It's the wee hours (12:20 am) of the morning - the eve before my dad's surgery on his lower spine. He has been anticipating it for months, preparing for weeks and now it is upon us. My sisters and I headed over to his place for a pre-operation visit, only to find him busily watering the lawn and organizing the garage. The last few days he made like a whirling dervish, installing sturdy railings on his stairways and a new, higher toilet in addition to preparing his gardens. He keeps insisting that he still has lots to do before tomorrow --
We stayed a few hours, chatting about everything under the sun, odd snippets about the surgery loosely interwoven with teasing, joking and reminiscing. We laughed alot and tried to ignore the elephant in the room. But what is left to be said - good wishes such as good luck, or take care? Or dispensing advice such as don't worry, sleep well or citing predictions of outcomes - you'll be fine, or you'll be up and about before you know it. Instead we pocketed any anxieties or concerns, kept the goodbyes light, planned our carpooling and honked as we drove off.
My stepmom told me not to worry, and I told her that I am not a worrier; I'm a warrior. Dad's corner is crowded and tomorrow his tribe will fill the waiting room and try not to torment the nursing staff.
We'll resist the urge to tease him or comment about suspicious tubing or bags.
I just know he is going to set the bar high and once he awakes on the other side of the procedure, all energy and thoughts will be dedicated to recovery. So tonight, the night before, I am sending my dear dad (from Peering Through a Porthole) all the pink healing light I can muster, and all the love I have in my heart.