My dad and I are alike in millions of tiny and some not-so-tiny ways. We like to have a plan. We share favorite authors. We use the same phrases. We like to make lists. Lots of lists.
Today, however, my dad got a call about the only list that matters right now.
He's being listed for a lung transplant.
It's almost surreal. This is definitely something we've been aware would happen for many years (like 16 years!), but it's here. His transplant coordinator said, "Pack your bags and leave them by the door." It could be three days or three month or three something longer before the lungs that are a match for him become available.
That's the hardest part for me. "Lungs become available." I know what that means. I know that when my dad is given another chance at life, someone else's father-son-mother-daughter-friend has died. Of course I want my dad to live another 10, 15, even 20 years! He's only 59, for goodness sake! But I hate, hate, hate that for him to live, someone else has to die. I'm praying for that family now. That when the time arrives and my dad's new lungs are available, that the other family, who will have lost someone precious to them, will know that they've given THIS family the most precious gift we could ever want: more time with my dad. More time to make memories. More time for M, my niece, and my unborn niece or nephew to know their grandfather.