It was early morning outside the Holiday Inn in Birmingham, the first glimmers of sunlight just starting as I looked out the big windows that reached from floor to ceiling in the lobby. Two days before we rode the two hour drive from our little house to the biggest hospital I've ever been in, sat in the waiting room for what seemed like forever, then went in to see my Dad, say goodnight, and blow him a kiss. I didn't know how long he'd be staying there, but I was going back home the next day.
It's a scary thing to leave your cancer ridden Dad, and your Mom who's inseparable from him, and ride the two hours back home with your grandparents and little brother to stay for the next week. I felt like there were strings attached between me and that hospital, and the farther I got the more I stretched it, until it broke loose and all the extra weight came tumbling towards me, knocking the air out of my lungs and feeling like a big piece of me was in a hospital bed on the ninth floor of a place out of my reach. I had a hard time thinking anything besides dreary thoughts.
Admittedly, I tried not to show anyone my distaste for going back home, scared of making anyone feel worse than they already did. But I didn't have to keep it in for too long, because the next day, on the way home from church, Grammy got a phone call.
I remember exactly where we were on the stretch of that highway when the phone rang. Grammy spoke for a few moments, finished it off with "I'm on my way, baby", and then after she hung up, I heard the best news I had in a while: Your Mama wants us to come back and stay with her.
Fast forward through excited packing (Where I accidentally forgot to pack any pants because I was in too much of a hurry to just get back to my mama and daddy) and the long, two hour drive where I counted each mile marker on the side of the road. Then finally, we were there.
Back to those glimmers of morning light through those big windows. We were sitting in the hotel restaurant eating breakfast before we went to the hospital to spend the day, while I watched it get lighter and lighter outside. I remember they had orange slices and the best fried potatoes I've ever eaten. (Is it weird that I remember all of the meals I ate in Birmingham when Dad was in the hospital? I guess I'm just a sucker for comfort food.)
But the thing I remember most about that restaurant was the quote it had written in big letters on the wall. "Half the things you worry about aren't going to happen, and the other half are going to happen anyways, so why worry?"
Sometimes I wonder, since that hotel gave discounts to people with family members who were patients at UAB, if I wasn't the only one that this quote had a real effect on. But that day, something just clicked with me as I read it.
It was early morning, my favorite time of day. If we were at home, I might hear the birds chirping. I might be listening to the sound of my father moving around the house, getting ready for work, and watching the news. Or I might be rolling over in bed, not even bothering to say goodbye before he left. But instead, I was here, navigating a world I didn't know. A world where the person who's supposed to be stirring around in the house in the early morning is instead in a hospital bed sick and you can't help them at all. You can only watch and hope for the best.
But there was something about those glimmers of sunlight and quote on the wall that combined to make me feel better. It was right; what happened was going to happen rather I worried or not, so why should I worry?
And then, Instead of focusing on the illness that was slowly taking my dad away from us all piece by piece, I started focusing on other stuff. I thought about how good breakfast tasted. How excited I was to go swimming with my little brother in the hotel pool that afternoon. The new Taylor Swift album coming out that day. The episode of I Love Lucy. The news that my sister was gonna have a baby soon. The wacky creations of my little brother with the Mr. Potato Head we found. The employee at the hotel who was an aspiring stand-up comedian and would jump out when you least expected it and tell a cheesy joke. And those things were a lot like those little glimmers of sunlight peeking out from the dark on a morning so dreary. And to tell you the truth, despite what we were there for, I have a lot of good memories from that week in Birmingham, and I think that quote contributed to me making those good memories. We laughed, we cried, we filmed silly videos, and the one thing I particularly enjoyed: we ate good food. From those fried potatoes that first morning to the Dairy Queen ice cream on the last drive home a week later, a few hours after my Dad said goodbye to the world.
Two and a half years have passed and I still think about that quote a lot. And how I should follow it's example more often in the things I can't change, and let God handle it instead, and maybe He'll continue to help me make good memories in times when it feels like the world is falling apart.
It's a scary thing to leave your cancer ridden Dad, and your Mom who's inseparable from him, and ride the two hours back home with your grandparents and little brother to stay for the next week. I felt like there were strings attached between me and that hospital, and the farther I got the more I stretched it, until it broke loose and all the extra weight came tumbling towards me, knocking the air out of my lungs and feeling like a big piece of me was in a hospital bed on the ninth floor of a place out of my reach. I had a hard time thinking anything besides dreary thoughts.
Admittedly, I tried not to show anyone my distaste for going back home, scared of making anyone feel worse than they already did. But I didn't have to keep it in for too long, because the next day, on the way home from church, Grammy got a phone call.
I remember exactly where we were on the stretch of that highway when the phone rang. Grammy spoke for a few moments, finished it off with "I'm on my way, baby", and then after she hung up, I heard the best news I had in a while: Your Mama wants us to come back and stay with her.
Fast forward through excited packing (Where I accidentally forgot to pack any pants because I was in too much of a hurry to just get back to my mama and daddy) and the long, two hour drive where I counted each mile marker on the side of the road. Then finally, we were there.
Back to those glimmers of morning light through those big windows. We were sitting in the hotel restaurant eating breakfast before we went to the hospital to spend the day, while I watched it get lighter and lighter outside. I remember they had orange slices and the best fried potatoes I've ever eaten. (Is it weird that I remember all of the meals I ate in Birmingham when Dad was in the hospital? I guess I'm just a sucker for comfort food.)
But the thing I remember most about that restaurant was the quote it had written in big letters on the wall. "Half the things you worry about aren't going to happen, and the other half are going to happen anyways, so why worry?"
Sometimes I wonder, since that hotel gave discounts to people with family members who were patients at UAB, if I wasn't the only one that this quote had a real effect on. But that day, something just clicked with me as I read it.
It was early morning, my favorite time of day. If we were at home, I might hear the birds chirping. I might be listening to the sound of my father moving around the house, getting ready for work, and watching the news. Or I might be rolling over in bed, not even bothering to say goodbye before he left. But instead, I was here, navigating a world I didn't know. A world where the person who's supposed to be stirring around in the house in the early morning is instead in a hospital bed sick and you can't help them at all. You can only watch and hope for the best.
But there was something about those glimmers of sunlight and quote on the wall that combined to make me feel better. It was right; what happened was going to happen rather I worried or not, so why should I worry?
And then, Instead of focusing on the illness that was slowly taking my dad away from us all piece by piece, I started focusing on other stuff. I thought about how good breakfast tasted. How excited I was to go swimming with my little brother in the hotel pool that afternoon. The new Taylor Swift album coming out that day. The episode of I Love Lucy. The news that my sister was gonna have a baby soon. The wacky creations of my little brother with the Mr. Potato Head we found. The employee at the hotel who was an aspiring stand-up comedian and would jump out when you least expected it and tell a cheesy joke. And those things were a lot like those little glimmers of sunlight peeking out from the dark on a morning so dreary. And to tell you the truth, despite what we were there for, I have a lot of good memories from that week in Birmingham, and I think that quote contributed to me making those good memories. We laughed, we cried, we filmed silly videos, and the one thing I particularly enjoyed: we ate good food. From those fried potatoes that first morning to the Dairy Queen ice cream on the last drive home a week later, a few hours after my Dad said goodbye to the world.
Two and a half years have passed and I still think about that quote a lot. And how I should follow it's example more often in the things I can't change, and let God handle it instead, and maybe He'll continue to help me make good memories in times when it feels like the world is falling apart.