For the first time in my life, my dad looks small. Vulnerable. Incredibly fragile.
A machine is breathing for him. He has been medically sedated and paralyzed & is kept under an ice blanket to keep his core temperature cool enough to prevent cellular desruction, primarily in his brain. There are tubes and wires attached to almost every exposed bit of skin. I could barely kiss his forehead and cheek. Monitors glow and beep and buzz and scare me to death. A nurse is vigillantly either at his side or right outside his door.
I haven't slept. I haven't eaten much since Rieva came to my apartment so many hours and miles and states ago (thank you for [repeatedly] telling me that driving was a terrible idea).
My dad is frail and cold and in a forced sleep in a strange bed that he'd loudly complain about if he was awake. I kept waiting for him to start teasing the nurse, to ask what in the world we were all doing there and looking so mopey for, and where was Don's iPad, because there weren't any CSI reruns on and he wanted to read a book.
But he didn't.
His eyes fluttered a couple times. His toe twitched when Mom tickled his foot. His finger moved a bit while I held his hand and told him which family pictures I'd brought for his room.
Mom and Dad's pastor and his wife (Gary and Carol Williams) were there with us, in the ICU ward, in the middle of the night, far from Gillette. We prayed together, over Daddy. We talked to him. We listened as Gary read a Psalm that Dottie had started to read, but couldn't finish.
They'll start to bring Dad out of the coma tomorrow afternoon. We'll know more then. Matt will be here then. Anne will be here soon after.
Please, please pray. God is bigger than cardiac arrest & brain damage & heart failure. His grace and peace are sufficient to carry us through this.
Please pray for a miracle. For healing. For rest. For safe travel. For trust and faith. For our family reunion to be complete. Our loudest, laughiest, goofiest member is missing from the mix.
