Living On a Prayer...

It's a child's right to grow up believing their father is Superdad. To think he is invincible. To believe he is better than all their friends dad's. To think their dad is the strongest. The smartest. He can fix anything. He can leap tall buildings in a single bound, while crushing beer cans in their large, hammy hands. (Okay, that part may just be my dad...)

I grew up in awe of my father. He was my hero. He was always there.

My dad is a character. Missing several digits from various work accidents made for some interesting tales for us kids while growing up. We learned he lost fingers due to wrestling with wild boars; he had them bitten off in prison fights; my mother slammed his fingers in the car door; or his sister bit them off when he was really little.

Of course, we hung on every word. It was rather a let down to realize he was pulling our chains. The truth was so much more boring. He lost them due to an accident at work. Oh, and his brother turned on the car engine when my dad was trying to replace a fan belt. Really. But in my uncle's defense, he did pick up the amputated finger and place it on ice, hoping it could be reattached. It couldn't.

My dad is, was and always will be a force of life. From his off-colour jokes, his trucker mouth, and his amazing generosity, he is the heart of our family. He is the definition of strength and resilience. Courage and humour.

I hope to oneday have as much grace and kindness as he possesses.

On Tuesday morning, it was a huge shock to learn he was being rushed to the hospital. Where he has been ever since.

Where I have been ever since.

A simple foot infection has turned into a staph infection that has went septic. He's not breathing on his own, his blood pressure is so low that it's off the charts, and he is in renal failure. They are throwing everything they have at him to keep him alive. Give him the time he needs for his body to heal.

At 10 a.m. Tuesday morning, the I.C.U. doctors told my mom, my sister and me that my dad has an 80/20 chance of survival. 80 percent being death.

Today, they said 50/50.

I'm hoping tomorrow it's 25/75.

Knowing what a stubborn mule my dad is, I believe he is fighting tooth and nail to beat this infection. But I'm terrified that I will never have the chance to hear him call me a dumbass again. Or to tease him about being toothless. Or to see him wear his shiny new plastic teeth.

I'm scared he won't meet my new son or daughter. I'm scared.

It's been a shitty week. But at least Boo is home, safe, sound and healthy.

And I haven't had to boot him in the ass.

Yet.