Miracles In The Minutes...a must read for anyone that has lost a loved one to cancer.

Miracles in the Minutes

If you were given a warning that your time on earth were limited what would you do differently?  I think we would start loving all those around us just a little bit more.  We would find the joy in the presence of others more rewarding.  We would listen better to the stories shared about little things with more purpose.  We would tell our loved ones how much we love them every day, and we would share thoughts that we often keep inside.  We would smile and be kinder, in the hope that would brighten someone elses day, and when they saw the courage shine through in you, it would enable them to shine as well.
 When my dad was diagnosed with Lymphoma we recited the pledge that it would not take away his spirit, his strength, his will to fight.  My father was a young and vibrant man who was an entertainer and singer, a Frank Sinatra "impersonator" if you will.  His charisma and charm lit up a room when he walked in, and the smile he had on his face never left nor did it ever turn into a frown, even when he was diagnosed with the dreaded word, "cancer".
You see, he was given the gift of knowledge that there was going to have to be miracles in his minutes.  None of us know when we will leave this life or how, but when you are battling a disease that has taken so many lives before you, you are given the grace to prepare...just incase the Lord needs you home.  
The amazing grace of my father was a site for all to see.  He would say to me "Honey, prepare yourself, this is going to be bad, but before I'm gone we are going to make some promises to one another.  We are going to go have fun together, and we are not going to let this win...just yet".  And we did.  We went to breakfast every week at our favorite Oconee Diner in Islip, we went to see his favorite love Jennifer Lopez in concert at Mohegan Sun, and stayed overnight at grown up Dad and Daughter sleepover parties, and nobody knew his chemo pills were in the refrigerator in the hotel room.  He went on with his show,  where he sang all of his favorite Sinatra songs, and danced like he would live forever.  
Through his journey, I sat by his side through all treatments.  He courageously adhered to the chemo treatments, the hair loss, the fatigue.  We knew the drill, you see he beat this evil disease once before.  They said his spirit and his fight was the most amazing they had ever seen.  He loved the nurses and they loved him right back.  My father would stroll into the hospital with his well known suitcase on wheels, "Franks Atlantic City Travel Bag" was embroidered on the front of it, a gift I gave him for his Atlantic City trips and shows, had now become useful as his hospital travel bag.  He would wheel on in with a big smile "Hiya Gang!" He would exclaim.  The hospital staff would all scurry over to hug and kiss the man that would wear his Trump robe around the hospital, as he took "Ursula" for a stroll on the elevator to the lobby.  Ursula was what we named the metal wheeling pole with all the arms that held all of his chemo and fluids which entered his body.
During these stays we sat and we talked of our pasts, of our future, of our wishes and our regrets.  We planned for the future, we wrote scripts together, we wrote our goals.  We spent his birthday in the hospital with a designer cake that I ordered in the shape of a piano engraved "Here's To The Man", a song he wrote and recorded upon the passing of Frank Sinatra.   I read him 72 birthday cards he received from his family, his friends, and his "fans".   Not many people in life can say they have a fan club, but he surely did.  Whatever the news the doctors shared, his question was always "Okay, what's next?"  He was ready to try whatever new treatment they were going to pull out of his bag of tricks.  Often I believe he was tired, and didn't want the bag of tricks, but what he wanted was to be here and share more of himself with us, for as long as he could.  He wanted the miracles left in his minutes.
  We were given the ugly news that the chemo had damaged his liver, and the fight was coming to an end.  Yet, when we brought Daddy to hospice he looked at us, as he had every vacation we ever went on, and his first words were "Let's unpack first and then we will have dinner".  Those words play over in my head with every hotel I ever enter, or ever will from here on it.  It was his way of letting us know that his life would go on, but perhaps from above, where he would unpack and then spend forever looking over us, as we had dinner.
The Lord took my dad a few days later as my brothers and I slept at his side.  I felt his spirit come past me and saw an image of a man in a black tuxedo, my dad ready to do a show I thought.  Then I woke and felt the shadow walk towards my brother, and then my other brother.  I sat up and knew my father had left this life and had gone to what's next.
Cancer took my fathers health, but it did not take his fight.  For the gift that I was given is one that many don't get to experience.  I was given the gift of time with one of the most precious men in my life.  I was given stories of his childhood I had never heard before.  I was given insight to his talents of which many I possess.  I was given wisdom to know his fears and triumphs by witnessing his strength.  Cancer was the blinking yellow light that tells us to slow down, to proceed with caution, because things may turn soon.  Cancer made our relationship the focus of every day life, not the once a week phone call we all to often barely fit into our busy schedules.
There are miracles in the minutes of every journey we travel.   I thank you Dad, for sharing with me, the miracles in all of your minutes as they continue to shine brightly in my heart each and every day.