Merry Christmas!

The family (not quite all of us!) at Zoolights.

What a difference a year makes, folks. This time last year...well, you know. And now not only is Dad out traipsing around in freezing temperatures to look at lights at the zoo, but we also have our Miah back (my tall, handsome nephew), out of the Army (and harm's way in Iraq) for good. No, things are not perfect, but this Christmas we are all here.

Merry Christmas to you, our dear friends and family. We could not have made it through this year without the love and support of each and every one of you. I truly mean that from the bottom of my heart. May you all have one moment during this warm holiday that takes your breath away with its preciousness.

Musings

Lately many people (including myself) have made mention of how different this holiday season is from last year. It's so striking. As I sat down to write this, I just had a serious flashback. I mean, here I am having a cup of cocoa and relaxing while Dad and Joe and our friend Mike watch football in the living room. Everything is easy and cozy. But I am not so far removed from that anxious woman who sat at the computer in the hospital day room praying for something positive, some shred of good news to type to you all. This has been the shortest year of my life. Perhaps tragedy compresses time. Perhaps we are all just too busy getting through to notice time passing.

This morning I was meeting with my small group and our youngest member (not yet twenty) was bubbling over with enthusiasm for her upcoming plans: "I could have done this or this or that, but I knew I had to decide on something, so I chose..." So many possibilities for her. So much time. This young woman is doing amazing work with the organization Youth with a Mission. I envy her. Not the work -- I haven't the constitution for what she does -- but the excitement of possibility. I realized as I listened to her talk that her world is so open, so expansive. Mine has narrowed, sped up, become the world in a grain of sand. I don't know if that's a good or a bad thing (likely both and neither as most things in this gray world are), but it is a hard thing.

I don't mean to hijack the blog with poor-me chatter, but I am fascinated by the changes wrought in a quick flip through the calendar. Last year we prayed that Dad would be spared. We had no idea what a hard miracle that would be. After all, he is here and healthy. But every day is a test for him (for all of us) of will and hope and strength.

Perhaps these musings are appropriate at a time of year when the celebration focuses around the rare gift of god-with-us, a baby born a sacrifice. A hard miracle.

1st Annual Celebrate Dad/Grandpa's Recovery Lunch

Hard to believe that it has been a year since Dad first broke his arm and started down this journey. I knew it was going to be a tough anniversary for him and when I asked him awhile back, he told me he wanted to acknowledge it in some way, so I came up with the 1st Annual Celebrate Dad/Grandpa's Recovery Lunch. I told Dad that since I had cooked so much for Thanksgiving I wanted him to take me to lunch today. I secretly got the family to meet us at his favorite all-day breakfast joint and we surprised him there.

We had a wonderfully positive time of affirming how Dad's faith and positive attitude have sustained not only him, but the whole family during this difficult year. We were all in tears as we shared how amazing he was to fight on in spite of pain or discouragement. We talked about how he inspired us and others with his love and optimism, reminisced about moments from his hospitalization and rehab, and just generally celebrated the fact that a year later the strength and sunshine of our family is still guiding our family forward.

If anybody's still out there reading the blog, please feel free to leave your own comment about how Dad's recovery has impacted you or what you've seen in him as he has journeyed through this long year.

Happy man

I think that pretty much says it all. :)

Mr. Leo goes to capital hill

Dad looking spiffy!

This week Dad was invited to attend an annual meeting that he used to be part of regarding the consulting work he did prior to his accident. We spent a day and a half up "on the hill" at the State Office Building with a gracious and welcoming group of colleagues. And because Dad had worked up there so long before retiring, word got around he was there and several former coworkers were able to stop by and say hi. Everyone seemed pleased to have him back in their midst and I think Dad appreciated being in an environment as natural and easy as falling off a log.

I know it was challenging for him -- on a physical level, just trying to get around up there was tough! But you can imagine the mixed emotions of having things to say but not being able to quickly articulate them, and of sitting on the sidelines instead of leading the show. I was so proud of him for being brave enough to be part of it, even though it would bring up memories of how things were just a year ago. He is my hero because even though he is constantly aware of how different he is and how people must perceive him, he is willing to put himself out there and live his life. He is just so darned wonderful.

Dad doing a little schmoozing.

Dad and his colleagues taking a break from all their hard work.

Behind the wheel

Yesterday Joe and Dad took off to the boonies so Dad could get a little driving time. Dad drove nearly 15 miles (perfectly, naturally) and the guys had such a good time. Here are some highlights:

Tyler is gone

In all honesty, not a day goes by that there isn't something that reminds me how truly blessed we are. Dad will do something new, or we'll remember those first days in the hospital... Every good conversation he and I have is always a reminder of the doctor who told us 11 months ago that I would never be able to have one with my daddy again.

But a couple of days ago as I was waiting for Dad to come out of a therapy appointment I had a fresh reminder that cut me to the core. It was a quiet day in the therapy office, so I was alone for a bit. Then a couple came in, healthy looking, maybe in their forties. I assumed they were picking up a loved one. We sat together in silence until Dad's speech pathologist came by. The couple stopped her and began asking her some questions. As I eavesdropped, it became clear that they had a son who had undergone some kind of neurological trauma. They talked with the SP about different courses of treatments, and things that would help his memory (he clearly had some major deficits in communication and thinking). The husband's voice took on a light pleading tone as he asked the SP if she thought, at the son's appointment the day before, "he seemed a little better...sometimes he has good days..."

The SP was affirming, but not encouraging. It was clear the couple could not expect much mental recovery for their son. They were very understanding. And the SP left them with a smile. Afterwards, the couple continued to talk with each other and encourage each other that they might try a therapy they had asked the SP about, because it wouldn't hurt and it might do some good. They seemed very at peace and comfortable -- perhaps they had had a lot of time to come to terms with what had happened -- which is why I was surprised when, after the husband reiterated that their son had his good days, the wife folded herself over, laying her head on her knees, and said firmly but flatly, "Tyler is gone."

Her tone and her posture made me think that this was not grief, but rather the shell of grief. That she had moved past the initial trauma and was safely in matter-of-fact "dealing with it" portion of the family's life post-trauma, and yet... There are always those moments where it hits you like a fist through all the busyness and dailiness of recovery that there is a very distinct line between before and after.

The wife quickly sat up and the couple continued their conversation. Their attention turned to me and we chatted for a moment before Dad came out of his appointment. They were back to okay again.

But I told Dad about it when we got in the car and began to sob as I reminded us both of how blessed, blessed, blessed we are. I am daily grateful that no matter how difficult it is to get Dad's body to do what he wants it to do, he is himself. Yes, we have our grief over the difference between before and after, but Dad is not "gone." Words cannot express my gratitude.

And I cannot stop praying for Tyler and his parents.