“He has three days to live,” the doctor said.
We sat in a circle in the waiting room at Oconomowoc Memorial Hospital in complete silence – all seven of us. Not one of us could process what happened. My mind frantically searched for…anything. But it was vacant. I didn’t know what to do, what to say, or how to react. So I sat there. Watching. Waiting. Praying.
The doctor’s words ran through my head as I wandered out of the waiting room down the abandoned hallway towards ICU. An overwhelming sensation of dizziness took over my body when I saw him. Papa was lying in his hospital bed unresponsive. As I walked in to hold his hand, my stomach became uneasy. “I love you Papa.” Tears brimmed my eyes as I leaned forward to kiss him on the forehead. I tried to remember all the memories we had together, but in the back of my mind…I knew this was the last time I would ever see him.
I walked back into the waiting room to see my family falling apart one by one. Their eyes glazed over before tears started rolling down their faces. Gazing into my mothers eyes, I saw fear. Fear that our lives would never be the same. The only thing we could do was wait and pray.
Three days to live turned into 26 hours. Papa’s wait was over and the weight transferred to me. I had to be strong for my mom and grandma. They needed my help to support their weight. But soon I learned I couldn’t bear it alone. I needed help and prayer was the answer.
I prayed for Papa’s peace in heaven. I prayed for Mom’s strength. I prayed for Grammy’s courage. As I strived to help others, I didn’t realize those prayers were helping me.
Amidst my grief and prayer, a feeling inside me grew. A feeling of strength. A feeling of courage. A feeling of confidence. What started out as a horrific journey for my family, turned into a realization that life is a precious gift that should be cherished with those I love.