(originally published August 6, 2012, at 8:17 a.m., CDT)
I have been a week now back in Kansas, watching my father fight for his life. The details as to why he is in this condition are lengthy, and I have explained them so many times that I cannot explain them anymore. Suffice to say, my father is a very sick man, recovering from septic shock that was a result of postoperative complications, and for the past seven days he has been under sedation, pumped with heart meds and antibiotics, as a team of specialists have fought to pull him back from death's door.
A cliche in films when the hospitalized man survives is "it was touch-and-go there for awhile." With Dad, it is still touch-and-go, but fortunately, it has been more touch than go. Granted, the touches have been quite small, almost microscopic, but people abide and they endure, or at least they do the best that they can.
Monday morning now. One week ago right now, I believe I was somewhere in eastern Arizona, driving ...
[Pause]
In the other room of this house--the very house I grew up in--my Mom called the hospital to check on Dad's status. I heard her say two things: "Good" and "Praise God!"
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