Reprieve

Dad is doing much better today. I thank you humbly for your prayers.

The short version: The tests finally revealed not the flu, but a wicked urinary tract infection that had sapped every ounce of Dad's strength, given him a high fever, and dehydrated him. With I.V. fluids and antibiotics, he started to get some color back, and slowly, some strength. This morning he was asking his usual questions ("Do I live here?" etc.) and was coherent enough to be disgusted by the hospital scrambled eggs. All the questions had stopped yesterday, and Dad was too sick to even ask about the oxygen mask he was wearing.

He will remain in the hospital for at least another night. My brother stayed there with him last night, and my sister stayed with my mom, who was able for the first time in many months to get an 8-hour chunk of sleep. Getting up many times a night with Dad is a brutal endurance test for an 86-year-old woman. She is tough beyond belief, but extremely worn out.

So Dad is better, and I am praising God for that. But I'm also praising Him because BEFORE Dad was getting better, when things were very bleak, when I was packing my suitcase, I found a substantial amount of peace in accepting whatever the divine plan was. I know that may sound irritating and corny and Bible-thumpie. But it's true.

I am by no means firmly rooted in my belief. I would like to be, but I struggle with it, almost every waking hour, because it's become that central to my thoughts. The questions are always there, like neon balloon animals floating above my head. I'm just grateful that sometimes it feels like I get a sliver, a glimpse of "No, really. I'm in control. I'm God. You don't have to be."