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2006-05-25 || 9:17 a.m. || the healing force of the four of us || i called my dad at home to see how he's doing. when he tried to answer he started crying and got out an "i'm sorry" between gaps. i've never in my life heard my dad cry. it's like learning about some kind of exotic bird you only see in books and then hearing it singing in your backyard. like it quite possibly could have been coming to sit on your fence every day for years and you finally happened to be around to witness it. i didn't cry. i didn't even get the panic feeling. i just asked what was going on, if mom was coming home as planned. she's not. she can't breathe on her own yet and there are a few complications she will very well be staying for a while. everything at home reminds my dad of my mom. he stays with her as much as possible. he sneaks her dinner because she won't eat hospital food. i imagine him at home, after he's closed the front door behind him to be surrounded by their things, and that is why i have moved my flight up. he tells me to call her and when i do, to tell her i want to come down now, she sounds cheery but unmistakenly wrong. her voice is different and i can hear the machinery that's helping her breathe. for the first time she doesn't object to my taking off work to be with her and dad. she says "okay" with the vowels drawn out. she tells me that she looks like the wild woman of borneo. i haven't flung myself down on my bed to cry about it. i didn't lock myself in the office bathroom after getting off the phone with my dad. i got home and ate some peanuts. i'm going home today. kelly will pick me up at the airport. we will watch tv and make lunch for my dad and sneak mom potato chips at dinner. we will sit around her bed in a semi-circle. i will expect the force of the four of us together to heal her instantly. i will imagine us walking down the hallway hand in hand in hand in hand, no tubes or oxygen or debilitation. guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |