My dad needs quadruple bypass surgery.
Be with mom and dad for that. Give dad love. Be there for that. One artery 100% clogged. Another 80%. Two at 70%. Heart attack waiting to happen, mom said. Had the exploratory today. Catheterization: this morning they jammed the camera on its journey and knew instantly- surgery. This winter on a walk dad moved heavily. Slowly. Way behind us. Our pauses, waiting for him, required toe-pebbles conversation. Mom said he’s got to get checked. Today, this May, my dad.
Don’t know if I’m cut out for Life Proper. For all the Actual Heavy Shit. Made it this far.
You will be there for that. Bypass all four of them. Remember who showed for the transplant? Mom will need somebody with her. Step into that place, reality, all else set aside. Pretty standard stuff, right? Regular ol’ procedure, right? Happens all the time, no-biggie, back to shoveling snow, right? Technology, fabulous skill and we extend life, beats like new. They claw open the chest cavity, pull veins from your leg and arm, rip you open, and operate on your effing heart. There it is, you can see it, touch it: blood-heart-tissue-blood-flap. Don’t know if I’m cut out for Life Proper, Big Life, the Heaviness of the All-Thing. Run!
Can’t.
I will be there for that. Step into that. Give love to dad and mom. Pacing and time-killing hospital in Boston. Any pray? Ponder reality of the floating monumental. And give love, support and love, give.
