Praying for a Good Day

I’m praying for a good day. One in which, breathing is not so hard. One in which reality sinks in and I’m not fighting the dreamlike state to which I so often refer. One in which I’m productive at work. One in which I finish the financial obligations that are haunting me, yet I do very little each day to take care of them. and most of all, one in which I trust in God and have the faith I need in which to take each and everything on moment at a time and forget about worry and all else that would interfere in my relationship with God.

Yesterday, there was a whirlwind of activity that came about all round the same time. First Teresa arrived for my so-called bath. Before we got started, someone else from Hospice arrived for an evaluation. At first I thought this was to extend my Hospice privileges but it turned out it was a physical therapy eval…even better!

I didn’t want the physical therapist to give up on me before we even got started so I suggested to Teresa that we just wash my hair since Cecilia was coming today. After we did this, the physical therapist came to observe the transfer process from the wheelchair to the bed. This I did not like. I’ll just say that once I mentioned Jose’s name, things got better.

When we went back to the family room, Uncle Bob was there having brought a bountiful load of ice cream. After some discussion with the therapist about what I could be and should be doing, he had me show him my walking moves. I wasn’t sure what to expect especially since the extent of this exercise has been nil to this point. Amazingly, with the assistance of the walker and the spotters, I was able to walk much easier than anticipated. He wants me to wait for round two until he or Jose come back next week and I have done leg exercises in bed and/or my chair.

Uncle Bob stayed until after the therapist left which was both good and bad. As we sat there talking, I decided I wasn’t going to worry about it. Sometime right before the therapist left, my phone rang. Since I was already preoccupied, I decided to ignore it. Mom checked my caller log and said, I thought so. Dad? I thought? Turns out it was Uncle Frank calling to see if he could stop by on his way to Aunt Dora’s soiree.

As Uncle Frank was getting ready to go, mom was sharing something. His righthand rested curled on the table reminding me so much of the times when I would sit at grandpa’s lap and stoke his worn, wrinkled hands. How I miss those moments. I slowly reached out and held his hand. He reached back with his other hand and we sat there for a moment connected by grief, pain but most of all I pray, the love and hope of God.

I wanted so badly to pray out loud for him especially after a conversation I recently had with dad. Instead, I softly kissed his curved knuckles and he gently brought our hands up to his cheek. His head and hand shook ever s slightly. I wasn’t quite sure if he was crying. Perhaps he was. He had every reason and every right to. If all of this has brought my uncle and I closer together, then it’s all worth it.

This is why I love this tool. These are the times I don’t want to forget. The moments when the cries are worth it.


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