Hello sweet blog babies,
It's the Prodigal Daughter here, returning somewhat sheepishly to a blog that has lain fallow for too long. It's a strange sensation being back in this space - I seem to have lost track of what it was that I was doing here, and what it is that makes you want to visit. I feel...disconnected. I miss your joyful presence in my life - I miss reading your blogs, keeping up with your progress, being inspired by the beauty you create. I hope there will be more time for that soon. In the meantime, my Google Reader reproaches me like an unmilked cow. MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
A month ago today, my dad had heart surgery. Since then, I've been spending as much time with him as possible as he goes through the incredibly non-linear process of healing. Over the past few weeks, we've had some scary set-backs and some minor triumphs. Last night they sucked out the equivalent of a two liter bottle of Coke from my dad's right lung. The surgeon, nurse practitioner and I practically danced around the bag of fluid in jubilation, knowing it was the most concrete positive step we'd had in a long time. Hospitals make you do weird, unexpected things.
There have been some surprises.
Like what a pleasure and a privilege it is to care for someone you love, and how gratifying it is perform simple, sometimes menial tasks to bring pleasure or increase comfort. And how quickly one discovers that nurses are the most noble people on earth, and how everything hinges on their attentive, thoughtful care. (When I see the sweetness and gentleness with which Errol, the handsome Jamaican nurse, bathes my father, I could worship at his feet and offer him my first born child.) And how good hospital care is dependent on the persistent presence of family and friends. How grim it is to be sick and alone at a hospital, a fate I would never wish on anyone. And how wonderful the response has been from family and friends all over the world. See above, a photograph someone took on the coast of Normandy to wish my father well. So touching.
We're trying to keep things upbeat for my dad. My mom has led by example, coming in every day looking pulled together, fresh, and full of high spirits. (It turns out that make-up is cheerful for everyone - also, there are lots of cute doctors and nurses to flirt with, so mascara is essential). We play music on mini speakers, read aloud, and give each other hand massages. We make sure my dad is well groomed, sweet-smelling, and looking cute in his navy blue Ralph Lauren robe. When we feel powerless, these are the small things we can do. They make us feel better.
Be back soon, I hope. In the meantime, I'm thinking of you all and wishing you well.
xoxo,
P.
P.S. If you have written to me and I have not responded, please forgive me. I am so behind on everything.
