These days are strange. Since my Dad came home on Monday evening, someone has been with him from morning until night. One of us daughters arrive around 8:30 and the rest of us girls slowly trickle in throughout the morning. We sit in the living room and read emails and texts, write blog posts, watch Kase try to get into things that he shouldn’t, and visit with friends and family stopping by.
My Mom and sisters are the pharmacists, administering drugs to my Dad six times throughout the day. By the time a phone alarm sounds to remind us that it’s time for another dose, there is already a glass of cold water and a pill sitting next to my Dad.
Whoever is around stays for dinner, which also usually includes at least two of our husbands. And then us girls head home while my parents relax for a bit (finally in silence) before heading to sleep. These days are strange.
These days are sad. It is much easier to be at my parents’ house than it is to be at our own homes. The worries creep up when we are apart from our Dad. But there is also sadness in the fact that we’re all home with my Dad during the day when we shouldn’t be. There is sadness about the circumstances that have brought our family together. We cry when my Dad gets a text or email about the prayers being offered up for him. I get tears in my eyes when I hear that an out-of-province friend is flying in for a day before his out-of-country business trip to come visit my Dad. My heart aches when I watch my Dad playing with and cuddling with Kase. These days are sad.
These days are scary. There are so many unknowns leading up to Monday. I want the days to fly by so that we can know the road we’ll be on, whether it will be a road of recovery from surgery or a road preparing for treatment. But I also want the days to go slowly so we can be in this semi-naive place for a little longer, where my Dad is home with us and safe for the time being.
One of the most beautiful things about my Dad is his brain. His mind is wise, kind, and witty. His brain works in the most wonderful way and it terrifies me that this tumour is right there next to his amazing mind. These days are scary.
These days are special. It has been years since my Dad, Leanne, Erin and I have been together at home. What was once a regular day during summer holidays with all four of us at home hasn’t happened for at least six years. It is amazing that Leanne and Erin are both able to take time away from their jobs to be here with my Dad. It is amazing that my Mom’s work schedule allows her to be home for the majority of the day. It is so special that our family can be together as we await my Dad’s surgery. I treasure this time that we are spending together as a family. These days are special.
These days are beautiful. As I was driving my Grandma Rita home after we received the news confirming my Dad’s tumour, Grandma mentioned that there is a beautiful vulnerability that arises from these situations. You have tough conversations that you otherwise wouldn’t necessarily have. You see a side of your family members that you never hope to see but is strong, resilient, tender, and exposed. I have also never felt God’s presence as much as I have in the past few days. I feel Him with us constantly: He is giving us the ability to smile, to laugh, to find goodness, and to enjoy this time together. He is so obviously holding my family in His hands and He is in control. He is providing us with peace and He is showering us with His love through all of you. These days are beautiful.
- Tara
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