A Normal Weekend

This weekend is one of those we get every once in a while in north Texas in the dead of winter; clear skies, 70 degrees, calm day. It is a day of rest and relaxation. Our eldest daughter is in town with our only grand daughter. I have watched Cinderella twice already. We turned our noses up at Lady and the Tramp, Dumbo (neither had a princess) Snow White and Alladin also were rejected along with Mermaid and all the Toy Stories. It is very discerning protocol.

Yesterday, however, Phoebe and I and her momma spent the day at Children's Hospital in Dallas getting all the tests and work done so they can go in and fix a hole in Phoebe's small, precious heart. It is a procedure that they kept stacking percentages against in the unsuccessful attempt to reassure us that all would go well. Even though only 1 in 250,000 have any sort of complication, or less than 3% ever have any lasting effects, the fact of the matter is that they are working on 100% of my grand daughters, there are no more, and there are none more precious to me. 250,000 does not compute, only the number 1, mine. They use unfamiliar words to mask to reality of what they are going to do. Words like 'margin" and "septal" and the list goes on. But I have sat in other conferences with doctors where they used words like "main-line" and words like "stromal" and words like "gleevac" and "resection". And I know that they are using their words to communicate, but they are not using my words. Words that I yearn for are "strong" and "healthy" and "never again". I have learned to listen very carefully and I have gotten very good at reading doctor's faces and body language. I have learned their language and have learned to ask what they know and not ask what they do not know. But in the final analysis they will never understand my language either, words like worry, and prayer and lonely, and afraid. These words have become long-time companions, never really welcome, but around all the time. I have learned that my luck with the odds is not very good. There has been far too much time spent in hospitals wondering what the future might hold and not being very optimistic about the chances. I have prayed and agonized over my mothers illness, my eldest daughter, my second grandson, and now my only grand daughter. It is ironic to me that my bride and I have largely escaped all the hospital stays that involve either one of us. I can only think of one instance of an overnight stay for me and almost that few for my bride. Oh, we have spent months in the hospitals for others, but we have always been the guard, never the prisoner.

So this bright sunny Saturday morning, Phoebe asked if she could watch Cinderella again, of course on the couch curled up with me. Drink of water? No problem. Monday will be here soon enough. Then I will be in full battle set, watching over my bride, my daughter, my son-in-law, and praying constantly for little Miss Phoebe; ignoring the little whispers of fear that will be there until they come out and tell us that all went well. There is no such thing as "routine" when it is done under full anesthesia, and it is done to someone dear to me. No. Such. Thing.

Godspeed to those who follow this journey, please stop a moment and lift a small word to the Father for my grand daughter, she is a precious one to us all.
Don