Miracles

Is it a miracle when something wonderful and unexpected comes from something devastating and heartbreaking? Is it faith? Is it the power of positive thinking? A strong will and determination? Or is it just love ...

I just reread the post of one of the (many) blogs that I follow (click here). This post was written on Friday. This (click here) ... is where 'Anissa' was on Nov 17th after she suffered a stroke (actually two strokes). Five months. Five months to go from 'there' to 'here'. The struggle, challenges, determination and the belief that Anissa could come through this are all chronicled in the Hope4Peyton blog.

This (click here) is another blog that I have recently stumbled across. It is the story of another family's struggle with TBI (Traumatic Brain Injury). This young girl went for a ride on her bike. She was wearing a helmet. Despite 'doing all of the right things', this family is faced with the challenge of working through the aftermath of a brain injury. They find miracles in every day ...

I know another family personally. They don't blog ... they are my friends. Their dad/grandpa/husband (I know each of the family members well) suffered a massive heart attack right after Christmas, three years ago. The doctors didn't think he would survive. But his wife knew that he would. She knew the way her husband healed. She knew he needed time to rest after the initial shock to his body. She believed in him. She fought for him. She stayed at his side and walked with him through those initial days. And she was right.

He lived more than three years after a heart attack that statistics predicted that he should not have survived. There was brain injury. His short term memory was affected. He had many physical ailments that prevented him from living at home. But the way his family rallied around him, supported him, believed in him and cared for them made those last years the best that they could be ... for everyone.

All of these stories hit home with me. My dad suffered a massive heart attack on March 10, 1983. He stopped living that day, but he didn't stop breathing until December 7, 1987.

I wish that I had journalled our family's story through that time. I believe that we were no more or no less heroic than these other families. I remember quietly praying "We need you, Dad ... we need you ..." over and over, throughout the endless drive from my place to my parent's home that fateful night. I remember thinking, feeling and needing my dad to know that. When the doctors told us that it was due to his sheer will to live (that got him through that first night), I thought my prayer was answered ...

I was young and naive. I was 22 years old. I had no idea what the definition of ''brain damage'' was, until our family lived it. These words that define the indescribable are simply words ... until they touch you personally. I believed in miracles.

Days rolled into weeks; the weeks into months and the months into years. Throughout the 1733 days (4 years, 8 months, 27 days) that followed, reality settled in. Hope died. I lost hope before I lost my dad.

I remember that Mom arranged for me to talk to a counsellor at the long term care facility that Dad was eventually moved to. I remember talking about the 'right' way to act, feel and care about the circumstances that surrounded Dad's health. She told me to make my decisions based on 'what I would feel okay with, after Dad was gone'.

I'm not proud of the fact that the visits to see Dad dwindled over the course of those years. I am disappointed that I couldn't do and be more for him. I did what felt right at the time.

My sympathies started shifting towards my mom. She was living a life in a suspended state. She was a wife without a husband. Mom survived those years. Looking back, I am amazed at the courage that it must have taken for her to put on such a brave front. There have been very few times in my life where I have seen my mom crumble. And that was not one of them. She got mad and upset at the circumstances surrounding my marriage at the time (perhaps redirecting her emotions?). She broke down for a moment after we got home from Dad's funeral. But other than that? She was strong. She did what she had to do. I modelled her behaviour. Maybe I wasn't who Dad needed me to be ... but it is my hope that I was who Mom needed.

I thought that I had successfully followed that counsellor's advice. I accepted the decisions I made about how I dealt with Dad's illness after he died. I didn't feel guilty. It is in the two decades that have passed since he died, that this is hitting home.

Other people's stories make me rethink our family's circumstances. I wonder. I look back and reflect. For the most part, I think that we did what was good and right for both Mom and Dad. I am okay with that.

But what has recently hit home the most? A nephew recently wrote these words about Dad: "Although he could not talk back to me, I remember feeling a connection when our eyes met and I felt that he truly was talking to me, just not verbally." At that very moment ... I remembered what I had buried throughout the 1733 days that followed that moment that changed our lives forever. I had felt exactly the same way.

Dad, I hope that you felt the same connection when our eyes met. Sometimes communication goes beyond words ...

Are there miracles? Or is it just a strong will, positive thinking and determination that gets us through the tough spots in life? Maybe it is a little bit of everything. But most of all, I believe it is faith mixed in with a lot of love ...