“Six percent of my heart is dead,” he said, seeming to forget the severity of his statement in a lifetime full of severity forgotten, or overlooked.
“Six percent? What? Daddy, can it come back to life?” My childishness showed, if not only for the fact that I am his child, but for the fact that I was unaware that PARTS of hearts could be dead, while living portions remained.
“Naw, that’s not how that works. It’s dead. They cain’t do nothin’ ’bout that.”
“I don’t understand,” I replied, my matnra echoed in the faces of my friends, hearing second-hand-halves of the converstaion.
“They said I had a heart attack, but I didn’t know it. Two of my main arteries are blocked. One 50% and the other b’tween 50 and 70%.”
“So what are they (the doctors, the ones who keep giving him medicine but never hope, the ones paid for by the state who I’ve never met but sinfully hate for their lack of effort on behalf of my slowly-dying father) going to do about it?”
“Nothing, till it gets to 80%.”
And in my tired, getting-sick state, I didn’t process. I can’t. What more do you add to a man who, a year ago, was told he only had 2-5 years left? Diabetes and POCD, Hepatitis and the side effects of a score (yes, literally, 20 ) prescriptions a day are not daunting enough without, literally, part of his heart being dead?
Death has lost its sting. But life still hurts often enough.
And yet I turn my eyes to the heavens. What does this story tell about my Father in heaven, whose heart is ever for me, inexhaustible, who took my stone heart, spiritually dead with out him, and made it fully, finally alive?
May those who have been given life act like it, may those who have not (yet) be ferciously pursued by the One who Gives.
and may my blog readers forgive me for this post’s departure from typical diction.