Daddy's girl

Daddy was my first Prince Charming, first real hero, and first true love, all rolled into one. He was bear hugs and kisses, Saturday morning rides to the dump, learning how to swim, belly laughs, burps, farts, and tickles, tied up in a neat package with a couple of "y'alls" and a lingering southern drawl. There is something about seeing the person who helped to raise you, gave you bedtime hugs and kisses, and placed your hand in the hand of your future husband on your wedding day lying in a bed, hooked up to various machines and tubes, heart beating with the assistance of a special pump, that hits you square in the gut and makes you want to drop to your knees. My Dad was anything but the picture of health last night when we finally got to see him, complete with his new heart valve.

Today was a little better. He was awake and able to talk to us. He didn't think he was doing well, he felt weak. It's difficult to resist the urge to say "Dude, gimme a break, they had your chest cracked open yesterday and messed with your heart, congratulations, feeling weak is an accomplishment!", somehow I don't think he would find comfort in that. Instead we took turns holding his hand and telling him that by all accounts he was doing well, and would soon be feeling better.

Phillip explained to someone in the waiting room today that "Poppa had a broken heart. So they took out a piece and gave him a new one and now he's going to be all better". I don't think I could sum it up any better.