Prayers for Bigfoot

I really have no time to blog this morning. I have to leave soon to fly to Atlanta to meet up with my husband in the middle of his trip, and from there I'm going to tag along to San Juan, Puerto Rico and spend his 30-hour layover with him.  I feel a bit guilty going off to a sunny, beachy vacation spot (it better be sunny!) today, because this morning my father--better known to his friends, family, and especially to his grandchildren as "Bigfoot"--is having surgery to amputate the rest of the toes on his right foot.

I have written before about my dad's recent health issues, including surgery to open up a blockage in an artery, the development of deep ulcers on the bottom of his right foot (exacerbated by the poor circulation that made the by-pass necessary), and the removal of the pinkie toe of that foot in one operation and then the toe next to it in a subsequent procedure. (Poor Dad!)  Unfortunately, he's still got some sores that refuse to heal, and his doctor has determined that this latest surgery is necessary so that the infection won't spread and lead to the loss of his leg somewhere down the road.

The doctor has assured my father that he'll still be able to drive, wearing a regular shoe with filler in the front part of it.  That, for Bigfoot, would be the only indignity he couldn't handle: not being able to drive.  He doesn't really complain about the loss of the toes; but he does often say, "I just wish it had happened to my left foot [the non-driving foot]."

My dad has a great attitude about the trials he's being put through--and true to form, he sees the funny side of it all, too.  He's always loved gifts of  t-shirts, caps, blankets, sweaters, or any item you can think of that can be embroidered or imprinted with his famous moniker--the unique title, he says, that will make his grandchildren and great-grandchildren remember him long after he's gone.  (I mean, he seriously loves his nickname. Case in point: he and my mom don't have a garden gnome in their yard; they have a Sasquatch figurine.)  After he lost two toes, one of my sisters said perhaps his name was going to have to change now, and she had a "Three-Toed Sloth" t-shirt made for him.  If you know my father, you know that's exactly the way he likes to play things.  For Bigfoot, laughter truly is the best medicine.

My daddy and me, Thanksgiving 1974 (rocking our 70's hair and fashions).

I was there when my dad woke up in the recovery room after his last surgery, and I would feel utterly terrible not being there this time if not for the fact that two of my sisters live nearby will be with him and my mom.  Thank God Mimi and Bigfoot never have to be alone. I'll be praying up a storm, though, and I'm asking anyone out there reading this to say some prayers for him, too.  God bless Bigfoot, and please let this be the last indignity his poor old size-13 foot has to endure!