Celebrating Healing

Hey Everyone,

Hope you are well. I don't have too much to report from my end. Life has been good and interesting, and I feel thankful.

I am taking a storytelling class that is making me write a lot, so don't be surprised if some future entries are in story format.

This month, for my dad's birthday, I want to share with you all part of our story.

Thanks for being in my life,

Inbal

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He walks in twice a week, always on time, rushing through the lobby as if going to an exciting meeting. Lap top, extra batteries, and work files slung on his shoulder, he walks through the corridors. He arrives in quick strides and the nurses waive, “Hi Guy! Great to see you this morning. How are you?”

“All good. I’ve had three cans of V8, a salted fish, and Inbal sprinkled some salt on top. Sodium levels should be a record high.”

He sets up his mobile office, and before the nurses even start the chemotherapy treatment, he is already on a conference call, “Yes, I am fine here, lots of people taking care of me. How are you? How’s the family?”

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When I was young, my dad loved to support my curiosity.

“You have a project on flamingos! That is so exciting. We’ll go to the zoo and see them, and take some pictures,” he smiled enthusiastically and took out a piece of paper. Instead of opening the encyclopedia to the letter F and sending me to my room, he wrote a letter to the national zoo. They wrote back, inviting us to spend a day with the flamingo caretakers. My dad could get anyone to do anything with a letter. We spent the day at the zoo watching the flamingos, feeding them, interviewing the caretakers, and wondering what color they would be if they didn’t eat so many carrots.

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Later in life, when I started to travel on my own, my dad self-titled his role as travel agent.

“My flight is delayed, so I have to stay the night in Philadelphia,” I announce with fall confidence, after a high-school speech and debate tournament. Five minutes later, he calls back, “you can stay at the airport hotel. There is a flight tomorrow morning at 8:30, and the customer service desk should have some meal vouchers for you. Have a sate trip back, we miss you.”

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As the scope of my dreams expanded, so did his reach. During my first journey to Africa, to a small town in Eastern Ghana, my dad put aside his natural parental worries of malaria medicine and safety on decrepit buses, and engaged in my reactions to a new world around me: the kids I loved, the women I admired, the injustices that enraged me. When the phone lines went down for a week, I felt worried and anxious. When we finally connected after some time, he was calm. “The lines were down to a flood west of Accra, practically the entire country without communication! The ministry of internal works has had every person on this, seems today, they succeeded.”

“Did this make international news?” I ask, somewhat skeptical and bewildered.

“Oh, no no! Not a chance. I called some number I found online, made some friends, and they kept me in the loop.” I remember feeling safe, but also independent, the right amount of having someone to lean on and exploring on your own.

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šHe’s done this a million times, every day; he is the enabler and organizer of our family. Directions, frequent flier miles, applications, rules, dates, and regulations, along side with jokes, stories, and pictures, he can tell you anything about any of us with a few clicks on his computer. These days, not much has changed, we might have changed our lives to be together in his time of need, but he still helps us to manage.

At the bone marrow tests performed every two months, the nurse comments, “you’re brave. Most people come in here contemplating when they’ll faint.”

“It will hurt a lot, I know,” he says, making a funny face, “but it will be ok after two days, so what’s the point getting all worked up. Besides, this is the last one.” He tells her this every two months with the same belief and determination that he is right this time.

I remember times I have been sick and the weight of the emotional gloom and doom and feeling sorry for myself that accompanied the physical discomfort. I wonder where people find strength to heal.

“How are you feeling, really?” I ask sometimes, when we managed to slow down and really talk.

“The body does it own thing, struggling, creating discomforts, but you have to control it and do what you need, or else this illness control you. Life moves on, and you say ok and move on with it.”

This week, when we celebrated his birthday, he cheered to “a big party this time next year, celebrating the end of this.” On his birthday, we celebrate that he has not surrendered to being ‘a sick person.’ That despite medical challenges, he is the same energetic father, friend, and colleague who loves us and is always there for us. We celebrate his personality, kindness, spirit, and humor. When the doctors find the treatment that works for my dad, they’ll be catching up to him because he already knows how to heal sickness by being true to himself.

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