So my dad fell on the ice in his driveway and hit his head. But he didn't just hit his head, he slammed it against the ground, bouncing his brain back and forth in his skull.
That will fucking kill you.
Thirty-six hours later we're sitting in the hospital waiting (is that even the right word?!) for him to die. The neurosurgeon used the word miracle when referring to his chances of recovery. They were willing to do radical surgery if we wanted it, but the best outcome we could hope for was that he would need to live in a nursing home and be cared for the rest of his days. That is NOT the life my dad would want.
It's a quarter to three in the morning; my mother and I are keeping vigil while my daughter and husband doze. My mother is struggling with the stress of the hours of wakefulness and the crushing grief that threatens to incapacitate her. I feel like I'm living in some surreal fucking wonderland where I should wake from any minute. This cannot be happening - how does a slip on the ice change the very foundations of your existence?!
It's not God's fault. God doesn't cause bad things to happen, he doesn't have his finger on the pulse of every fucking person on the planet. God will however, offer a hand, tell my dad a dirty joke, and welcome him into the afterlife. Once there, my dad will meet my father and my son. They'll hang out awhile, and my dad will tell my father how proud he is of me.
I don't know if that's the way it will happen, but I need to believe that God will tell my dad a dirty joke.
This was the view from my dads hospital room just before 2am. I felt lonely and the scene is both hopeful and empty.
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