Isn’t it odd that I write about such a myriad of topics, but when I look back a year ago I find that I wrote so very little about my Daddy’s death? It is obvious that I tend to fall silent when the topics grow too personal; I am sure there is a therapist somewhere who would love to sink their metaphorical hands into me. I wonder what they would find because I look at April 15, 2014 as a multi-level pivotal day . . . I am not sure my mind has worked the same since.

Part of my brain malfunction is that my memories have become slurred over the past 365 days. There was a time when details of a story came easy to me, but I have found that pain dulls recall. When I try to pull it up I remember that I was at work and my sister called to tell me everything was fine but Mom and Dad were on the way to Brookwood because he didn’t feel right and his arm was numb. My mom beeped in and I answered to hear her telling me the same information with the added detail that they had been cooking chicken for a luncheon she was supposed to have that day. I cannot stress to you the amount of detail shared about that chicken.

I can’t remember what time I flew to Birmingham. I can’t remember when we decided I would go – I think it was later the same day. If I remember correctly I got to Birmingham at dinner time (because I grabbed Chick-fil-a at the airport) and Ginnie, a girl I had never met in person, took me to the hospital. I must have gone down on the 16th, cause I had to fly to Dallas before heading on and I had to OJ it through the terminal to make my flight because a storm caused our plane to have to circle a few times before landing.

I remember seeing my Daddy when I arrived and wanting to shoo all the loving people from the room so I could hold his had and look in his eyes and tell him I loved him. I remember waiting  . . . he was loved by so many. I waited long enough to be polite and then I walked in and took his free hand while Susan finished praying; I couldn’t wait any longer. He had died and they had brought him back and he told me how it hurt. He said he didn’t really want to do that again; I told him I would rather he not as well. We laughed and I squeezed his hand tighter.

See, this is why I don’t write these things – I sounds so dramatic and I fear the pity of man. Truth is, it was dramatic. . . the MOST dramatic event of my life.

I remember my sister curled up in a chair in the waiting room, fully prepared to sleep there that night “just in case” and I remember the menacing look she gave when we pushed for her to go home and get real rest before the quadruple bypass surgery the next morning. My brother wasn’t there yet. I felt strangely grown up and simultaneously childlike – that’s something no one thinks to talk about.

That was a year ago. . . that was the beginning of 3+ weeks that would change me forever. I’m going to try to make myself write about it over the next weeks, so stay away if you don’t want the raw emotion and potential rambling that will be found here, a.k.a drama. I’m going to force myself to write for my own sake and for the sake of our children. When I print this edition of the blog books it will contain these bits of family history to prick their memories and fill in gaps. (I should get Bubba to help me because his mind is a steel trap!) I’ll try to write in a way that my Daddy is honored and the Lord is glorified.

But for now I am off to bed. Just these few paragraphs and I am exhausted.
Goodnight. Okay.