Two nights ago I was talking to one of my dearest friends on the phone. Charlie Watson (not his real name) and I are occasionally virtual drinking buddies; he lives in New Jersey and I live in Las Vegas, we grab some wine or vodka or tequila, we choose a topic, and we talk while we drink.
The subject of my father's health was broached (as it often is of late) and I found myself in one of the most heart-wrenching conversations I have ever been in. I explained to Charlie more about Dad's congestive heart failure, his heart attack and bypass, and the hole they found in his heart and the new decision to replace a valve.
The latter was more like a suggestion instead of a decision; my father's personal choice is to forgo another open-heart surgery in the face of recovery times and quality of life issues. He has wondered aloud if the six months or so he might get would be better served spending time with his family in his awkward state of mobility and clarity rather than an even weaker state than before; another surgery would mean a longer and harder recovery... it's exponential in a patient with his history and he doesn't want to experience a deeper state of weakness, of loss.
Charlie asked me what they could do. Truth is, I explained, there isn't much. Dad is 63 years old, diabetic, and failing. In addition to CHF, his diabetes wasn't taken care of over the years so he is all but blind and has some minor kidney issues as well. He avoided prostate cancer about seven years ago, that was a bright spot. What they can do is the valve replacement. but even that is no guarantee. It will buy time, and not much of it. Charlie asked about medication, surgeries, transplants... and each time I felt like I was consoling him, explaining why each choice wasn't an option for my father and, of those that were, they really aren't much of a choice at all.
He sounded frustrated that I wasn't more buoyed by his suggestions, you could hear how much he cared and I felt a bit evil as I explained why the situation really didn't leave us with many avenues to explore. The he asked me, in a tone that broke my heart, why the situation seemed so hopeless. This is where the conversation became so tearful for me.
I explained that the situation was anything but hopeless. I said we all had hope, every day. That we shared it and talked about it.
I said that I had hope every night when I went to bed, every morning when I woke, and every moment in between. I hoped Dad would feel less pain, that he would feel more energetic, that he would be able to enjoy the day, that he would be able to take his morning walk, that he would be able to see his friends and his grandchildren. I hope that he feels good about the life he lead, the family he raised. I hope he knows just how much of his love, his hopes, his dreams are living in all of us.
I said that I hoped for one more day, every day.
And I started crying.
I wasn't crying from sadness, however, I was smiling. I realized, as I was saying these things, that every day I have with him is a day for which I can be thankful. Every chance I get to sit and talk with him is a blessing. I further understood that my sadness the past few months had been for myself, not for him.
When I get sad, it is because I am feeling loss and I am feeling lost. My father is everything to me. He taught me to be strong and to fight for the things in which I believed. He taught me to take no prisoners, to do what I felt was right, and to think about my future while keeping my eyes on right now. He instilled in me a passion for life, for going places and doing new things. He showed me how easy it was to be someone important, someone people needed, someone on whom people could rely. He made raising a good family look so easy, he made the hardest work and the most daunting tasks seem like child's play.
And he loved me for who I am, who I want to be, and who I could be.
That love gives me hope.
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