As all of you probably know, Dad got to come home last night after 5 days in the hospital. When the doctor told us he was going home I nearly cheered and cried at the same time, but I’m pretty sure that would have startled the doctor so I stayed quiet, a rare enough occurrence on it’s own.
Things are oddly normal now. He still has the busted wing, and we still are taking care of him. I’m still exhausted. The television is too loud, and the dogs are driving me nuts. I’m went to the super wal-mart, cooked dinner, and did a baking experiment. He’s begging for food he can’t have. Life is pretty normal.
Then I see him look tired or hear him yelp in pain (in the most manly way possible, I assure you), and I remember Friday.
I remember my dad nearly died.
It is so scary I nearly start shaking. I think I’ve processed it, dealt with it, and filed it away, but I know I haven’t. I feel weird writing about it here, like if by typing it, I make a thing more real and inviting bad luck. It does make it more real I guess. I don’t quite understand it myself. I feel like I should just be happy everything is okay. I feel like I should focus only what is good that came out of it. Plenty of good did happen. I got to spend more time with both my dad and my sister than I ever have. I feel like I know them better as people. But part of me hangs up on the fact I probably saved my dad’s life. My brain sticks like a needle on a scratched record that they used the paddles on him in the ambulance.
I don’t know how to deal with it yet. I’ve decided to take an emotional break. I’m going to focus on things like my Valentine’s day with the Viking on Saturday and getting some rest. Whenever that fear comes up and my heart starts to pound, I’ll look at it and nod, knowing what it is. I’m not going to pretend it isn’t there. I don’t know much else to do.
There is always baking.
Geeks a Geeking