Healing takes time.
The wait in the hospital cafeteria felt like driving behind a semi during a snow storm, slow with apprehension. All I thought about was how much time I spent with my Dad, building shelves in the garage. Measuring the shelving, drilling the nuts and bolts, and centering them on the wall. It was our last home building project and I savored every minute when I had the chance.
I saved all of his voice mails to me, because now he slurs every word and we could hardly understand his speech. While watching The Great British Baking Show, he collapsed next to me as I panicked and screamed to my Mom to hand me the telephone. His tall stature and weight dropped with gravity while I couldn't even lift his shoulder off the ground. He battled infections after infections, as I cried and cried. All I wanted was to be five again, riding on his shoulders or standing on top of his toes, letting him walk me as he held up my hands.
Scarce times for writing meant I was busy with life and visiting my Dad, which was good, but dwindled down my hopes of publishing. My thoughts went to the times I cherished with my Dad, and I stopped caring about writing. I savored the conversations when we took turns mowing the lawn during a hot summer day. The time we compared our lumps underneath our skin because some nurses took out their aggression on us by injecting us with saline. The heartbreaking time I told my Dad about sexual assault, and the time I told him that my dreams of having a family and a loving husband might just be an episode in a Korean drama. The times I counted were worthwhile, so was this waiting.
The wait was not the same as waiting for a test result or for romance to enter my life. It was more dear and tender, as waiting for a birth of a baby. I hoped and prayed, and thankfully, my Dad survived everything. I couldn't blame anyone on the infections and the stroke. I completely surrendered, as I surrendered my own life. All I could do was wait it out and prayed.
I couldn't dwell on the things that I might not have with my Dad. I was happy he was still with me. I didn't call anyone and I didn't complain. I waited, and I was happy I was with him.
Healing took time, as I relinguished mine.