My dad is in the ICU. A few weeks ago, we all thought he had a simple cold. None of us realized it was pneumonia nor the dangers it posed to my father who underwent a bypass surgery a couple of years ago. Leaving the doctor's office with a prescription for antibiotics, my dad was overcome with weakness and could no longer stand. Passersby assisted by mother. An ambulance rushed him to the nearest ER. While being assessed, his heart stopped. My dad was resuscitated but he would go into cardiac arrest several more times. Each time, his will to survive and the medical team brought him back. By the time I was able to reach his side, he had stabilized. Nothing short of a miracle. He continued to hang on, and ever so slowly, his vital signs improved over the next 48 hours.
But the prolonged period of time without oxygen damaged his brain. That we knew and accepted. The extent of the damage remains unclear.
As the swelling in his brain crested, movements and reactions we had witnessed in Dad earlier disappeared. It tested our faith. Ever so incrementally, movement returned. First his right leg shifted. Then his right arm. Then he squeezed my hand with his. Tears of relief and joy filled my eyes.
As I stared down at our clasped hands, memories flooded me.
Dad's hands were swollen with fluid from this ordeal. Normally, his hands are strong. Not wizened, not sinewy, not mottled with liver spots. Rather lean and tanned, and fingernails always trimmed.
His hands have gently cradled my siblings and me when we were infants. His hands also meted out discipline and punishment when required.
His hands grabbed me and pulled me out of the water when I went in over my head at Point Pelee as a toddler. Although I was only two or three, I remember seeing the water close over my head, bubbles from the air escaping my lungs as I cried out, and then the feeling of relief as strong hands gripped me. My dad's life-saving hands.
Those same hands held onto the back of my bicycle seat while he ran alongside, teaching me how to ride a two-wheeler. I never noticed he had let go and I was actually pedalling and riding on my own, until I glanced at the shadows and saw that I was alone. My confidence dropped and the front wheel wobbled, and I crashed into the curb. Those same hands that applied bandaids to the cuts and scrapes from that fall.
My dad's hands taught me how to change a flat tire, and replace brake pads. And they gripped the dashboard with white knuckles while he barked out driving instructions to me. My younger sister ended up taking driving lessons with a professional instructor.
His hands have clumsily brushed and tied my sister's hair into pigtails when he took care of us girls while my mother was in Korea for a summer vacation.
His hands demonstrated how to hold the knife and chop vegetables for a salad - his version of a Waldorf salad. Dad was very particular about how chores were to be done, as he demonstrated the proper technique for sweeping the kitchen floor. Three tile squares at a time, otherwise the dust would go everywhere.
His hands are calloused from hard work. He toiled in the backyard and garden, spending hours tying up the grape vines, or digging up the soil. He got blisters from helping us scrape up the ugly parquet tiles in the house we had just purchased, in preparation for new wood flooring. His hands tinker with household appliances, fixing broken toasters and soldering leaky pipes.
Those same hands delicately held a sewing needle as he taught me how to fix a broken strap on my knapsack.
His hands have proudly clapped at many graduations. His hands held his daughters' as he accompanied them down the aisles on their wedding days.
I stroke his hands as I remember how he held and baptized his grandchildren.
I believe his hands will soon bring us comfort through his touch. I have to believe my strong-willed father will overcome this challenge. He has already beaten the odds. His life has been about setting his own course, doing the unexpected and the unconventional and walking to the beat of his own drum. Who else would pursue a second career as a minister, a preacher by returning to school at the age of 50? A dreamer too.
This may be a big bump in the road, but it's not a roadblock. It's a detour.
I believe his hands will again hold us close, and will stroke his grandchildren's faces. Soon.
