A lot of waiting here today.
What would the news be?
Wondering if this cancer in my dad was already a wildfire.
Knowing too much and knowing too little.
Waiting.
One hour, then two.
Shifting in chairs, checking watches.
How much longer?
Finally, his name called.
Walk down the hall, squeeze in the room, my sister, my dad, his wife, my husband, and me.
Standing now. Not enough chairs. Not enough air.
More waiting. Looking out the window. Swapping stories.
Clinging to hope.
Then the click of the latch.
We inhale as the white coat of revelation enters.
And…
It’s not good, but it’s not bad either. Seems contained. One more test to make sure, then lots of medicine. Maybe radiation.
We exhale.
“Might live to be 95,” doctor says.
Sister and I exchange glances.
Tears.
95.
Yes, Dad, save for your old age.
Stay to see the great-grands.
We’ll pray.
Take the medicine.
Stay.
“I’ve been carrying you on my back from the day you were born,
And I’ll keep on carrying you when you’re old.
I’ll be there, bearing you when you’re old and gray.
I’ve done it and will keep on doing it,
Carrying you on my back,
Saving you” (Isaiah 46:4 The Message).