April Showers Bring May Flowers ... and July Blog Posts.

My "May" flowers. 

Well, that's how the saying goes anyway ... sort of.  At least the April and May portion of it - the July was my own twist, although I started writing this in May.  Then I was determined to finish it in June.  And before I knew it ... it was July.  Oy.   Anyway, I know you've all heard the phrase "April showers bring May flowers" -- it's a pretty literal statement in that if it rains a lot in April, by the month of May the Earth should be in full bloom.  Right?  It does make sense, and in Florida we usually get our share of Spring showers followed by early Summer flowers.  But this past April gave me a new perspective on this classic rhyme.

April started like any other month, but I knew from the get go it was going to be busy.  Every weekend was booked.  There was Easter the first weekend, followed by Mr. M being on call the next weekend.  Then came the dreaded glucose tolerance test that every pregnant woman must endure - fasting sucks, especially at 7:00a.m. on a Saturday.  The following weekend was to be a wedding of a childhood friend, and we would end the month by taking a mini-vacation to The Florida Aquarium -- just Mr. M, Miss G, and yours truly.

My, how life changes things.

It was a Tuesday, and it had just been one of those days.  A day that just sucked.  It was April 17 to be exact ... not sure why I remember the date, I just do.  We had just put G down for the night and I was about to burn the last cell of my energy on showering before I completely collapsed.  But I heard Mr. M on the phone in the other room, so I waited to see who he was talking too.  It was his on-call week at work -- now that the weather has warmed up, his on call weeks are always busy with A/C's not working, or they're low on freon, something.  So, I figured if he had to leave for a call, I'd wait until he was gone before I showered, so I'd at least know what was going on.

He entered the bedroom.

"Do you have to go?" I asked.

"What?  No, that was your mom," he responded.

"Oh.  My mom?  Why'd she call you?"

With a look of seriousness he said, "Now just know that everything is alright, but..."  You almost always know when the word but proceeds the phrase 'everything is alright', that everything most likely isn't alright.  He continued, "...they took your Dad to the hospital with chest pains.  They're at the VA."

I'm not sure where the conversation went after that.  It's a blur.  I felt the hot tears hit my eyes, my cheeks, then the bedspread.  I reached for my phone to send out a text to all of my praying friends and family.  I don't even remember what I said.  I could barely see the keys through my tears, but I hit send and I know prayers went up immediately.

I think I sobbed for a good hour ... I just couldn't control it.  When I finally calmed down, I texted Nutmeg (my sister) to see if she had talked to Mom.  "About what?" was her response.  I knew by that response that my mom hadn't spoken to her.  I told Mr. M he had to call her, because I couldn't.  I'd be a wreck on the phone.  He did, and she had about the same response that I did.  Poor Mr. M -- the bearer of not-so-good news that night.

Fast forward.

After running tests, they found that Dad had blockage in three valves.  It wasn't major blockage and he hadn't suffered a heart attack, which was great news; but when it comes to your heart, blockage is blockage.  Eight days later, Dad had triple bypass surgery.

Bypass surgery seems to be a common procedure these days.  I know dozens of people who have had it and gone on to live long, healthy lives.  I knew from the time we got the news that my Dad would come through okay, but it's still different when it's your Dad and not Mr. Smith from church or your Great Aunt Lucille.  It's your Dad ... your Dad.  The very first man you ever fell in love with.  The one who made scraped knees and busted elbows all better with just a hug and kiss.  The one who gave you away at your wedding.  The one, who from the time you're a little kid, you expect to live forever.  Your Dad.  He was facing the reality of having open heart surgery and a long recovery, while I was dealing with the reality that he isn't as young as he used to be.  That he is mortal.  That he's not untouchable from the scars of sickness and disease.   

That ... is a really hard pill to swallow. 

Nutmeg & Dad.

The morning of, my sister and I arrived at the hospital at 5:30 a.m.  It was early.  We hung out with Dad until they took him back to pre-op -- where we were forbidden to enter.  After a short prayer, hugs & kisses, and everyone doing their best to hold it together, they took Dad back.  What was supposed to be about a four hour surgery, seemingly stretched into a lengthy nine hour operation.  We saw so many people come and go in the waiting room that day.  Family groups, lonely spouses, pastors, friends and loved ones.  The list goes on.  By the time Dad was out of surgery, we had spent over fifteen hours at the hospital, and I think all of us had grown to hate waiting rooms. 

Dad's surgery was on April 25.  Exactly a month later, after ample physical therapy, a week in rehab, a shock treatment, countless sleepless nights in uncomfortable hospital beds, and lots of prayer, Dad was discharged and homeward bound.  Praise God.  It was Memorial Day weekend.  We celebrated with a picnic in the country -- southern fried chicken, potato salad, baked beans and coleslaw. 

He's been home for almost two months now.  I see him about once a week -- he's getting back to normal slowly but surely.  God has been good to him ... to our family.  One day at a time, one prayer at a time.  Amen.