picking up the story where i left off

I mentioned in my last post that my dad was in hospital.

That moment seems far past.

We spent the rest of that day and another long day waiting for the surgery, the reconstruction of his ankle.

I could write a bunch of stuff about the insanity that is my family, and the stories, one on top of another, would seem humorous in a sad, weird way, and might seem like I'm mocking, when really, I would be simply telling stories.

I could write about the intensity of the conversation with the anesthesiologist immediately before the surgery, the conversation that left me 90% certain that at some point in the next 120 minutes he would reappear to tell us he was sorry, he'd done everything he could, but they just couldn't save him.

I could write about my feelings as I drove to visit dad tonight at the rehab facility--the same route I drove countless times years ago when my gramma was at that facility, until the last time I drove there the night she died. Walking up that sidewalk, into those doors, past that front desk, down the same hallway, past her room--my heart pounding, my head light, my eyes threatening to leak...

He'll be there for weeks, however long it takes for nearly 87-year-old bones to knit together. I suppose that given enough time, enough visits, that trek may become routine, stable, manageable.