"How's your heart?" - Amber J., Sunday night
My heart is heavy. My heart aches. My heart is very, very full. My heart has fallen with Friday's gut-wrenching news; my heart has overflowed with joy at the sight of feet moving upon request and beautiful brown eyes opening on their own for a few seconds. Four times. And then it hurt some more to realize that Mom didn't get to see it.
My heart has broken over and over again at the sight of my little mom hunched over Dad's bed while she holds & kisses his hand; strokes his forehead; rubs his tummy; cries very quietly.
"Hi, Darlin'. It's me. Open your eyes, George. Open your eyes and look at me. I love you. I miss you. You need to wake up, Honey."
It's strange that Dad towers over Mom, yet without him, she's just so ... small. So alone-looking.
I think it caught up with her this (Sunday) morning. Matt stayed with Dad through the night; I stayed with Mom. She had a lumpy-pillow neckache; she missed Dad; it's just so hard; she just wanted him to wake up and be Daddy again. Our Daddy. The one who laughs too loud and snores too much and sleeps with the window cracked open in January.
All I could do was hold her and cry with her. And rub her neck.
"He's in there, Mom," I said. "He wants to wake up. He wants to talk to you. He has so much to tell you."
When I was small enough to sit in Dad's lap, I would fall asleep with my head on his chest.
It's possible - amid so many tubes and hoses and wires - to lay my head on his chest now. To hear his big, broken heart beating away. To hear his short, assisted breaths whooshing in and out. To cry my heart out, snuggled up with my Daddy as close as I can snuggle.
I'm spending tonight in Dad's room. There's a lot of beeping and buzzing (on the monitors' part), and not much sleeping (on my part). But there's been a lot of yawning, some leg- & shoulder-stretching, a lot of hand fluttering and a bit of foot-tapping (on Dad's part).
And the last three times he's started coughing, he's opened his eyes on his own. And a couple more times without the coughing.
He's gazed at the person in front of him.
When his eyes wander and I snap my fingers or tell him I'm over here, his eyes come back to me.
His pupils dilate & contract, like he's trying to focus. When I've held his eyes open, he's tried to squint them shut. He definitely does NOT like that.
I'm convinced that last grimmace was a tube-interrupted smile.
He still won't squeeze my hand, but we'll get there. He just needs to keep those eyes open.
He just needs to wake up.
We need our Daddy back.
Pop Quiz: Who has a goofy grin & got a 2 a.m. hand-squeeze from the Most Amazing Dad in the World??
Me. Happy, teary me.
