I got my diagnosis on my mom’s birthday. That just doesn’t seem right does it? My surgery was that Friday, only five days later. What a whirlwind week it was. My parents dropped everything and drove to St. Louis to be with us, even though my dad was a pastor with a busy schedule. I don’t remember how many days I had to stay in the hospital, I think only two. I just remember with clarity an early morning blood draw to check my white cell count to see if I could go home.
Shortly after the lab tech left the room, my dad walked in. He was carrying his garment bag and told me he was about to go back home but wanted to come see me first. While he was with me, my surgeon, Dr. Billy, came in to tell me that my levels were low and I was going to have to stay longer in the hospital. My heart sunk into a fearful thought that there might be more cancer. Then Dr. Billy noticed they had drawn blood out of the arm that had an IV and it had diluted the blood sample. He had them come back in and draw from my other arm, it was okay, and I was able to go home!
It may not sound like a big deal, but it helped so much that my dad was there. I didn’t have to be alone through that brief unsettling moment. He was thinking of me that morning and wanted me to know. He was there because he loves me. What did I do to get my dad to love me? Continue reading
Along the Narrow Path 