I have enjoyed my little blog over the past year. Even if I had no faithful readers, or no sweet comment makers, I would still do it. It has been a good blessing reminder, cheap therapy and a way to gather those memories I just don't want to forget, but know I would if left to my frantic mind. I like blogging.
So here I am blogging, sitting beside my Dad's hospital bed. We have been here once already this fall. It all started with a diagnosis of H1N1. This sparked a flare-up with a chronic liver disease and septicemia, a long run with home IV antibiotics, with this all compounded by the end stages of Parkinson's disease. Nothing is ever easy with Parkinson's. I can't help but feel a little like David. My soul is downcast within me.
Since my Dad was forty four years old, his grasp on good health has always been a tenuous one. What was thought to be a simple gallbladder flare-up turned out to be a diagnosis of primary sclerosing cholangitis, which means the bile ducts to Dad's liver are narrowing and hardening. This can lead to infections and blockages and potentially a liver transplant. Dad was on "The List" to receive one and actually got paged twice with a match, but he turned it down. Twice. At the time, he was feeling too good, had farming to do, and a family to raise. That is sort of the pendulum on which you swing with this disease. When things are good, you're doing just fine. When things are bad, well, it can be really bad. Since the diagnosis of Parkinson's about 12 years back, he decided he no longer wanted to be an entry on "The List". I can't say that I blame him. Miracles that they are, organ transplants are still nothing to be taken lightly.
The first time my Dad was hospitalized, when I was 12 or 13 years old, I remember tentatively asking my Mom if Dad was going to die. She honestly answered that she did not know. From then on, that question has hovered in our house from time to time - always sneaking around and never quite leaving the premises. It became a room in our house with the door firmly shut, no one wanted to go there, but you would still press your face to the peephole to see if you could see anything inside. The only thing scarier than the known is the unknown, right? What would it look like, how would it feel and when would we have to go in there?
In turn, I became a nurse, my older brother became a pharmacist, and Nate, the youngest keeps things balanced with his goofy humor and optimism. Really, Dad has done remarkably well, all things considered. We have a lot to be thankful for. Dr. Zetterman, Dad's doctor, turned good friend, in Omaha always called Dad his miracle patient. I think he is right.
So, here we are wondering. Is it time? I only know that I will not have to go there by myself and for that I am grateful. Like David, I need to finish the verse.
Why are you downcast, O my soul?
Why so disturbed within me?
Put your hope in God,
for I will yet praise him,
my Savior and my God. Psalm 42: 5-6
Did I mention this blog is good therapy?