I've realized I didn't give the update on Dad, aside from random Twitter and Facebook accounts.
Much happened between that last post and now. Much of it excellent. Much of it not good. Balance is hard.
There were falls, infections, lost pets, more falls, and finally .... finally, that surgery. Open-heart, many hours long, always with the possibility that it would all have the worst outcome.
We were all together in a waiting room in South Carolina when the surgeon came out after so many hours and gave us the news our hearts had ached to hear:
Dad was well, the surgery had gone perfectly, we'd be able to see him in a few hours.
That was a month and a half ago. I've returned to Wyoming. My parents, individually, followed in their own time. Dad is home, fighting off a surprisingly strong bout of allergies/cold/flu, but healing well otherwise.
He's frail — an alien term regarding my dad until a few years ago. Life and its brushes with death have aged us all, but none more so than Dad.
My big, burly dad with the booming laugh and the hard-headed stubbornness is frail. Withered and worn-down, and confused and frustrated by the whole process.
It reminds me so strongly of my grandpa's last years that it hurts. Like I'm watching a 20-year-old echo.
But he's healing. He's lost weight — a benefit of life with his military doctor-son. He's working toward a new phase of rehab, including renewed cognitive therapy. These are all excellent, promising things.
Overall, it's an encouraging thing.
And there are repaired arteries and a new heart valve actually pumping new life back into him. It's just going to take time.
And time is so tricky.
