Healing

This is a tough passage to write...maybe even harder
to post.

Nanette had kind of a rough day. Her vital stats
weren't as good as they have been. In fact, I was on
edge today too. Maybe reality is settling in a bit.
But I couldn't let it show. JoAnn has enough to worry
about - the last thing she needs is a whimpering
husband. Dads have to be strong. Besides, we don't
have any good excuse to panic or cry or get emotional.

That's why dads don't sit down on the white tile floor
in Fred Meyer and cry while searching for an Easter
card for a little girl that might see "Happy Easter!"
but not "Happy Spring!" or have a crisis when a cold
wind sneaks down his back, whispering "you're not a
good father," while he walks down a sidewalk crowded
with strangers, trying not to think, but all the while
wondering about his new job back in Walla Walla, the
one where he's on commission and where they expect
great things of him, the one that's providing the
health benefits at a great rate, the benefits that are
hopefully paying most of the NICU bills, the bills
that are going to run about a million dollars a month.
Dads can't worry about stuff like that - they just
have to find a way to make it happen. And most of
all, they can't let that little voice of despair sneak
in under their collar and down their spine. Dads must
not get to the point where they stagger into the
hospital chapel and kneel down in front of the pulpit,
groping for some kind of light by staring at an open
bible that simply presents "This is the day which the
LORD hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it."

Dads don't have any excuse to hurt or feel pain. Dads
are logical, calm, cool, collected. They are the base
of the pillar, the rock upon which the family is
built.

Dads have to be strong.

But I do cry, and I do doubt, and I do get the shakes
and I do have attacks of blind anxiety where my
stomach feels like it's stuffed with a lump of clover
honey the size of a baseball.

I hurt because I'm a dad and a husband, and that's the
most important thing to me. No matter what else
happens. I love my kids. I love my wife. I love
all the ups and downs that goes with 'em. Wouldn't
trade any of them for a mountain of gold or a moment
of fame.

Maybe that's what it meant. The passage from Psalm
118. God gave us this day. Right here right now.
This day, with Nanette and JoAnn and Josie and Gordon
and Angie and me and all the rest of the family and
friends and doctors and nurses and its perfect in its
own way. Rejoice and be glad.

Guess it's kind of stupid to philosophize on a web
log, but this is more than just an update for you,
it's a way for me to communicate - a way for me to
heal. Every pulse of pain that my family feels runs
through my body too; I hurt for Nanette, I hurt for
JoAnn, and for Eric and my mom and dad and Gordon and
Josie and Katie and Carter and all the babies up there
in NICU and the only way I can be strong is to write
about it.

So, that's a wrap. This day is over. Tomorrow is
Easter, and the sun will rise (but we probably wont
see it through the rain) and we'll go sit with Nanette
and stare for hours at those little lines playing
across the computer screens above her bed and we'll
take a break and have coffee and maybe laugh a bit
even though it makes JoAnn wince. And I'll glue on my
strong face with a bit of bravado and a lot of love
and then when the day is over, I'll come back here
after JoAnn and Angie are fast asleep and I'll let
myself heal a bit, if that's okay with you.

May peace be with you,
J.