A Process

Through the years, I've found that the best way for me to process things in my life is through writing. It was the reason for this blog initially, and is where I'm turning right now.

Since November 23, 2012, the day my dad was diagnosed with leukemia, I have not shed a tear.  I refused to, assumptively praying in faith that The Lord would heal my dad.  This morning, 15 months of emotion broke like a dam.  The water behind it has had varying levels over time.  By my birthday, right before New Year's, I thought the lake was almost dry.  By mid-January, the rains started and finally spilled over this morning.

Oh, how quickly our lives can change.

Today at 6:38 a.m., as I was waking up for the day to begin with, instead of my alarm causing my phone to shake, my screen read "Mom" and her incoming call caused an internal alarm to shake me.  As Mat Kearney says in his song "Closer To Love", we're all one phone call from our knees.  My, have I lived that lesson over the past year and a half.

I've sat here in the room with my dad, watching as cancer and morphine consume his mind and body. As I type, I sit here in the dimly lit room, only the sound of the oxygen flowing into his nose from the wall and the machines forcing fluids into his veins as background noise.  The sound of his labored breathing cuts through the monotony of the manmade symphony of despair, and I can't help but hope I'm in a nightmare.  The kind that wakes you up and has you call your loved one immediately to make sure they're okay because the dream was so realistic.

Maybe he'll wake up out of this stupor. Maybe he'll take off his hospital gown, slip on his shirt and pants, and walk out the front door of the hospital holding my mom's hand.  Maybe we'll get a tee time for Saturday and enjoy one of many more rounds of golf I dreamed of when we moved back to San Antonio.  Maybe he'll watch Braelynn grow up; hold her on his shoulders as they walk through a crowd.  Beam with pride at her high school graduation.  Pat me on the back on her wedding day.

Or maybe he'll die in this hospital bed in the next three days under the glare of sterile fluorescent lights.

Why, God, is the latter what is expected, instead of the former?  Why must I look at him, barely able to open his glazed eyes, and tell him for the last time that I'm proud to be his son; I'm proud that he's my dad?  Why must I try to comfort my mom and tell her that everything will be alright, when I'm almost positive that it won't?

This morning, no amount of mental preparation could have equipped me for the sight of my dad.  A hospital room darkened by a foggy early morning and grief.  Eyes caked shut, mouth gaping, groaning, and worst of all, my hope's air being taken away by a body shot from reality.

The only reoccurring dream I've ever had was when I was between the ages of 4 and 7.  I would be in the car with my dad, on the way to my grandma's house on the south side of town.  He would be in his suit, ready for work, and I would be sitting there, talking to him.  Out of nowhere, he would disappear.  In panic and terror, I would reach for the wheel, with a full realization that I didn't know how to drive.  I would wake up right before the car would slam into something.  That dream crystalized the underlying fear I had my entire life.

I'm not ready to take the wheel, dad.  How will I know where to go without your help?  What lessons do I still have to learn from you? What stories did you not tell me? How will I be able to balance mom with everything else?

I know you can't answer me now. No one can. Only time, via The Lord, will.  Until then, I will go to sleep, I'll wake up, I'll eat, and I'll go back to bed.  I'll try to live my life the emulating the example of selfless love you displayed for mom and me, to my wife and daughter.

Good bye for now.  I love you.