Would That I Were His Saving Angel

But at least his cherub if nothing else.

{ Excerpts from my journal }

14 December 2009 Monday

His curtain was closed when I came in but he recognized me right away when I pulled it back just a bit. Improvement. As I walked toward him my Dad held his hand out to me and said "You are so beautiful."

"So are you," I responded , kissing his forehead.

"No I'm NOT."

Today he is mean in his thoughts:

I HATE this place. This is worse than Auschwitz. They have it down to a science. They take no time getting to know their patients. Everyone is ignoring me. Who is that person - Get out of here (to unknown person). I tell you, when we got here the other night I already hated it. I was ready to turn around and go home. I was going to tell your mother to hire Scott Mitchell to sue this place - some kind of investigation - somethin'.

Then he grabs my hand as I raise or lower the bed for him, fetch the nurse for pain meds, ask for some apple juice, and he says "You're my cherub."

Later he puts his hand on my cheek and says "Ohhh, you were the one with me at the door when I said I wasn't feeling good."

I take his hand from my cheek, grasped tightly in both of mine, "I should have called 911 Dad. I'm sorry."

He just smiles.

His smile tells me its ok, because whatever did happen, however it all worked out - it worked out. He's here, smiling.

Now he sleeps. Now I will read - catching up on my Book of Mormon challenge.

____

He just woke up. "Oh, I thought I was home," he laments.

"Tomorrow Im going to try to convince your Mom to bring my lap top. She probably won't, but I would like (dramatic pause) to try."

"I don't know if they have wireless internet here," I say.

"I don't need internet. I can write. I'm a writer."

"Oh," I say. "Well, you should start something new, something stream of consciousness."

He's drifting back to sleep.

"For posterity," I say.

He wakes up as Karen, the night nurse, comes in to check on him. "Do you know how many people are worried about me and praying for me?" he asks her.

She takes the bait, "How many?"

"Hundreds . . . hundreds of millions," he declares.

"My Dad is well known for his exaggeration gene," I tell her.

Karen looks right at him with a hand on her cocked hip, smiling just a bit and says "Oh Wayne, you've told me that a million times."

Karen plays ball in the big leagues.