We should be eating free pancakes (pfannekuchen) under the pavilion. That was the plan. That’s Friday morning Alpenfest tradition.
But Sissy and I instead pack hospital bags–contact lens solutions, glasses, toothbrush, deodorant, a change of clothes. We slip computers into cases and cell phone charges into purses. We don’t know what the next few days hold. But we’ve been down the road before.
What if he hadn’t been having followup CT scans? This bleed is a new one, bigger than the little leaks they’ve been watching, about the same size as the one last year, on the other side of the head. It’s been there about a week, the doctor says, and requires surgery.
The water shimmers before us as we top the hill. The sight of it always makes me catch my breath. It’s my favorite part of this 35-mile drive. But the destination–not so much.
I glance to my right as I walk through the lobby door. There’s the couch. The one I sat on while we waited for the van. We wanted Mom to visit the hospice house before she made her final decision. While we waited then, I’d ordered birthday flowers to be sent from the three of us to Grace at school. We played and made fun of the “social worker” game. Mom hated those questions.
We are going to the beach. What will we see? We are going to bake a cake. What will we need?
The van finally came. It would be her last ride this side of the river.
Before her sun set. Before her final journey. Before she went home.
Today we ride the same elevator to the same waiting area. We sit in different chairs. Do we do that on purpose? There’s the consultation room where the same surgeon told us he’d found in Mom’s brain just what he suspected.
When they wheel Dad to the O.R., we go down to the cafeteria and eat bagels–french toast and cinnamon raisin. Just like before. We might even sit at the same table.
On this morning the doctor gives good news. He evacuated the blood, and Dad is fine.
It’s forever, all day, before we can see him, before they have an ICU bed. The staff remembers him from last time. And Sissy and I are pretty sure that this room, #161, is the exact room they admitted Mom to after her biopsy.
Dad’s awake, head bandaged, and he’s ready to walk right out the door–except he’s tethered to so many tubes. So instead we watch the ball game.
We decide about midnight to go home so Sissy can tend to last minute preparations. I’m sad that Dad will miss the parade. Though maybe part of him is glad. We walked the Alpenstrasse for a bit last night, stopped outside the Sugar Bowl to listen to the band and watch couples dance. He was wistful. He and Mom loved to polka. And the night before that, before he even knew he’d need surgery, he seemed unhappy–said it was hard to be downtown alone. Translation: I miss her.
My eyeballs swim a bit during the parade, remembering how Mom watched with us last year, how thrilled she’d be to see that the diocese, where Sissy works as communications director, is this year’s honored industry. To see Sissy in her dirndl and the bishop on the float. How she’d have loved to hear the bagpipes play Amazing Grace, see her two-year-old great-grandson’s joy at the fire trucks and police cars, and smile as almost-ten-year-old Grace still hides from dressed-up mascots.
We don’t get back to the hospital until late afternoon. They’ve moved Dad down a room, straight across from the nurse’s station. He must have gotten feisty. I lean over and practically climb on the air register to snap pictures out the window of Little Traverse Bay whose water flows into Lake Michigan. I watch the waves roll and recede, roll and recede. Moments rise on the crests and then tumble into eternity. Timeless in time since the beginning of time.
I watch the sun sink all golden.
One day it will go down for my dad. And for me. And you. I want to snatch each nanosecond before it dissipates.
But I know I can’t. Not every one. I have to trust time to the One who holds time in His hands. To the One who made the water and the sun.
Continue to make plans but lean into His appointments. Follow the steps He lays. Go with the flow. Ride the waves
I download and show Dad all the pictures I took at the parade. Sissy and I entrust him to the nurses and go home again after midnight.
On Sunday morning, the doctor calls. He’s decided to discharge him. No transfer to a regular floor. No move to rehab. My husband has gone for a bike ride. My niece has gone to work. Sissy will stay with her grand boy and Grace, and I turn the Journey toward the bay again. Only this time the best part of the trip will be the destination. The opposite direction.
Home.
Great, great post. So full of emotion and truth.
… And any time you can use the word dirndl in a post is a good thing.
Thanks so much, Peter. (I wore a dirndl this week, too–at least for a day.)
And thanks for your help this weekend. You rock.
This makes me smile big, Sandy.
😀 😀
Yay! So glad your dad got to go home. Praying for your dad’s full recovery. Such a great post, Sandra!
Oh, Sandy. I’m there with you. Too many days in a hospital, too many sick rooms. You’ve portrayed it so well. Now, it seems I maybe starting the process again, not for one parent, but both. My dad had a biopsy for prostate cancer, my mother has a huge mass encompassing her entire abdominal cavity. His tests will come back tomorrow or Wed. Mother has her visit with the specialist tomorrow. As you said so beautifully, they – and we – are in His hands. Glad your dad can go home, and you too.
That last photo just beckons one home in peace. Your words always bring me where you are.
Beautiful and awe inspiring. Your view on the other side of the hill reminded me of the view atop another hill, where I see Lake Huron. Breath-taking! So glad to hear the happy ending to this heart-grabbing story.
What precious loving words…What comfort to know our days are in His hands and that His peace will carry us in the midst of uncertain times. I too find peace in being near the water…God always meets me there. Rejoicing with you in the good news about your Dad.
Love your heart, love the ending. Thanks for being brave enough to speak out about our final journeys and for reminding us.
I read this one this morning in my email, before I had risen and I just want to tell you how you encourage me.
And this: straight across from the nurse’s station. He must have gotten feisty. *wink* Only a nurse would know that.
Sandy, this is amazing. Truly.
Dear Sandra, What beautiful writing. Sending love from Lake Michigan here…Ellen
Some beautiful reflections on the brevity of life and the inevitability of death.
I love how all your thoughts lead toward Home.
He, indeed, is our only true comfort — in life and beyond.
This is so moving Sandy. I am so close to all of this. We’ve seen our share of hospital corridors and cramped little rooms over the past few years. Things are stable right now, and as you’ve so beautifully said, we attempt mightily to treasure the moments and to leave the days in His hands.
I just want to tell you what a gifted writer you are. Reading your words is such a blessing.
Much love to you sweet friend.
Just beautiful…every bit of it! The weight of this truth, the story of your life and loves, the telling rimmed my eyes with tears. The golden lake– a hint to what awaits all that find their home in Him…thank you.
Thrilled to know that your dad is okay! This was such a touching, lovely reflection, Sandy, and a reminder to each one of us how time spent with loved ones is precious.
May your dad continue to heal.
Blessings to you!
Thank you for sharing this, Sandy. It brought back the hours I sat in hospital during my mother’s last days, and with my father who had Alzheimer’s and lived in an assisted living complex. Precious times spent with our loved ones… a culmination of the accumulated years together. I pray for your father’s complete healing.
Sandra, your words are so full of heart and soul and life and love and meaning and joy and sadness and wonder and awe and the miracle that is life.
Thank you for sharing them, and for sharing this journey. I am glad the direction is home again.
Blessings,