My Reflections:
On our way home from our mini-vacation at the amusement park, we stop by Nana’s & Papa’s for a visit. It’s good to see Papa back in the familiar surroundings of their home. Papa remains jovial and optimistic: looking forward to his surgery tomorrow and the chance to regain his speech. We’re aware of the risks though, and so is he. He has J and I sit with him at his computer as he goes over spreadsheets of financials, accounts, passwords…. He’d created these years before and has kept them up-to-date. Good thing too. As Papa goes through each category with us, explaining all the details in his own language which we still can’t fully decipher, we’re grateful for his typed-out notes already on these spreadsheets which allow us to follow along. Papa was always one for keeping detailed records, overly-so many would argue, but at present, his detailed records are a gift.
Not that I want to be doing this. I sit there and listen to Papa and try to take in the numbers: monthly bills, investment accounts, social security, insurance. No, I really don’t want to be doing this. Because in the doing of this we’re admitting the possibility of the “what ifs.”
What if Papa doesn’t come out of surgery better?
What if he comes out worse?
What if he doesn’t make it through?
These “what ifs” aren’t spoken in this moment, but they don’t need to be. We are all very well aware of them. We’re hoping for the best, a favorable outcome, a Papa we can fully understand and who can fully understand us; but we know brain surgery is no “routine procedure.” So I sit and listen and take notes and try to swallow that darn lump in my throat; the lump that’s right on top of the numb ache in my heart.
We’ve been here before. Years before today. A visit at Nana & Papa’s a day before another surgery for Papa, that one far more minor. Our “biggest” boy, J Jr., was just a baby back then and I remember taking a photo of him with Nana & Papa that day.
Nana, J Jr., & Papa the night before Papa’s “standard procedure” surgery.
The night we took that photo, we had no idea that the next day post-surgery Papa would have a massive heart attack. That Nana & I would find ourselves rushing back to the hospital to be informed by a heart-surgeon that Papa’s condition was critical and there was a good chance he wouldn’t make it…. But thankfully Papa would make it. Through three very rough and touch-and-go days in the I.C.U., he would be pronounced a “miracle” by his doctor and he would survive, albeit with a weakened heart and pace maker and a host of blood thinners and other meds.
When Papa was at his worst, the doctors recommended we have my brother & sister-in-law fly out to say their good-byes. Fortunately, after their arrival, Papa turned a corner with no good-byes necessary. We were truly amazed at the miracle of his survival.
So here we are again, years later and day prior to another surgery, this one much more sobering than the last.
I don’t recall intentionally posing this shot to be similar to the one I took with J Jr. years prior, but here it be all the same.
Papa & Little M having fun conversing to each other in their own unique languages.
Papa with C Bear, Little M, and J Jr. (representing our half of his six grand boys).
Before we go, I give Papa a letter I’ve written. It’s nothing fancy, scrawled out on a piece of computer paper, folded in half, words brief and far from flowery; but it comes from the heart, and that’s all that really matters at this point. If Papa’s last surgery taught me anything, it taught me to take nothing for granted. It taught me to say what needs to be said now, instead of regretting words left unsaid later. It taught me to not take goodbyes for granted, but to make the most of them. Because there are no guarantees what tomorrow will bring,…. no guarantees what any day may bring.
Letter: (from me to Papa)
Praying & hoping all goes well in surgery tomorrow. But just in case you don’t have your wits about you – in one form or another, I want you to know how very much I love you & appreciate you. Most recently, THANK YOU for all [underlined multiple times] your help with my house projects. Your fingerprints & handiwork are all over our house – a wonderful reminder of your love & support for me & my family. Still have a few projects to go so don’t let brain surgery be an excuse to get out of them : )
We love you & are praying all goes well tomorrow with a swift recovery!
Love,
Kari & Family
So we say our goodbyes and give our hugs and kisses all around. Time for a good night’s sleep. We’ve all got a big day ahead of us tomorrow.
63 Goodbyes 