Father knows best?

So I'm blogging from my dad's computer at my dad's house because my dad's not here. He's chillin' at the hospital. Forget the fact he just got home from the hospital yesterday, having completed 6 weeks of radiation and chemo. He woke this morning with a swollen arm. Despite his doc's at the Mayo Clinic telling him to either come back or get to the local ER, Dad thought he'd monitor it at home (residual effects of the chemo have him wiped out). When I dropped in this afternoon, he looked pretty drained, but I'm no nurse, I gotta trust that Father knows best. Fortunately his older sister called him shortly after I left and chewed his ass. He got to the ER.

He phoned from the hospital to report he was being admitted for a blood clot . . . in the neck . . . which he'd been feeling for 5 days. FIVE DAYS!!! What is it with guys?! I can understand the desire to ignore the lumps and bumps, "it'll go away, it's just a thing," but FIVE DAYS?

So in spite of him assuring me he's fine and that I could come see him tomorrow, my husband gave me the nudge (thanks Dude!) and I went to the hospital tonight. And when I rounded the doorway into his room and saw him sitting on the edge of his bed, my cool nearly flew out every pore.

Dads are not supposed to get sick. (They're not supposed to get old, either.) And Dad and I had a rocky road up until 8 years ago. Now we're on borrowed time and I want to do all I can for him, if he'll let me. And tonight, he did! He let me gather his effects from home so he can settle in for a "nice" 4- to 5-day treatment. When I think of the years of estrangement we experienced and that today, I was entered in hospital records as his emergency contact, how can I argue that miracles are not real.

Dad and I are living proof. And while I've got all these fears about where this journey is headed and all these ghostly reminders of how my beloved grandmother wasted away and I lacked the balls to face death, one thing is for sure: I'm not bailing this time.