No way in hell...
I've been contemplating writing a blog about this all day. Should I? Should I not? How could I word it so it says everything I need it to say? Would it say everything that needs to be said? How can you convey 42 years of feeling into a short blog with a few, useless words? Should I make it private? Friends only? Or public?
I guess I should start by saying this. I blog because to me, writing is healing. Hopefully others will see something in this that is healing to them. If not, feel free to bypass this blog and move onto someone else's that you might derive something out of that you're not finding here.
OK. With that being said...
Last night, after I wrote the blog "No way in hell", just a few minutes after I published it, my Dad called with some not so good news. It seems my uncle is in the hospital and they have more or less given up on a recovery. You know, more or less, that he will not be coming home this time.
Who is he and what he means to me? Let's see. I have known this guy all my life. He's been in our family since a year before I was born. Countless summers... Countless vacations... Countless Christmases... Countless Easters... Countless New Years Parties... Countless fishing trips... Countless camping trips... You get the idea...
He was diagnosed with emphysema about 8 years ago from smoking 1 2 3 4 5 packs of cigarettes a day. You got it. Not 1, not even 2, 5! He quit smoking about 6 years ago, cause he couldn't breathe. He was told then to lose weight too, or it would just get harder. Instead of quitting smoking AND losing weight, he gained weight. He weighs now on the upper end of 450 lbs. Couple this with diabetes, and fluid on the heart and around his lungs, well, you get my point.
He's been hospitalized several times, especially lately. But this time, it's a whole different story. He has gangrene in his toe but his entire foot is black, MRSA staph infection throughout his body, and pneumonia. But the worst part is that they can't even do surgery to remove his toe because his heart is too weak to withstand the surgery. My aunt told me this morning, when I did finally got ahold of her, that they can't get his oxygen stabilized and right now he is taking in too much carbon monoxide and can't get enough oxygen into his blood stream. But yet, without the surgery to remove the toe, we are looking at possible gangrene getting into the blood stream. We are in a "catch 22" position here. Between a rock and a hard spot, per se.
This is killing me. It is tearing my heart out. I remember he and I going Crappie and Sand Bass fishing every weekend together of every Spring. I can still see him carrying the Crappie loot across the water dam with the string out of the hood of his jacket because he had no idea he would catch that many fish on the other side so he didn't take a stringer with him. Instead, he just took the string out of the hood in his jacket.
I remember thanking him every year for his service to this country and his bravery in Vietnam for years and the sacrifices that he made while serving our country.
I remember countless conversations that we have had about his Cherokee indian heritage, his beliefs, and what it all meant to him. Like the time he told me about the things that you had to do to become a Cherokee Chief and him asking me if I would ever let my son do it. Many, many conversations like this.
There are so many things about him that I could list here, but there isn't enough space to list them all out.
If he doesn't pull out, it will take my heart a very long time to heal. A very long time.
But you know what? It strengthens my resolve that I will not smoke. Not even during this pain. I will not give in. He would want it this way more than ever.
I guess I should start by saying this. I blog because to me, writing is healing. Hopefully others will see something in this that is healing to them. If not, feel free to bypass this blog and move onto someone else's that you might derive something out of that you're not finding here.
OK. With that being said...
Last night, after I wrote the blog "No way in hell", just a few minutes after I published it, my Dad called with some not so good news. It seems my uncle is in the hospital and they have more or less given up on a recovery. You know, more or less, that he will not be coming home this time.
Who is he and what he means to me? Let's see. I have known this guy all my life. He's been in our family since a year before I was born. Countless summers... Countless vacations... Countless Christmases... Countless Easters... Countless New Years Parties... Countless fishing trips... Countless camping trips... You get the idea...
He was diagnosed with emphysema about 8 years ago from smoking 1 2 3 4 5 packs of cigarettes a day. You got it. Not 1, not even 2, 5! He quit smoking about 6 years ago, cause he couldn't breathe. He was told then to lose weight too, or it would just get harder. Instead of quitting smoking AND losing weight, he gained weight. He weighs now on the upper end of 450 lbs. Couple this with diabetes, and fluid on the heart and around his lungs, well, you get my point.
He's been hospitalized several times, especially lately. But this time, it's a whole different story. He has gangrene in his toe but his entire foot is black, MRSA staph infection throughout his body, and pneumonia. But the worst part is that they can't even do surgery to remove his toe because his heart is too weak to withstand the surgery. My aunt told me this morning, when I did finally got ahold of her, that they can't get his oxygen stabilized and right now he is taking in too much carbon monoxide and can't get enough oxygen into his blood stream. But yet, without the surgery to remove the toe, we are looking at possible gangrene getting into the blood stream. We are in a "catch 22" position here. Between a rock and a hard spot, per se.
This is killing me. It is tearing my heart out. I remember he and I going Crappie and Sand Bass fishing every weekend together of every Spring. I can still see him carrying the Crappie loot across the water dam with the string out of the hood of his jacket because he had no idea he would catch that many fish on the other side so he didn't take a stringer with him. Instead, he just took the string out of the hood in his jacket.
I remember thanking him every year for his service to this country and his bravery in Vietnam for years and the sacrifices that he made while serving our country.
I remember countless conversations that we have had about his Cherokee indian heritage, his beliefs, and what it all meant to him. Like the time he told me about the things that you had to do to become a Cherokee Chief and him asking me if I would ever let my son do it. Many, many conversations like this.
There are so many things about him that I could list here, but there isn't enough space to list them all out.
If he doesn't pull out, it will take my heart a very long time to heal. A very long time.
But you know what? It strengthens my resolve that I will not smoke. Not even during this pain. I will not give in. He would want it this way more than ever.