Or sometimes it's the lack of words that have meaning.
My Dad doesn't talk much anymore. He stares into space a lot. A lot.
So much of the weekend I talked to him, looking right in his deep brown eyes, and he didn't respond at all.
Sometimes he would, but mostly to just ask me to do something like reposition his leg or arm.
So I just kept on talking, just in case.
"Mrs. LC!" he called out, so many times. And every time I would rush to his side, and then....silence.
Late yesterday evening, weary from being met with silence so many times I rushed to his side once again. I leaned down and said "Dad, I got my hopes up that you were going to tell me something!"
And slowly, slowly, he said "I was going to tell you that I love you."
I know how much pain you and Mom have felt over the years watching Mr. LC and I suffer through the heartbreak of infertility because I feel it so deeply for you right now. You have wanted to fix it and you can't. I want to fix you and I can't. All I can do is love you, deeply deeply deeply.
Did you guys know that two weeks before my Dad's stroke I was angry at him. So, so angry. Things were not good with my parents. My Dad pulled a stunt at my mother's father's funeral and I was so angry at him. So angry I didn't want to talk to him--no more words.
I can honestly say that whatever happened in the past is meaningless now. It all dissolved on June 10th, 2009. There is only room for love.
Oh Dad, thank you for saying those sweet sweet words to me. It was worth one million silent responses.
(that's me as a baby on his shoulder)
*On a completely different note, the two words "It's over" in the infertility world should never be written. Please go give Mrs. Hope some love. She has been a tireless supporter for Mr. LC and I, for countless others struggling through this battle, and she has just received devastating news.
My heart breaks for you Mrs. Hope.