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I had my week fairly planned out. Blog posts written and scheduled. Activities to help Hun in starting the business. And the normal every day routines of our family.
Then life happened. I was thrown a major curveball. Life happened and I’m rolling with it.
My father, one whom I’ve had a tenuous relationship with for my entire adult life, is now sick. He’s very sick. ICU sick. ICU with a ventilator sick.
Fortunately, I have done much deep and tough work, such that any frustration, disappointment, anger, and loss can be put to the side quickly and not interfere with right now.
Right now when none of that is what’s important.
Right now when a strong, capable man has been literally brought to his knees. Or, more aptly, to bed with a ventilator, unable to talk, to move, to express himself. He’s in pain. Physical and emotional pain.
Right now what’s important is my presence. My love. My compassion. My courage and strength, as well as my understanding.
The understanding that he did do the best that he knew how while I was young.
The understanding that he isn’t perfect, we’ve both made mistakes, and that despite any difficulties in our understanding and communicating with one another, he is my father.
A father that loves me unconditionally.
A father that would do anything to help me if I needed.
A father that has, on occasion, been present and available to me.
A father that has celebrated my triumphs and accomplishments.
A father that truly is proud of me. And proud to call me his daughter.
So, I sit here writing to you all, every one of you that visits this blog, new or old, not for pity.
I write because I’m hurting and scared.
I write because I know that I’m grateful for the opportunity and ability to share with you.
I write because when I’m in pain, when I’m scared, when I’m nervous, when I’m lost or confused or happy it’s the one way I know I can express myself.
Writing is the one way my words can’t be changed. I’ve done this since I was a child. It has always worked better for me than speaking.
When I write, I can be emotional and no one has to see that emotion happen. It’s like a cloak, in some ways. Writing is also therapeutic. I don’t hide behind my words or use them to cause injury to another, rather to be clear to myself and be clear to others.
I love my father. I always have. I’ve disliked him and his actions or words. I’ve struggled to be compassionate. I’ve been so disappointed that anger has consumed me. I’ve been sad for him. I’ve been proud of him. And I’ve been disappointed again by him.
Despite these things, I still love my father.
I always will.
After all, he is my father. One who provided me life, taught me things about life and people and relationships and nature and family. Countless things I’ve drawn upon throughout life, he’s taught me because that’s what he knew to do.
So, those are the things I’m celebrating!
That is how I show up at his bedside, make a joke or two, share my life and show pictures of Baby Boy, talk about the future, and show him I care. I tell him I love him and really really mean it, without shedding a tear.
I want him to know that I can set everything aside and just be present with and for him.
I do it for him.
I do it for me.
I do it because it matters. Most importantly I do it because I do; love him that is.