One step at a time

The good news today was that my father underwent surgery this morning and came out on the other side of oblivion, alert and asking questions of his surgeon. It's not a curative surgery, but a palliative one, as he likes to quote his surgeon as saying. And I'm in favor of anything that palliates these difficult times for all of us.

My brother was home with my mom for 11 days and my sister has been there since Saturday and will stay through Friday, and then I will go home this coming Saturday and stay through mid-March.

Now it's a question of taking it one day at a time, as my papi's surgeon says. And well I know that that's about the only way that one can take the recovery from such an operation. One step at a time, keeping the future in mind, saying to oneself, over and over again: "This, too, shall pass."

I'm looking forward to finally seeing my parents in the flesh since being so far away has been hard, but not harder than being there, in the trenches, so to speak. The spoon is always the one that knows how hot the soup is, my papi always said.

And I won't be sad to leave winter behind, hopefully for good at least for this year. By the time I get back in March, winter should be in its last estertores, God willing.

This past Sunday, Dr. S, my husband and I did a very wintry thing by joining a group of adventurous souls to do a moon hike through the forest near my small college on the hill. Up we went, hiking in the slippery snow (I slipped at least once) up a steep slope to watch the glorious full moon rise over the darkening trees.

On the way back, I saw these picture-perfect paws, probably of a raccoon, leaving its tracks behind in the piragüa crunchy snow, and asked Dr. S (who true to her artistic talent for photography always carries her awesome camera with her) if she would take the picture for me. And she obliged. And here it is.

I particularly like the paw print to the upper right hand side, which seems to be fully open and joyful.

It was taking steps that the raccoon left its mark on the snow, as we all did, crunching through it on our hike, like Arctic explorers. And it'll be one step at a time that my papi will come out of the ICU and then to a room and then back home. And then, perhaps, if I dare dream, he might get some normalcy back and enjoy whatever time he has left among us.