Reading me is like banging your head against the wall.

- Written on my flight back to Portland yesterday (6/29/09) -

I did it. At the time, I don’t know what else I could have done. I said goodbye to my dad this morning (for the last time?) and boarded a flight back to Portland. I left the man lying there, his future uncertain, and walked away, leaving a larger piece of my heart behind me with every step. I could feel the evidence of this as it almost got easier, the farther away from him that I got, like there was progressively, exponentially, less of it there to feel that raw, tearing pain. And now? Now it’s a vacuum. there is a dull ache that exists there in that space, but its an ache that’s akin to that “phantom” pain of which you hear amputees so often speak.

It’s ridiculous. I feel like a 12 year-old girl, pining over her lost “lover” – that popular kid who ditched her for her best friend because she was an easier lay. People lose loved ones all of the time – and I haven’t even yet lost anyone – but here I am, forcing you poor people to read my “woe-as-me” writings, wallowing like there’s no hope in the world.

I don’t really feel that way, like some poor sap, wallowing in his misery. But like I stated in a previous post, when I hurt, I hurt. I embrace the pain, talk about it, share it, and write about it. And I might drink a lot. Because that’s how I best deal with it. And what is a blog, if not a journal of sorts – albeit a publicly accessible one? So here it is, people, my whining, pining, and crying, shamelessly (shamefully?) displayed here for you to either peruse and possibly even get something out of, or to just be skipped over to see what the stalker-feeds are saying on Facebook.

It’s funny, though, what acute pain can do for my appreciation of all that is good in life. For instance, no matter what the outcome with my father, to be completely honest, I am thankful – giddy even – to have had this man a part of my life. Certainly, we’ve had some troubles (like two stubborn rams, repeatedly butting each other in the head, as rams are wont to do). But that’s what happens when parents do their job. They aren’t always the good guy. They aren’t always fun. And if they are either, then they’re likely to one day inform you – in front of a live studio audience – that they’ve been sleeping with your lover. Ain’t daytime television grand?

At the times of the worst pain in my life, the little things come into focus. Usually, these are the obvious (but not any less important for being so) things, like a roof over my head, a meal in my belly, or even the heat running on a cold winter night. I pass enough bodies huddled in a doorway on my walk to work in the morning to appreciate the validity of this. And quite often, at the forefront of such thoughts, are my parents. How else would I have made the steps in my life that have allowed me to afford such amenities on my own? Who else would have supported the decisions that I’ve made that haven’t been obvious and glaring fuck-ups? And, who else would have, at times, allowed me to make those more knuckleheaded decisions in hopes that this notoriously hard head of mine might actually absorb some sort of lesson – and then be there for me to help me to put the pieces back together.

When I tell you, any of you that continue to read my self-indulgent rantings (likely, you have nothing better to do, or you’re punishing yourself for some unnamed crime), that I am thankful – grateful to the depths of my core – of the options that have been made available to me, of the small comforts that I enjoy, and of those in my life that I call family and friends, you bet yer ass that I mean it.

The Old Guy and I

We like wine and cigars...

Should I Stay, or Should I Go?

6/28/09 - 2:00 a.m.

I said that I was lost once. I seem to have found my way deeper into the woods, no compass at hand, and the light of day dying quickly. Strangely, though things aren’t necessarily worse for my dad, his continuing, non-changing state has brought me to a crossroads. The old man has forced a decision upon me. And it very well may be the hardest, most weighted, and potentially scarring decision of my life.

Despite the moments of excitement – the moments of spiked heart rate, blood pressure, irregular breathing, etc. – the old fart hasn't really had much of a change. Two weeks the guy has been laying there, pneumonia using his lungs as a time-share getaway, keeping him in a place of uncertainty. It seems the longer that he is there, the more complications that arise simply from his being there. The nurses have to turn him every two hours just to keep his lungs from being too stagnant and allowing that infection to fester – though it’s already spread from his left lung into his right, and even become worse in that right lung. He’s seen complications from needing to receive fluids and meds, causing fluid that his liver hasn’t been able to process to collect in his tissue and lungs. Now his heart is having a harder time working, because that very same fluid is causing it stress – the cause of Friday morning’s A-phib and V-tach episodes.

Yet, overall, the old guy maintains a stability that I am thankful for.

No news is good news…?

