Flowers while they live - Part 2 - My Daddy.

Good morning. I don't like to speak about my personal stuff, but I should let you know I'm going through something.

My father is in the hospital in Pittsburgh since Friday. He'd gone there to help my uncle move out and ended getting carbon monoxide poison. He's been in the ICU unconscious and we (the family) hopes he comes to.

So you ask how can I write a live book while this family tragedy is happening.

At night I sit and think about the horribleness of losing my father. He's been my alpha male all my life and I love him very much.

Sunday when I was told the news that he still had not awakened, I drifted off in my thoughts trying to remember our last conversation that we had. It was over the phone, the day before he left. I remember us speaking about getting him a new cell phone because the one he had was busted. “I’ll look into it more when I get back from my trip,” he said after I offered to buy him a cheap phone just until he could get something he really wanted. (He wants the Palm, but I can’t afford that.)

I sighed and said, “Okay, Da-Da. Don’t forget.”

“I won’t,” he promised. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” I said without hesitation before hanging up.

So on Sunday when I thought about the possibility of not seeing my Dad again, I felt a little at peace because I know I gave roses while he lived. I know deep down there were no things I needed to say to him. I’d forgiven him for things a long time ago and this made me glad to know I would only cry because I missed him and not in regret.

Tragedy happens to people all the time. Tomorrow is never promised to anyone and I really do feel we need to make peace with people before it’s too late. I think Regret can do worse things to us than hatred.

This life we live is too short compared to eternity of regret we’ll feel if we don’t do right by the most important person we need to care about – ourselves.

There’s nothing to report about his condition. All we can do is wait for word. The hospital he’s in is doing the best they can for him. Unfortunately I couldn’t go to see him because I’m a single parent and with the rest of the family running to see him (except my brother, whose wife is getting a partial hysterectomy) are busy. I have no one to leave my children with so I must stay.

I’m not worried though. God hears prays no matter what and I know in the deepest of hearts he watches over me and my family.

So how do I write while tragedy is going on?

I have to. I’d go crazy if I didn’t. Writing keeps me calm, stable and supplies a natural drug that sends my pleasurable stimulants in my brain. Helps me – for a little while zone out in a good way to all that bothers me.

Writing keeps me sane. I can still be a mother. I can still be Sylvia. I can still walk around and talk as if there is nothing bothering me to the world around because I have this one place to go there is no one in the world in my writing place except God and I. And that’s the best place to be.

I miss my Daddy and I hope he comes home and feels better and is like he was before.

I miss his smile and how he mentally challenged me to do better all the time and to think for myself.

I’ll miss him because I know when God made him, he broke the mold. My dad could fix the best Kool-aid, any car before 1995, shoot a buck a mile away, cook the best deer stew this side of the Mississippi and really knew what E=MC2. He would epoxy our toys when they would break, make a traffic light from three lights, one battery, four wires and black electrical tape for my science project (which I won) and build a house with two of his brothers in one week (He also drew up the plans for the house too.) He really knew what a blue moon was and he gave great advice like, “The same boys sniffing around you when you’re twelve will be the same ones sniffing around you when you’re forty.” (He was so right.)

Haven’t found another man in the world like him and I know if he goes away, I probably never will.

I miss his voice answering all my crazy questions without judging me. I remember clearly when I was writing Sin’s Iniquity, I called him and as soon as he came on the phone I asked, “If I shot someone in the chest five times, how fast do I have to drop the body temperature before they bleed out?”

Without hesitation, he answered, “Hmmm… Pretty fast, but it does depend on what vital organs you hit in the chest.”

“If they fell in the Detroit River immediately after being shot, would that prevent them from bleeding out.”

“What’s the time of year?”

“Middle of November.”

“Yes, that should work. Unless it’s a late summer, the water temperature should pull the body temperature to down so the blood flow slows.” He’s so durn smart.
Keep my family in your prayers. Thank you.