The Return of Superbob

Superbob is out of the hospital!

Thanks to everyone who has been keeping him in their thoughts.

I am with him now, helping my mom with his 'round the clock care, and I'm so happy to be here.

He still has to go to the hospital every day, but the fact that he no longer resides in the hospital means he is getting better.

Tonight I sat at his feet and clipped his toenails for him, then massaged lotion into his dry and swollen feet and ankles.

I felt grace in the room.

Superbob has rescued me so many times from so many bad decisions and bad situations, and he's not the kind of guy who ever really lets anyone do anything for him, so to be able to help him a little felt very rare and wonderful.

Silence.

I stopped blogging when my dad--I call Superbob--was admitted into the hospital. He's been there for five weeks now, getting a stem cell transplant for lymphoma. It appears that all my blogging energy has been siphoned off to the silent, private vigil I'm holding for him inside my mind. I have lit a candle there, and it takes a lot to keep it burning; I find myself withdrawing from most of the aspects of my life that are not utterly necessary--social engagements, planning my family's summer activities, because I just want to spend time thinking about my dad, who lies in a hospital bed three thousand miles away, vomiting and trying to generate a new immune system. Maybe I'm trying to generate one for him.

Or maybe I'm just perpetuating the poison of closed adoption: to hide your wounds and scars and march forward.

When I tell people my dad is sick, they ask, "Which Dad?" Since I'm adopted, I have two dads. This question always throws me, because my instinct is to answer, "My real dad: the one who raised me."