It's dark in the living room right now. Brokaw is sleeping beside me. Michael is still sleeping in the bedroom. I'm up by the light of the competition on the television, having a cup of coffee and half of a cannoli.
The fog is back.
I spent yesterday at the hospital. We got no good news from the doctors about my dad. The tall Indian doctor leaned over his bedside, looked into my stepmom's eyes and said - loudly and clearly - to make sure she understood - that things are very serious. He said they were "running out of options."
I sat in that hospital chair that reclines, off to the side. My sister's mom held my hand that I had crossed across my body, and squeezed it. I couldn't stop the soft, slow, warm tears.
Not long after that, my stepmom and my bonus mom went to lunch. And it was just me and Dad. It's so dark and quiet and calm in his room in the ICU when no one is in there. There are predictable sounds. The ventilator going up and down, the occasional beep. The wheels of carts being rolled by, just outside the door.
I sat there, holding his warm hand, with one hand.
He had a tight grip that pulsed - like a muscle spasm.
With my other hand, I texted my brother and sister all of the information I was able to absorb from the doctor. I copied and pasted my updates in another text - to my husband.
What's happening is so hard to understand. He was doing better, it appeared. He was sitting up beside the bed. Yesterday, he was supposed to have a swallow test. Now, here we are.
The doctor mentioned, kind of off-hand to us that Dad is his most stable patient right now. That slammed me up against the wall. I cannot imagine having that kind of stress in my life! Since he said that, I have not stopped praying for that man!
Thank you for your prayers and support and your offers to help in any way that you can.
Know this: There is peace. There is quiet. There is calm. There is strength among the women of this family who sometimes have nothing in common - except for the love they had or have or will always have for my dad.
I want him to pull through.
I'm not giving up, yet.
I'll head back up there today, and grab a hold of his hand again, and squeeze.