly took a backseat. In the blink of an eye, priorities changed. Papa had to stay in the burn ICU because his leg was one big open wound and the risk for infection was high. Visiting hours were very restricted. We had to wear a mask, gown, hat and gloves every time we went in. It was a sterile and unfamiliar environment. But my dad was alive, and for that I was so thankful. There were no signs that the infection was spreading, and I began to feel cautiously optimistic. I knew that best case scenario was that he would have skin grafts and months of rehab ahead of him, but he was a fighter! The doctors called us all together on Monday night, August 15th. As we drove to the hospital, I feared that we were about to learn that his leg needed to be amputated. If only that had been the case. Instead, we learned that he had AML, or acute leukemia. The doctors explained that there are two kinds of leukemia- chronic leukemia you "live with." Acute leukemia you "die from." They said that the survival rate is 10% if you start healthy. If.
Looking back on everything, I feel like Monday was the day that my whole world changed. I wanted so badly to be optimistic, but I think that my heart understood what the following days would hold on the night that we all held each other and cried in a conference room outside of the ICU. Either one of these conditions were enough to kill you, but combined it felt like too much to even dare to hope. Still, I prayed. I prayed for more time. I prayed for healing. I prayed for courage and strength for my dad. I prayed for my mom, who has faithfully stood by his side for 40 years. I prayed for my heart that was so heavy and sad. I prayed that God would be God in the midst of these circumstances. And He was.
The next few days held a few lucid moments. we quickly settled into a routine of visiting as much as we could. My dad definitely knew that we were there. He would tell us that he loved us. He would even joke with the nurses. On Thursday he finally started to really wake up from the anesthesia. His arms were tied down to his bed, and there were lots of tubes and monitors that he tried to pull at. After I left on Thursday night, his nurse called me at home and told me that he was agitated and asked if I would come spend the night because my presence seemed to calm him down. I was honored to. I didn't know that would be the last time that I would be alone with my dad. I am so thankful for the hours that we had together that night. He would wake up, start to fight, then I would hold his hand and he would settle immediately. All I had to say was "I'm right here, Papa" and his whole body would relax. We listened to the Scott Joplin channel on Pandora and he told me that ragtime captured the essence of the times. He told me about his favorite lake in the Desolation Wilderness, second only to his daughter's "extraordinary beauty." We reminisced about our trip to Italy. He told me that I was dedicated and single-minded, a compliment that I hope to live up to. He told me that "bug-bug" was Papa's pride and joy. I told him to be strong and courageous, just like Joshua. And he was. I don't think I slept much, but I am so thankful that I got to be with him, and that he knew that I was there.
I think my heart knew that my dad would not come home. And my desperate plea was that my children would be able to say goodbye. On Friday, God answered that prayer. My dad's vitals actually looked really good on Friday, to the point that they were able to put him in a wheelchair and let him go to the courtyard for about an hour. While nobody under the age of 12 can visit the burn ICU, kids are welcome in the courtyard. My mom called and told me he was outside and we dropped everything to get there. His eyes completely came to life when he saw Carter and Evyn. We spent the next 45 minutes picking flowers in the courtyard and putting them on Papa's lap. He asked Carter if he was excited to start 1st grade. He rubbed Evyn's cheeks. My heart was content. God had answered my prayers.
Saturday was another "good" day. My dad seemed stronger, was out of his bed, and very lucid. Mark and I spent a few hours that night visiting and Papa recalled details of campouts that they had gone on together. We laughed and teased, and I went home and slept for the first time since everything started. But whatever hope that I might have had on Saturday quickly vanished on Sunday. My dad had a heart attack. Just a week ago, we had been coming out of surgery and hoping that infection would be our biggest problem. That night, as Mark, mom and I sat in the same conference room issuing a DNR for my dad, the reality of the situation hit me hard. The doctor wanted to visit with my dad, and the Lord was merciful enough to allow my dad to be very clear for the conversation. It was this night that my mom told my dad about the leukemia. He handled it with both grace and dignity and made his wishes known to the doctor. He told our pastor and friend that "Today has not been one of my better days, but it might be leading to my best day." I walked away from his room that night wondering if I had just said goodbye for the last time.
