Honestly, I'd rather be writing about whether we should or should not do Santa. This morning (okay, I admit... it was really this afternoon) when I woke up, I had a lot in my head, and thought it might be a good time to blog. But a lot of what is there is not stuff I want to write about, because giving voice to something makes it more real than I want it to be. Like if I don't say it, it isn't happening (although I know that isn't true, it's happening). I had the same feeling this time last year, when we lost our dear Great Aunt, Pig. I wasn't able to write about it until January. That post is here: The Last Bath
And now we're back to a similar place, but this time with my Pap-Paw, one of my life-long best friends. He had a terrible fall on Friday night, and when I arrived to see him in the ER my first thought was what fragile packaging we are wrapped in. I thought of a car in a horrible accident that is so badly damaged that we don't fix it, we trade it in for a car in better condition that can take us another 100,000 miles. And I wanted to tell God that this body He gave Pap-Paw is all worn out and very banged up now, so we'd like to just order a new one, please. And thank you. But before I could get that silliness into a prayer, I knew we can't trade our bodies in for new ones. Well, we can. And Pap-Paw will. And I'm afraid it will be sooner than I'll ever be ready for.
The body repair guy, well, the surgeon, did the best he could. And today Pap-Paw is recovering, whatever that means when you're 98. Yesterday when he began reaching out into the air, my heart sank. I've seen that before, and it was in Mam-Maw's final days and again in Pig's final days... I've asked each of them what they are seeing, but they can't say. I guess I'll have to wait and find out for myself.
I know he won't read this. But I have to say it while I can. I love you, Pap-Paw.