I'm sorry I've been away from commenting. I was out of town for a couple of days visiting my parents where the internet connection is slow, on a good day. It just makes blogging/reading/writing/commenting painful. So forgive me as I try to catch up!
I feel like I have so much to tell you but it just seems like I am on repeat sometimes. But here goes:
If your parents, or anyone you love but don't tell often enough, are alive and well please go--don't delay--and spend some time with them. I never, ever thought I could be so grateful to sit next to my father and watch a baseball game with him for two hours but I did and I am--so grateful, that is. He was watching and I was in the kitchen baking and he kept calling for me to join him so he could "teach me a few things about baseball!" and so I went, sat down next to him, and watched.
We talked. He commented. We laughed (as much as he can physically, but the emotion was there and real). It felt as much like 'old times' as it possibly could, my Dad watching sports and me, the daughter always wanting him to adore me, sitting next to him, except this time, I wasn't feigning interest. If he had wanted to watch C-SPAN I would have because you see, to just sit and be with him, and spend time with him, and not have him in pain, and not have me in pain because of his pain, was a glorious, glorious thing. It felt so normal, and so nice especially since my last visit home my Dad just laid in the bed the whole time, buried under a fog of depression so heavy threatened to steal him completely from us.
Who would ever have imagined that watching a baseball game could feel so meaningful?
It's so cliche and I recognize that, but I'm going to say it anyway: it's the simple stuff that matters. One year ago I would have never in a million years thought I would have yearned for two hours of simple TV watching and conversation with my Dad, but here I am.
And there we were.
And yes, I watched him walk with his physical therapist. It is painful for him and hard in a way that I cannot even being to imagine.
Or maybe I can.
My body betrayed me, too Dad. Despite years of treating it well.
And he could lay in the bed, paralyzed both literally and figuratively. He could lay in the bed and stare up and the ceiling and waste away while the world keeps on turning.
But he's not.
And neither will I.
I am moving on.
When my Dad walks it is beyond difficult. It takes two people and a walker to help him--one person to get him to standing and then to stay close by in case he falters and another person to help propel the paralyzed leg forward...but he's trying. By God he's trying.
And I am too.
It may take a lot of support and work and effort to help us but I will not remain paralyzed by infertility.
The Mister and I went on a couple of amazing trail runs while home. My parents live on acreage surrounded by the National Forest, where the trees tower over you at 100-150 feet. It was just us and the sounds of our shoes hitting the dirt trail and our labored breathing. Complete and amazing peacefulness. No talks of infertility dominated like the old days where we couldn't get a mile in and the topic would come up as we went round and round about our fate.
This time is was quiet.
As I was getting ready to go on said run I was helping my Dad do leg exercises.
I stood at the foot of my Dad's recliner as he tirelessly worked his right leg. Then it was time to do the left, the paralyzed one.
"But that one's so weak, Pumpkin. So weak."
"I know Dad, but I'm going to help you."
I started to help him bend his leg toward his body and then push it back out against the weight of my body. I was doing the work but it was the action that was important, to stretch his muscles that can so easily become contorted and tight and drawn up and resistant to movement.
I decided to stop helping, just to see.
"Am I doing it Pumpkin?" he asked.
And my God, he was. It was small but it was movement. We all cheered and counted out his repetitions.
"I'm going to go run now Dad." I paused. I didn't want to hurt him. He was the runner in the family, after all. "And I'm going to run a mile for you Dad. Because you taught me how to be a runner."
I will not be paralyzed by this body that on some levels has betrayed me, and on so many others serves me perfectly well. I am taking steps--small, painful, but powerfully significant steps.
Am I doing it?
I think I am.
2 years ago