When I first arrived, he was in a glass-fronted room, facing out into the main hub of activity that is ICU.  At first glance, he looked to be comfortably sleeping, mouth slightly open, head tilted to one side.  I stood watching from a distance just long enough for one of the nurses to ask if I needed help.  I thought about asking if she could help make none of this real, but refrained.  I nodded my head no, walked towards his room.  His window said, NPO.  I pointed, she said, ‘nothing by mouth’. Oh.  I entered his room.

I remember when I was being prepped to give birth to Audrey.  I was scheduled to have a cesarean as Audrey had decided to take up permanent residence.  I was instructed to walk down to the surgery room.

No, it wasn’t far.  Yes, I was fully capable.  No, I’m not a princess needing to be transported.

But, what?  You want me to walk, willingly, down to the place where a team of humans are going to make a series of incisions in my body and extract a whole other human from my body?  And no one finds that odd?  Or life threatening?  Or, well, wrong?

The team greeted me.  “Hello!”  “Let’s bring this baby into the world.”  And my favorite, “Are you comfortable?”

That same, surreal, please, God, I don’t want to do this and you can’t seriously expect me to do this complaint against adulthood ran through every little tiny synapse within my rather extensive nervous system.  Nothing missed firing.  Flight was winning over fight — hands down.

And there laid the most invincible man I have ever known.  And he wasn’t comfortably sleeping.  His mouth gapped slightly because that entire side of his body was just not having it.  His eyes were closed in a permanent, I’m done, kind of a way.  I dragged a chair from clear across the 5 foot room and an eternity later, was seated by his right side – the side that was still processing sensory information in some form or another.  No one told me that (though they confirmed it later) but it was clear that if Poppo was aware, he was aware on THIS side, not the other.

And I did the only thing I could think to do, I talked about our lives together.

Incessantly.  For hours.

There was a gentle, constant, persistent buzz of caring going on with this staff.  They came to clean, monitor, adjust, test, and prod for additional information.  They would greet me, but left me to my own thoughts, yet listened to the stories that I told him and adjusted some of their care by what they learned from me.  Their observations were excellent and I’ve gone on to share some of the experiences with the nurses-to-be that I am privileged to work beside at times.  One nurse was struggling to find a vein that wasn’t collapsed and useless, and bemoaned the fact – to Dad – that she knew she was hurting him.  I quietly suggested that his left side showed no signs of reaction at all – and without a sound, but with a beautifully thankful smile, she moved to that side and found the vein of her choice.  The poor nurse that was responsible for making sure that Dad had enough awareness about him to be able to swallow — and thereby receive some sustenance other than IV’s — had to get him to respond in some way.  He came in and spoke loudly to Dad (right side, good man) and when Dad didn’t respond, he spoke even louder — and said “Harold!  Harold, I need you to let me know if you are understanding me.  Harold!”  When he took break to see if Dad would respond — I told him that no one called Dad Harold, except when he was in trouble as a kid.  Try Pete.

“Pete?  Pete!  Pete….I ” and Dad broke in with a whispered mumble and the nurse bent close and said “What, Pete?  Say again?”  And Dad whispered, “About time you figured out my name.”

There are many other stories from the hospital.  My step sisters were there, concerned, caring, worried.  My step Mom floated in and out – already struggling mental health issues.  Lonely, and as vulnerable as she would allow us to see.  There were friends who would visit.  Hospital staff that helped and cared.  Concerned calls.  Drives back and forth from my home 1  1/2 hours away.  Work.  Family support.  Students caring, asking.  Co-workers and others who have watched a parent die – standing alongside.  Some making suggestions.  Others just letting you know they were there.

The sight of Poppo in that glass-fronted room has completely changed my life.

In those moments, and in any since where my mind is not occupied with other things, I am finding out who I am and what I have always been.

Call it a stripping away.

I am private.  I am combustible.  My tolerance for a polite, egg-shell tip-toe type of life is limited, at best.  Though pleasant, and gentle and sincerely concerned:  my base nature is deeply aware, ferociously protective and profoundly complex.  I value learning, listening, speaking up and telling the truth.  I practice patience, perspective, encouragement, and gentle re-directing lies.  Though I don’t sweat the small stuff — I admire the details – specifically the glory of the tiny within God’s world around me.

If I dare step away from a long term fear of boastful self-righteousness, I can begin to admit these things,  these qualities – to myself.  There isn’t a comparative here.  This is not judgement one to another.  These traits, these qualities, are not what I list as ‘good’ or ‘bad’ parts of me. Just parts of me.  And in acknowledging them, I hope to grow more fond of this heart/head/soul I live with on a minute by minute basis.

Poppo was mine.

He lived his life simply and happily.  He worked hard.  He had fun.  He was observant and creative.  He gave the best gifts in the world — things you had no idea you needed in your life.  He was a historian, a football supporter, a pin and tin collector, a good friend to many.

He raised me on his own.

And the change?  The change forever?

Now I am without.

Without dad to buy pop-up cards for.  Without little girls who need cuddled when they are sick or hugged awake on a daily basis.

Without direction.

So – my next step?  Stepping out.  Seeing things anew, being with my Steve, opening up my head to new options and ideas.

Creating direction.  Creative direction.  Direction.

28 Dec This entry was published on December 28, 2017 at 12:41 pm and is filed under Learning, Peace, Thought. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.