I have to think back to remember those first few days my papa was in the USA because 5 days seem more like 5 years. I love how he stood at the front of the sanctuary and preached to the faith family at Calvary Baptist Church in Rosenberg, TX. I'll never forget how happy he was--how happy I was. We went shopping at Kohl's with my mom and we bought new ties for him to take back to Clief and Frantz. We went to a park and had a picnic with my whole family. But after being in America for only 3 days, something went wrong. He walked into my kitchen early on that Monday morning and the image of how I saw him in that moment forever burns in my mind...I can't erase it. There he stood in the light of my kitchen--one side of his body drooping. And it didn't matter that I'd never before seen someone have a stroke. I knew. I could feel the sky falling and I screamed out, "Trey! Trey, hurry. Something really bad is happening. Papa's having a stroke!"
I walked him back to the bed. "Oh Jesus, please. No papa! No!"
Trey came fast to help papa and told me to go call 911.
These days mostly are a blur of horror and I can't explain it but in the midst of it all is a flooding tender peace reaching deep to touch the inner soul. It almost feels scandalous. My tears fall uncontrolled seeing him in that hospital bed. Sometimes I have to look away and take a deep breath.
On the headrest of a recliner chair, in black permanent marker, it reads "patients ONLY chair!" I take this chair I'm not allowed to sit in and slide it up next to his bedside to try and sleep some. Don't tell anyone, but they don't let guests sleep in ICU rooms but the super great nursing staff here is making all sorts of exceptions for us. It's God's favor resulting from the multitude of prayers being lifted up. I just figured out the trick to position my 3 pillows and surprisingly I'm quite comfy. But there in the dark nights I'm not sleeping much. I watch the rise and fall of his chest and wonder why. It's during these times when the voices of all of the suffering children in his village cry out from my bones, begging for Pastor Nahum to come back to them. They need him strong and healthy in Haiti and I'm desperate to return him back to them this way. I pray hard the way I do when I need a miracle. It's 3 am. The nurse comes back in, turns on the light, unhooks his IV bag and pushes him out to another room. I tell him in Creole, "The nurse is taking you to get another brain scan...I'll wait for you here, papa." This scan is a big deal because his brain has been swelling. I want for this scan to show that the swelling has decreased. I don't want the neurosurgeon to do that surgery where he has to take off some of the bone covering his brain.
My papa is pushed back into his ICU room where I'm waiting and a lump forms in my throat. I know the routine. I have to wait for the doctor to come read the scan before I'll know anything. It's usually a few hours. Papa seems to be more alert. We lock eyes and all this faith rises up and I don't remember choosing to say anything out loud. It just comes out: "I think he's better." The nurse sort of chuckles and smiling, I say, "you're wondering what medical scan I've read that gives me the right to say such a thing...I just feel it...I think he's better." The nurse answers kindly, "well, optimism is always good." I suppose faith can appear as optimism sometimes. Now I'm waiting on the results of the brain scan and I've decided I'll sleep until the nurses or doctors wake me again. Please keep lifting up prayers for my papa.
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