Home Run

I’ve had one memory in my head for the last 4 days. I’m around 10 years old, I’m in the dugout at a softball diamond at Haikey Creek Park in Tulsa, and my Dad is at bat. On the first pitch he takes a big cut and the ball leaps out of the park. My Dad hit a lot of home runs playing church league softball, and I saw most of them.

* * *

As I write this late Tuesday night, it’s been roughly 36 hours since my dad was taken away by the hospital staff into the OR for his bypass. Its been a crazy ride.

He is doing well. He looks good and it talking to us, but everyone is still watching him closely. Lots of things can happen right after a surgery, and he has plenty of folks dedicated to making sure none of them do. He is being well taken care of, but that doesn’t eliminate the nerves.

The doctors saw him several times today. There were lots of discussions and questions. Everything is moving in the right direction. We just have to keep praying they continue to do so. We’re praying and waiting. Always waiting.

* * *

Watching my Dad snooze his way through the first few hours of his recovery I could not get the image of him smacking that softball out of the park from my mind. It was so clear, so important.

The red dirt of the infield. Sunflower seeds. Gatorade. Running out to pick up his bat. Giving him a high-five on his way to the dugout. The sickly sweet smell of one of the guys illicit chew. Being asked to go back behind the fence to fetch the ball. Running hard back back because all I wanted was to talk to my Dad about what he just did. Pride in being his son.

Now the task my Dad has ahead of him is tougher than any Baptist softball league game. I know he will work hard and rise to the task at hand because he always has. Over the coming days and weeks I know he will make the pride I felt on that day feel insignificant.

The day after

It’s the day after. Everyone got some much needed sleep last night… everyone but David. David was reawakened every hour last night for some form of treatment or movement or procedure.

He is not himself today. The anestesia has obviously not worn off. He falls asleep between every bite, every interaction, and every dreaded blow on the respiratory torture device.

Everyone just wants to see David awake and to experience some semblance of a normal interaction with him. He is so loved.

Here are some images from the day today:


Here at St. John’s, Jesus appears a lot. He’s stuck on the cross in every room. I really want to tell someone that He got off.


Where we come every day…


Brian coaching David through the respiratory torture device. He was a great cheerleader 🙂

I’m flying back today. My first flight leaves here at 6pm and I found out my second flight is way delayed, so it will be a late night. Brian will stay until later in the week. I wish I could stay, but I’ve already missed so much school this year with my own medical stuff and then the wedding.

I’m learning a lot about being a wife through all of this and I’m sure there will be a future post once I work out all of these thoughts and we remove ourselves a bit from the situation at hand. I’ve seen a few different sides of my husband as well– emotions and reactions that there simply hasn’t been opportunity to display or witness until now. This is all part of the journey.

Please continue to pray for our family and for David’s recovery. We really appreciate your prayers and support.



Today is a waiting day.

We sit. We wait. We get an update. David hits a goal. We wait some more.

It’s been a long day. The surgery scheduled for noon was moved to 9am and we rushed to get here to see him. We waited with him until they took him to pre-op. Then we waited as a large family unit sprawled across a section of the waiting room. We got updates along the way– always positive– and waited some more. The group dwindled, but still we waited.

David is currently in recovery in the ICU. His breathing tube was just removed, but he isn’t awake yet. I think we’re all just wanting to see him awake before we go home tonight. Brian and I sit in the waiting room while Karen and Sarah sit with David. The hospital is quiet– it’s late and things move slower now.

I’ve watched Brian and Sarah as their father goes through all of this. They’ve been through so much in the past 18 months– and hospital visits have not been positive experiences for them. They struggle to remain positive and to remember that this is a different situation, when parts of it feel so familiar.

These are the people who are supposed to be taking care of us and watching over us– when did we get old enough that the roles began to reverse? These are our big, strong giants. These are our heros. And now our heros are vulnerable and need us to be the strong ones.

So, we wait. We wait for David to come out of the haze of the plethora of drugs within him and to let us see his strength. And the children within us wait to see a glimpse of that big, strong hero. Please keep praying.