I have been about as good at keeping up a blog as I am at keeping up a journal - which is horrible, as evident from the two year gap. However, I have gotten a few promptings in recent weeks that it was time to give it a shot again. The question is, "Where to start?"
My last post was written shortly after my oldest left for his 2 year mission. He's now been home for a couple months. Much has happened in those two years: Number 1 served an honorable mission, The Girly graduated from high school & got a scholarship for 2 years at the local community college, and Stitch started high school, turned 16 and officially entered the dating world. There have been lots of laughs, tears, fun times, trials and changes - the most difficult change and trial coming just in the last few months.
My Dad died. My strong, tough, big hearted, invincible Dad....died.
He had been battling prostate cancer for nine years, but, until July, we always held out hope that he would beat it. In July we got the word that there was nothing left to do. Nothing that was slowing the rapid spread of the cancer. All we could do was take advantage of the time we had to spend with him, make sure nothing was left unsaid, and say our goodbyes. It was a blessing and torture all at the same time, as we watched him grow weaker, and more frail, and watched his pain increase.
In August we made the decision to call Number 1's mission president and have him come home from his mission two weeks early. Dad had promised him that he would be here when Number 1 returned, but Dad was burdened by the fear that he wouldn't be able to keep that promise. The relief that washed over him when his grandson walked in to surprise him, still wearing his missionary suit and badge, is a gift I am grateful we could give him. I've never seen him cry the way he did that day. It's a moment I will never forget.
The last three days and nights of his life I spent almost constantly at his side, as my stepmother, siblings, mom and I kept vigil. There was a steady stream of family and friends coming to say their farewells. We drew strength from each other as we struggled to prepare our selves for what we knew would quickly be upon us.
I prayed a lot...in my heart, throughout the days. I knew that he was going somewhere that he would be free of pain, and could finally find peace from the torment he inflicted on himself. I knew he would be greeted by loved ones. I knew this was not "goodbye", but "see you later" -- but my heart was breaking. It physically hurt to think of him not being here.
The last four hours of his life were pure agony to watch. I was certain that I would never be able to erase from my mind the sound of his tortured breathing as his lungs filled with fluid. There came a point that I had to leave the room - had to try to muffle the sound with the noise of the fan and the air conditioner in the next room. I pleaded with Heavenly Father to end it -- and when it continued, I started to ask why, what could be the purpose of prolonging it? When I thought I couldn't possibly stand another second, a thought came to my mind. The Savior felt this pain. My pain. My father's pain. The pain of all the world. He did it so that He would understand me, and what I would need to help me endure it, because He loves me. And then I thought of my Heavenly Father. How He must ache watching His children suffer through trials. How He must have longed to flee to the farthest point in the universe to escape watching the unfathomable agony His perfect son chose to suffer for each of us. Did His heart ache far worse than mine, knowing that He could end His son's suffering, but that if He did His other children would be lost? It must have! At that moment I knew that our family was not forgotten. The Father and the Savior were keenly aware of our suffering, and were there to strengthen and to succor each of us.
I have continued to feel their love and strength in the weeks since. They bring peace to my heart, that I WILL see my father again, and that, though I can't see him, he's not far away. I am grateful to know that they love me, and know me and what I need. There have been tender mercies to remind me of their love, and to help me feel how close my father still is. I am truly grateful to my Savior, for choosing to endure what He did, and to my Father for allowing it to happen, so that if I strive to live as they ask, I can return to live with them again some day.....And grateful to know that when my time comes, my Dad will be there to meet me, and wrap me up in one of his great big hugs.
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