First Daughter
The electronic age is a blessing and a curse, isn't it. Because of it we converse instantly back and forth with Ray in the OR prep area talking to M, back and forth with Joe, Tass & Kristen and others near and far. Post instant updates online. Because of it the age of what Fred Sanford of Sanford & Son called "polite chit chat" is over; we no longer chat and visit with friends and loved ones in any setting, everyone holding a cellphone, staring at it, frown, smile, intense, loose, tippy typing. Linda and I do talk when together, and not via text, email or other tippy type.
We have been here two weeks, first with M in ER, SICU, surgery, back to SICU 471, now long enough to establish residency and register to vote. but it is thankfully, infinitely far better than the unspeakable alternative, I testify as parent, father. When her midnight gurney was loaded into the ambulance at GulfCoast PC, double doors closed tightly and sped off siren screaming for Sacred Heart Pensacola because the ER physician said, "We don't have a DNR so we have no choice, we have to do something," I expected never again to see her alive, fearing this was the gate into every parent's worst nightmare. Those who have suffered life's worst loss will understand my dread, fear and musing as we drove into the pitch black darkness after the ambulance. And while now assured, all that anxiety has not entirely gone away. "But here you are," as Prince Caspian said to the magical animals of Narnia the night he made his escape from his evil uncle Miraz. And sure enough, here I am, still gratefully Malinda's dad. And my child, though ongoingly at risk, here you are, alive another day and another.
Musing as we carefully drove the wee hours. If I lose this child I will no longer know who I am or what I am, or what I want to be, or what I believe. I will not know or recognize me. You may recognize my face, but you will not know me and never will again, because I will never again be the person I became that night in June 1958 and have been these sixty years. I will not know who to call when we need help from time to time. The phone will never again ring and a voice, "Where are you, aren't you home yet, I was worried, text me when you get home." And, "Don't worry, I'll check the condo and water the plants while you're gone. Okay if I use your washer and dryer while you're gone?" And, "Storm's coming, want me to bring in the plants from your porch?" You only have one First Child. A man needs a daughter, and once he has her, never stops needing her. I remember and call to mind my first assignment after I was commissioned a Navy ensign. January 1958 TDY in Newport, Rhode Island. The command XO, a Navy commander who became a friend the month I was there, predicted thinking to please me, "I think you're gonna have a son," he said. His mouth dropped when I said, "I'm hoping for a girl."
I'd wanted a baby girl since the Malone girls were infants and, one at a time, stayed with us for weeks and weeks and I claimed them and would grieve when their parents came to get them. Many stories down that trail but never-mind. This is my girl, my first girl. I'm not letting her go in my lifetime.
9:10 am, phone call from the OR: surgery is going well.
T
We have been here two weeks, first with M in ER, SICU, surgery, back to SICU 471, now long enough to establish residency and register to vote. but it is thankfully, infinitely far better than the unspeakable alternative, I testify as parent, father. When her midnight gurney was loaded into the ambulance at GulfCoast PC, double doors closed tightly and sped off siren screaming for Sacred Heart Pensacola because the ER physician said, "We don't have a DNR so we have no choice, we have to do something," I expected never again to see her alive, fearing this was the gate into every parent's worst nightmare. Those who have suffered life's worst loss will understand my dread, fear and musing as we drove into the pitch black darkness after the ambulance. And while now assured, all that anxiety has not entirely gone away. "But here you are," as Prince Caspian said to the magical animals of Narnia the night he made his escape from his evil uncle Miraz. And sure enough, here I am, still gratefully Malinda's dad. And my child, though ongoingly at risk, here you are, alive another day and another.
Musing as we carefully drove the wee hours. If I lose this child I will no longer know who I am or what I am, or what I want to be, or what I believe. I will not know or recognize me. You may recognize my face, but you will not know me and never will again, because I will never again be the person I became that night in June 1958 and have been these sixty years. I will not know who to call when we need help from time to time. The phone will never again ring and a voice, "Where are you, aren't you home yet, I was worried, text me when you get home." And, "Don't worry, I'll check the condo and water the plants while you're gone. Okay if I use your washer and dryer while you're gone?" And, "Storm's coming, want me to bring in the plants from your porch?" You only have one First Child. A man needs a daughter, and once he has her, never stops needing her. I remember and call to mind my first assignment after I was commissioned a Navy ensign. January 1958 TDY in Newport, Rhode Island. The command XO, a Navy commander who became a friend the month I was there, predicted thinking to please me, "I think you're gonna have a son," he said. His mouth dropped when I said, "I'm hoping for a girl."
I'd wanted a baby girl since the Malone girls were infants and, one at a time, stayed with us for weeks and weeks and I claimed them and would grieve when their parents came to get them. Many stories down that trail but never-mind. This is my girl, my first girl. I'm not letting her go in my lifetime.
9:10 am, phone call from the OR: surgery is going well.
T