OK, so that wasn't the last update on dad.
As you may recall, dad is back home from the hospital and settling into his new routine of functioning at home again and getting used to the twice-daily visits from home support workers -- who go there expecting to help with day-to-day chores, but wind up spending an hour chatting with him because he's done all the things that need doing. The one thing left to do was go back to the hospital to have the tip of his right index finger amputated because the circulation through the finger arteries had been cut off and he was in a fair bit of pain because of it. He was more or less resigned to this, and was figuring out how new ways of holding a pen, among other things.
Initially, the surgery was scheduled for last Wednesday (the 20th), but dad's GP's office called on the Monday to say there'd been a mistake with his medications and he was still getting blood thinners. He needed to be off the blood thinners for at least five days prior to the operation. So it was re-scheduled for the 27th -- yesterday.
So yesterday morning, off we went to Royal Jubilee, Clinic #3. The nurse bedded dad down in one of the small operating rooms, with the ominous-looking stainless-steel dishes and towels and packages of "gut" and bandages and tape. I sat on a chair near the door, trying not to think of Homer Simpson with his arm stuck in a pop machine, about to have it amputated because he wouldn't let go of the can he was trying to steal, or Spike Milligan's cartoon of a man having part of his legs amputated and the surgeon telling him, "mind you, this doesn't necessarily mean you'll paint like Toulouse-Lautrec ...".
And then Dr Grey came in. "Let's have a look at that," he said. Dad removed the splint and Dr Grey gingerly took off the bandage.
And blinked.
The last time I'd seen that finger, the tip was nearly black. Everything the doctors had said about the damage done to the arteries was borne out by the sight of it, and you could see the demarcation between the healthy part of the finger and the bit that "had to go".
Now, the finger was completely the color of good-ol' healthy flesh. There was only a tiny bit of dark discoloration at the very tip, which looked more like a scab than anything else. Dad wiggled the finger, bending it at that top knuckle.
Dr Grey was somewhat at a loss for words. "There's nothing wrong with that," he said, knowing darn well that he'd seen a perfect candidate for amputation just a couple of weeks before. "That dark tip there is going to slough eventually and be replaced by new skin." He called in a young intern who'd been shadowing him, and explained about finger arteries and how there are two in each finger and if one gets clogged the other can still deliver blood to the finger ... but when it came to how the arteries were restored, the explanation was couched in "must have"'s and "somehow"'s.
"Looks like Nature's cut you a break," he said. By then, dad was practically bouncing off the walls. Dr Grey looked at me. "I guess the prayers worked," he said. Apparently, he'd noticed the Bible in my lap, although I'd brought it in with me for a different reason.
Sometimes, God presents miracles in "Zippity-ZAM" (as Kenneth Copeland would put it) fashion. Sometimes, though, He gives us a little nudge to say, "I'm right here". You may recall that I mused on this in my blog, "What Prayer For An Old Man?" There's the answer: a reminder to all of us, no matter what our age.
In Acts, Chapter 3, the healing of the lame man at the Beautiful Gate is described as a "notable miracle". This would be another, and I thought it fitting to "close the loop" by telling you about it.
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