Time

Time is such a crazy thing. It's something we so rarely truely think about. I run around crazy from day to day, never really stopping to notice the little things. Most of the time I don't even really stop to notice the big things either. Now that we're facing the very intense reality of my dad's passing becoming more and more imminent, I'm really struggling with how I've chosen to use my time lately. As my dad is slipping closer and closer into a state of no longer being able to communicate, each of the present family members has taken a few moments in private to say our good-byes. We've talked with him as a family and know when he passes he will be embraced by the arms of Christ. But I homestly think none of us feels completely at peace because of time. My dad was diagnosed with Stage IV Melanoma one month and three days ago. 34 days that have felt like they disappeared faster than the blink of an eye. Although we'll never know, supposedly the cancer has been invading his body for more like three years. I so desperately wish a few things had been different to give my family back some time. I wish that the dermatologist my dad went to see one year ago about the spot on his chin that was probably the start of all of this, had paid more attention to him. I wish so desperately that he had taken that little spot seriously and done a biopsy, even if only "to be on the safe side". A year ago would have given us the ability to take a family trip, truly carry out some family traditions and just spend more time together laughing. I desperately wish that his oncologist hadn't strung us out on hope for some treatment one month ago. I wish in addition to talking about the treatments he was hoping my dad would qualify for, he would have truly explained the gravity and seriousness of his disease and its progression and his true life expectancy to us. One month ago would have given us the ability to take another set of family pictures, record my dad reading a story for each of the grandgirls and make every second of the last 34 days count for a lifetime. As I watched my dad slip in out of consciousness tonight, I felt my heart breaking and mourning. Not so much for him passing and deparating this world but for the loss of time. For the memories we never had the chance to make. For losing out on the opportunities to record his face in a picture and his voice in a recording. For losing out on the ability to give my dad one last deep and emotional hug. I can't tell you what I would give to have him be able to sit up, wrap his arms around me and just hold me one more time. Andrea

The Hope of a Star

As Katie and I were heading home last night, she mentioned that she wanted to see a shooting star.  “Momma, I want to see a shooting star.  If I’m see one, I’m gonna wish on it with all my heart for my papa to get better from this awful cancer.  I’ve only had seven years with him and that’s not enough.  I need him to live until he’s 100.”  I, in my ever so practical and ridiculous ways, told her that I didn’t think a shooting star would help papa at this point.  I quickly realized my mistake and how callous and crushing I had been.  I quickly followed up with something along the lines of “but we should absolutely give it a try.”

When we got home a few minutes later, I started trying to fuss with putting the back seat in the car up.  It dawned on me how tired I was, that I could fix the seats in the morning and gave up.  I moved around to the other side of the car to help Katie get out and gather her things.  She and I have been watching Jupiter and Mercury move around in the sky off to the west of our house.  She noticed that the clouds had parted, they were visible and called out to me about it.  As I turned my eyes heavenward, I watched in amazement as the most brilliant and beautiful shooting star streaked its way above the sky.  It b-r-o-u-g-h-t me to my knees. The tears I had held all day came pouring forth and completely overwhelmed me.  I have never seen anything more beautiful or truly amazing and awe inspiring.

Upon first seeing the star, I was filled with an unbearable sense of grief and panic.   I grabbed my phone and frantically dialed my sister’s cell phone.  I was utterly convinced my dad had just passed and the star was his sign to me.  I had to ask her three or four times if anything had happened at that exact moment.  After being reassured repeatedly that he had not passed, nothing had happened and they were still waiting for him to be moved to a patient room at the hospital, I quietly hung up my phone and buried my head, tears and aching heart in my daughter’s hair.

As I’ve thought about these events throughout the day today, I’ve decided the star was a sign. Not a sign of sadness, but a sign of hope.  A lesson to me that just as we are told to have the faith of children, perhaps we are also to take cue from them on hoping.  That perhaps there is a miracle waiting for my dad.  That even if there isn’t and his time left with us is really as short as they say, that we can cling to the hope and knowledge of seeing him again. 

Baby Girl of mine, you keep hoping and wishing on those stars…

Another Letter

Dad -

Another thing I remember and will always cherish is your passion in the kitchen.  I know you haven’t enjoyed it the same way since your brain injury but I need to remember it the way it was during my childhood.  I loved watching you decorate cakes with your expert precision.  It still makes me chuckle thinking about you telling the story of making a perfect meringue with salt instead of sugar.  I don’t think you know but you inspired my love of all things cooking related.  Today, you are my favorite helper in the kitchen when James and I host family dinners.  While everyone else drives me crazy standing around my island and right in front of the sink and stove, you quietly pick up whatever needs done and effortlessly make it happen.  I love you so much for not complaining about peeling potatoes.

I feel like we’re losing you so fast.  Please wait… I’m not done making memories. 

To my Dad -

As I watched you struggle and grapple with your pain tonight, my heart started breaking.  For what was, for what is and for what I fear will never be.  You have been my rock for so long.  Our times together haven’t always been perfect, but they are all treasured.  I love your sense of humor, the way you used to get us every April Fools’ Day with a new practical joke.  I love the way you attract people to you and your charismatic personality. 

Some of my most cherished memories are of you sitting in the burgundy arm chair, listening to me play the piano.  I can never express how deeply grateful I am to you for pushing me and creating within me a love of music.  For the way you taught me to truly feel music instead of plunking down notes.  I wish, for you, I had pursued this passion you helped build further.  Know that I always play with you in mind. 

I found a new song that speaks so deeply to my heart.  I think you would like it too. The Fray - Be Still

I so desperately need you to fight this terrible disease.  I need you here to listen to me.  I don’t want to play to the empty burgundy chair.

I love you now and forever and always.