My Reflections:

Today I visit Papa.  He’s tired and his optimism has waned.  Brain surgery takes it’s toll and there’s healing and recovery yet to take place.

He feels bad that I’m here with him, telling me in his own garbled speech that I should be home with J and the boys.  I insist that they’re fine and that this is where I want to be.  I then text J, asking him to take and send photos of the boys that I can share with Papa.  And J quickly obliges:

J Jr.:

C Bear:

And Little M:

Papa seems glad to see the photos.  Yes, they’re all doing quite well in J’s care and I’m glad I can rest in that and hopefully Papa can too.

Soon visitors come, friends from Nana & Papa’s church, bearing beautiful flowers, well-wishes, stories, laughter, and prayer.  And as weary as Papa is, this does him good and he rallies and engages with his visitors.

Another highlight of the day is when Papa’s turban (i.e. head bandage), which has been cumbersome and so bothersome to him these last few days, is finally removed; much to his delight.  He bears his war-wound valiantly:

 

Later in the day, I say my good-byes and then head through the maze of halls and out to the parking lot.  And as the hospital door closes behind me, hands fumbling in my bag for car keys, I find myself feeling in such a strange state of limbo between two very different worlds:  Papa’s world of hospital walls, doctors, nurses, beeping monitors; sitting, watching, waiting…. and my world of home and boys and husband and yard; doing, being, moving.  And it’s all so surreal.

It’s still so surreal as I drive home through the busy city traffic, with its lines of cars, endless stoplights, and row upon row of businesses and apartments on either side, to my familiar quiet suburb with its stop signs and tree-lined streets, and wide open green spaces.  And just before I reach our neighborhood, right before I turn onto our street, I see my world in a way as I can only describe as seeing it in a bubble of clear jell-o.  I’m on the outside looking in, not able to fully comprehend the reality I’m looking in on, it seeming to slip from my mind’s futile grasp.  It’s like I’m poking at this clear jell-o mold of reality, the reality of Papa in the hospital and my family at home – I can see it, I know what’s going on, it just doesn’t… seem… quite… real.

My little world encapsulated in clear jell-o.

When I do get home, I find mail from my life-long friend and her kids.  Her card has a photo of a little dog, drenched wet from the rain, teeth clenching an umbrella blown inside out from the wind.  The inside of the card reads:

“If one more person tells me to hang in there….”

And reading it makes me smile.  Definitely feel like I’m hanging on by a thread these days, feel like all I can do is “hang in there.”  And hang on.

There are cards from her kids too; sticker-clad with their adorable kid-writing, telling Papa to “Get well soon,” and that they’re praying that “Papa gets better.”

Yes.

We’re all praying that Papa gets better.  And soon.

 

Nana’s Notes:

[Papa] had a pretty good night, but must have been restless part of the time as his extra turban, that was put on for extra compression when the drain tube was removed from his brain, was all undone.

Ate breakfast, not much else all day – laid with eyes closed when no one else was here.

Physical therapist worked [with Papa] in AM – [had Papa] stand by bed – unstable – barely marched in place – able to follow commands when shown what to do.  [She told him] to sit in chair at least 2 hours per day.

Speech therapist [gave Papa] a swallowing evaluation, then spoke words and had Papa use pictures to identify.  Neighbors [from home] came just before therapist got here so they watched the procedure then visited a little while.  They brought our mail; several cards.

[Papa] asked for help to get back in bed; one hour later got into bed after being up for 3 hours.  Such a relief for him!

[Friends from church] visited.  [Papa] alert, good visit.

Another friend visited, [Papa] fairly alert.

Somewhat restless in the night.