IT’S ONLY OATMEAL

I remember the clock.
It looked like oak.
It wasn’t.
It was supposed to be a reminder of the time. Time to get up, time to eat, time to watch a favorite tv show, or time to go to bed.

But for my Dad, it was a count down.
A countdown of every hour, minute, and second that he continued to live. He would sit in his lazy boy starring at the clock as it ticked away what life he had remaining.

When you are dying and know you are dying big things seem small and small things seem big. He was grateful for a clean sheet on his chair and the way he felt after a shower - a small thing. But the process of standing, shuffling to the bathroom, and maneuvering his oxygen tube around him as he sat on the shower stool seemed big.

One day we were waiting for the doctor to arrive. A car ride to the doctor’s office had become more than he could handle. For the doctor to stop on his way home to check on him was a small effort, but big for my dad. The clock ticked.
My dad watched the clock.
I watched my dad.
​My mom watched me.

The doctor opened the door and brought the fresh air of the outside in with him disrupting the stuffy stagnant smell that stillness, fear, and illness creates. He also brought a smile, compassion, and hope.
After listening to my dad’s lungs and heart, checking blood pressure, and asking the routine questions, my dad said he had something he was worried about.

With weak shaking hands my dad reached to unbutton his pajama top. The doctor helped him. Pointing to his chest my dad located a crusty scabby looking circle. Between the sound of the tube sucking oxygen, my dad explained that he didn’t know what the sore was, and it had just appeared quickly. He was concerned.

The doctor reached for the nearby reading light pulling it over my dad’s chest. My mom stood on one side of my dad’s chair and I stood next to the doctor. All three of us leaned in to scrutinize the mysterious growth.
What was it?
A new complication brought on by this disease?
Something more dangerous?
We all held our breath.
 
The doctor hmmmm’d and said,
      “This is interesting.
       It looks like.... it looks like.....”
 
Then the doctor put his thumb and middle finger together and flicked the mysterious mass as if it was a bug. It flew across my dad’s chest.
     “It looks like oatmeal.”  The doctor said.
 
For the first time in many weeks, laughter erupted.
My mom clapped her hands together.  I wiped tears away as I held my stomach to stop the ache that comes from deep belly laughs.  The doctor let his laughter roar and the oxygen machine was spastically trying to keep up with the strain of my dad’s sudden need for more as he struggled to laugh.

It was just oatmeal.
A small innocent dribble of oatmeal from my dad’s breakfast that had crusted to form a mysterious mass- a big mysterious mass.

Sometimes big things seem small and small things seem big and it may just be oatmeal.
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Pennie’s Life Lesson:
“During the most intense, trying times of life big things seem small and small things seem big.”
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YOUR TURN...                  
I shared this with you  to encourage you to think about how you see events in your life.  Are they big or small?  Important or simple? 
Share your thoughts and experiences relating to this post in a comment below.  And please feel free to email me  at:
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                          Thank you!  
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         This was written and produced by Pennie Hunt.
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