I flew to Toronto again last week to visit my father who is still in the ICU, almost three months since his lung transplant. It’s a long road back, plagued by infections, pneumonia, and set backs. He’s still committed to the fight, but watching him suffer for such a long time, often unable to speak due to his tracheotomy, is agony for me. I can’t imagine what living hell it must be for him.
Since my return late Thursday night, I’ve been struggling to fully reintegrate to our joyful chaos. The hiss of the tracheotomy myst muffles the kids’ laughter. I get impatient with the kids’ demands, their petty disputes, their complaints about dinner when all I can see are my dad’s eyes full of pain and anger. I needed to fill my lungs with fresh air, to feel the sun on my face, to cleanse my soul a bit.
So we cancelled playdates, cleared the calendar, and went for a family walk yesterday. The snow crunched under our feet. The sky stretched above our heads, and we walked, with no destination, no purpose other than being together on a Sunday. It was just the type of therapy I needed. I just wish my dad could have been with us, walking in the winter sunshine.
