We'll Keep Going

My husband started going to a basketball run in Forest Hill a couple of months ago. Every Saturday, he'd look forward to driving into the city. He'd get a great view of the Toronto skyline on the Gardiner and then onto the DVP. He had a laidback drive to look forward to because no one was really on the roads at 7:30am but him and a couple of cars. It was a nice break from our everyday view in Mississauga. 

Who knew we’d be so lucky to now see this view every day?

I don't want to say that I'm tired of the skyline or the drive to St. Mike's, because I don't mind it. If you know me well, you know I like driving downtown. But I will say that I am tired of the travel. A 35-minute drive isn't even that bad, considering it could be much worse if kids were back in school. But it is tiring.

"I think that's a trigger word for me now: tired," my husband said to me the other day.

Not to gaslight any of you (or myself), but Pa saying "I'm tired" just has so much more weight to it than the average person saying they're tired. 

We got to visit him for a couple of hours tonight. It's routine now. We know exactly where to go to get to Pa's unit. The creepy paintings on the walls don't faze us anymore (well, I'd like to convince myself that they don't because they're pretty ugly).

Pa has moved rooms a few times now in the CICU. Yesterday he was in a shared room, but today he was in his own. He thinks it's because the other patient might get scared of all the nurses having to revive him. But I know it's more so they can monitor him closely... and so they'll have more room for all the nurses in case they need to perform CPR again.

Pa is in good spirits. He's tired. But he's smiling, talking with the nurses. Talking to us like nothing's wrong. It seems like he's trying to console himself. He told us he didn't really want a pacemaker, but when we told him how much he would need it, his face changed. I don't know if it's really hit him yet, the seriousness of his condition.

Pa has only "officially" been my dad for 3 years so part of me wonders what my boundaries are. I don't really know where they are. 

"He's not even your dad," my husband joked with me yesterday. It's weird how you marry one person then, all of a sudden, their family becomes yours. I'm grateful that transition was pretty seamless for me. I know it isn't that way for everyone.

I worry my blog is just full of complaints. Full of sad stuff. I mean, you don't have to keep reading this. You can always click or tap away. But if you do stick around, I'll be nothing but honest. I'll filter a bit, but this is mostly me talking to future me about how past me is coping. Fun.

The gross paintings. The stinky tents on the sidewalks. The confusing road signs and one way streets. The parking fees that add up. Wearing masks even though we're barely talking. Listening to the same worship playlist shuffle through on my crappy phone speaker. Seeing vulnerable strangers on stretchers fighting for their own lives. Bothering our generous friends to interrupt their days to drive family to and from the hospital. 

"Oh hi!"

"Hi guys! Come sit."

"Did you guys eat na? There’s food there."

All the discomfort is worth it when we get to see Pa and hear his voice in person. 

So we'll keep going.