i didn't cry when i pictured my dad going through surgery. i didn't cry when i explained the surgery to people, save for that time in Sunday school. but even then, it wasn't because i was scared. it was because i was surrounded by a room full of people that ultimately care for me and my dad. it was because they prayed for me and my dad.
i cried when i saw my dad's swollen face- his tired expression fed by IV tubes, monitored by machines that nearly reached the ceiling. i expected it, the tubes i mean. but what i failed to prepare for was his weak smile, his quiet mumble of a joke.
my aunt to my dad: "you know, the doctor said you're on the fast-track to recovery."
my dad, nodding: "it's because i'm so young."
i cried as we shared in laughter.
i cried because he was safe, and the surgery went unbelievably well. because he was being as strong as he could for me and my mom.
i cried when she told me she loved me and that she was praying for me, because i don't deserve that.
i cried when those numbers came to life.
--
he was already awake after only 12 hours,
already able to drink sips of water after 14,
already up and walking after a day,
already out of the ICU after two,
and already back at home after five.
time heals, in more ways than one.
i'm counting on that for all of us.