The next few days were not good. His systems seemed to be shutting down. His breathing was increasingly labored. But through it all, he was a gentleman. He thanked people for coming to visit, was gracious to his nurses, and made sure that we knew how much he loved us. One night he told Mark and I "All I ever wanted to be was a faithful provider." And he was. He provided us with a strong family, with a love of the Lord, with financial blessings, and an understanding that hard work produces rewards. I remember telling my dad that we wanted him here with us, but that he had provided for us in every way imaginable. He cried. His last days were filled with sweetness and tenderness. On Wednesday, August 24th, the doctors took him off all of the monitors and put him on "comfort measures." Not knowing if we had hours, days or weeks left, we were all focused on being intentional with the time that the Lord gave us. On Wednesday night, Mark, Mike and I went to visit. Danny was there when we got there. We prayed over Papa that he would feel safe in the arms of the Lord and that he would be able to rest there. When we first arrived, he told me that he had a restless night with all of the dinosaurs stomping around his room. Then he told me that he was scared, so I sang to him until he was asleep. The last thing that I said to him was "Goodnight, Papa." I kissed him, and he said "Goodnight Bug-Bug." I came home broken and sad. I told Mike that while I selfishly wanted to pray for healing, I knew that my prayer was that the Lord would take him home. Less than an hour later, I received the call that my prayer had been answered.
The following days are a blur of tears and relief and sorrow all mingled together. His memorial service managed to really capture the essence of who my dad was- gentle, intelligent, generous, humble, funny, and kind. It truly was a celebration of his life. I was humbled by the incredible turnout and took comfort in hearing other people's memories of my father.
I know that eventually life will find a "new normal." But for now I just feel sort of empty. He is the first thing that I think about when I wake up. I desperately want to keep his legacy alive for my children, who loved him so much. And I want to live a life that would make him proud. I am finding that the line between laughter and tears is sometimes invisible.
Through the sadness, there is so much that I am thankful for.
1. Our church has been amazing. We have been well cared for physically, emotionally and spiritually throughout this entire time. To say that I feel loved would be a gross understatement.
2. I am so thankful that we had family pictures made in April. It was freakishly cold that day and at the time, I wished that we had rescheduled. I am so glad that we didn't.
3. I am so thankful that my children were able to say goodbye.
4. I will never forget that Thursday night. What a gift.
5. I am thankful that my dad did not have a prolonged fight. From diagnosis until God took him home was 9 days. Thank you, Jesus.
6. I am thankful that there was nothing left unsaid. After my dad's heart attack last summer, I felt like we were given a second chance. We had an amazing year together. We went on daddy/daughter dates, had coffee, went camping, he heard me speak, we laughed and lived together, not knowing that it would be the "last time." I am abundantly thankful for the gift of an intentional year.
7. I am thankful for the gift of eternal life, which means something more to me now. I am so thankful that this is not the end.
8. I am thankful to have been blessed with an earthly father who turned my eyes to my Heavenly Father. Not everyone is so blessed.
9. I am thankful for Mike, who has been my rock through these hard days. And thankful for my babies, who have brought laughter to our house. And thankful for my brothers, who have grown to be men that my dad was so very proud of.
10. I am thankful for my mom. She is amazing. And she is going to be OK. Keep being like King David, mom. I love you.
I know that there are hard days ahead. I find that I cry at the drop of a hat. I found myself hugging the middle aged sacker at the grocery store yesterday. I cried when my dad's Mii ran across the screen while Carter was playing Wii. I find that I want to tell my dad something or have him hear Carter play a new piece on the piano. I wish that we could go on that trip to Disneyland. His house feels different to me now. I pray that I won't forget his voice. And as the empty feeling starts to dissipate, I pray that I will live an intentional life that my dad would be proud of. I pray that the tears will turn to smiles. And I know that they will, in time. I love you, Papa. I miss you and will anxiously await the day that I will see you again.
