Lately I have been spending alot of time with my sketchbook and thought I would share some WIP with you.
Art journaling is definitely my “go to therapy” for when my head goes into more somber mode.
OK, this is really hard post for me. I hope I get through it though I know I will be shedding a few tears in this one.
So, things have been up and down emotionally for a while for way too many reasons but tonight I was sitting here watching a re-run of Glee with my teenage daughter. It is the episode when Kurt’s Dad suddenly has a heart attack. I was sitting here being a tad sarcastic as they showed a very healthy looking actor with lovely pallor hooked up to ICU beepers and commented that he should be bluer like those curtains around the bed.
Then it hit me. I looked over at my fifteen year old girl and realised I was her age when my Dad had his first heart attack. What the??? Was I that young? Seriously, I can hardly remember a time before that ICU trip to Sydney with my big brother and his mate Ballsy driving us both there as Mum and my big sis had flown up already. It was a torturous trip with my bro and I handling it as best we could with really bad jokes, nervous laughter and more bad jokes. The following trips for visits and heart operations were no less stressful but became more routine.
That first time was horrid.
After having a series of heart related issues late last year, the reality of it still never really sunk into my thick skull.
But sitting here watching this episode, my own situation suddenly fell into place. My girl is now the SAME AGE as I was when my world was rocked so suddenly and completely. My boy is even younger. I don’t want them to go through it like I did. Me sticking my head in the sand and not really tackling my health concerns is so damn selfish. I watched my Dad pull through, make drastic changes (except the smokes… But I have that one beat hands down as I never started).
Memories flooding in galore but the one that struck me most was sitting there in the ward just wanting my Dad to wake up and smile and tell me it is going to be all OK. But I just sat there holding his hand, his cold, clammy hand stuck left right and centre with tubes, machines beeping everywhere.
But I didn’t want to let go, just in case it made a difference, even the tiniest difference. All these years later I can still feel my Dad’s hand in mine. Though Dad recovered from that initial attack and lived many more years to have a few more operations and attacks, I can still recall that moment. And now, 10 years since his passing, looking at my girl and having all these memories flooding in, my biggest wish would be just to be able to hold his hand again. I just want to hold his hand.
Love you Dad.
Just popping by to say HI to everyone here and welcome to all the new likers. I hope you hang around a bit and share a few ideas here too.