A Pretty Snow Scene, Just for Thor

I feel like I'm expecting that call any day now, the one where my father Thor clears his throat then firmly instructs me that it's time to post a new photo on Iceland Eyes, the last one's getting old. He had that authoritative way about him, but couched in a kind of absolute certainty that what he liked, what he appreciated in this world deserved his full attention and support. So when he felt that
I was neglecting this thing he loved, this silly blog of mine, he let me know. He was my greatest fan.

It's been just under six months since his andi left his body after the strangely specific yet freak fall that caused such irrevocable head trauma. We'll never know what exactly happened during the last few minutes before he fell, and because of that I can sense in myself a strong desire to create a narrative that makes the whole scenario more heroic, less mundane, than it might have actually been. But I'm allowed that, because he was my hero, and always will be. 

The nennergy (an IceEng word I've coined) to write here has been hard to find, so I hope my more constant visitors can forgive the long weeks between posts. But Pabbi would want me to keep sharing and keep taking amateur photos and keep looking forward into the future. Never give up! It's how he lived his life, so I will too.

 I'd like to share what I wrote for friends and family, though, while he was in intensive care. For all the awesomeness and bright-future-y talk here in Iceland, and all the new construction and all the tourists and such, our health care system is in dire straits. The very building that Dad was in, Landspítali Fossvogi, is literally crumbling in some parts, and seemingly in desperate need of doctors. 

But the people inside it, the nurses and doctors, are golden. When you're a traumatic-injury-intensive-care-patient family member, you experience a wrenching of your reality that's hardly describable, and only survivable because of the patience and overwhelming compassion of your loved one's caregivers. We all knew that Dad wouldn't wake up again, wouldn't ever be the same again, but we were graced with eleven days to say goodbye, while the nurses made his passing as comfortable as they could. 

What I didn't ever expect, though, was the deep bonds that would form between those of us who ate, slept, worried, hoped and waited in the family sitting room at the hospital. There were never more than five families at any time, but they were people from all across the country, from all walks of life, and even those who had to fly here from abroad, whose relatives had come here for a nice touristy visit and had fallen, or had fallen gravely ill. All these people, caring for each other, will always be remembered...

And dear Dad, out there somewhere, part once again of the dust of time, exploring the universe like the true adventurer you are, I'll keep on posting and keep on writing and keep on looking forward the way you always have. And someday, somehow, we'll meet again... 💕