Meanwhile, here I am, short on money, essentially living off of my brother and sister-in-law (God bless them), missing work and gigs (I’m not worried about the DJing so much as I am about the paycheck from doing so), neglecting my diva of a cat, and just not keeping up with my overall responsibilities. And I know what you’re going to say: “These things aren’t nearly as important as your father.”

Believe me, I know this.

But the reality of the situation that I’m in, that my father is in, is that this could be something that carries on for weeks. I flew out here, to South Carolina, as quickly as I did because at the moment the reports from the physicians were more dire. At the time there was talk of removing part of his lung. At the time, surgery was more than likely, and it wasn’t going to be a surgery that they felt confident that he would make it through. At the time, I was prepared to have him not make it until I got here.

I can’t tell you how thankful that I am for this ‘holding pattern.’ It means that things haven’t changed for the worse. It means that my dad is fighting. It means that, for the moment, I’m not attending a funeral. But it also means that while my dad is off in tralala-land, doing a dance with his morphine, the rest of us are developing ulcers. It means that now I’m forced to decide whether or not I should return to Portland.

And my greatest fear right now must be obvious: I return to Portland, my dad dies.

There it is, the plain and skinny of it. The practical thing to do is to go home. There’s nothing that I can do here. And to be honest, one thing that I can say for certain is that I know my dad would want me to go home. That’s just the kind of guy he his. And that’s why he’s such a good dad. And that’s why it’s even harder to think about leaving. But all I want to do is sit by his bed and hold his hand. I want to stroke that bald head (he says his hair has fallen off of his head and onto his back). I want feel his warmth and know that he is still alive. Because now that I’ve felt his warmth, held his hand, and kissed his head, I'm addicted. He's become my crack. And, like any respectable crack-addict, the fear that I might not be able to get my fix again is too much to bear.

But you see? This is all about me. This isn’t now about any good that I’m doing for my dad. I’ve told you, he’d want me to go home. I know that he knows that I’ve been here. I’ve seen proof of him responding to me. I know that he knows that I love him, am proud of him, look up to him, count on him, respect him, and thank God for him. And I know that he’s proud of me, loves me, and thanks God for me. I don’t need any reconciliation with that. I just need my dad back.

So, at this time I don’t know what I’m going to do, outside of, at least, starting to look at the availability of airline tickets. I suppose that if I turn up in Portland, looking somewhat relaxed, then you know things are looking up. But if you find me in a gutter there, missing a shoe, and slightly amnesiac, then you might not need to check this blog for what the outcome may have been.

Please keep us in your prayers.

His Hand

6/27/09

It’s strange holding his hand. Strange, yet comforting. He’s a strong guy and has always been like a rock; unmovable and sturdy, comforting, steady, and constant. He’s always been there. No matter what I’ve been going through, how hard of a moment in my life I’ve been having, I’ve always been able to stop and thank God that when it came down to it, I had nothing to worry about – that my dad was there if I truly needed anything. This knowledge, coupled with any hardships that I was facing, has honed a constant state of gratitude in my life. I’ve known that if I couldn’t handle something, that there was this boulder to lean on, to rest my back against, and gather the strength to go back out there and give it another go.

But now, when I hold that strong hand, it doesn’t hold me back. Its strength is dormant and quiet. I can feel it lying beneath that swollen skin, unused and inaccessible. But it doesn’t reassure me. If it weren’t for its warmth (and how reassuring that warmth!) it would be entirely lifeless, this hand. So it’s strange, still comforting somehow, knowing that it’s my strong, constant, reliable dad, feeling his warmth and the familiarity of his touch. But I’ve never had that hand not touch me back.

Take Two Steps Forward, Two Steps Back...

6/26/09

We had a setback this morning. Sometime in the early hours, my dad went from being stable to not-so-stable. I’m told that he had ventricular tachycardia (V-tach) and atrial fibrillation (A-Fib), as well as pulmonary edema (fluid in his lungs). The a-fib is apparently less worrisome; a flutter in the upper ventricals of his heart. Short-lived, it wasn’t life threatening – though if it were to continue, it would be more of a worry. The V-tach, however, can be something else entirely. As stated by wikipedia:

“Ventricular tachycardia (V-tach or VT) is a tachycardia, or fast heart rhythm, that originates in one of the ventricles of the heart. This is a potentially life-threatening arrhythmia because it may lead to ventricular fibrillation and sudden death.”

“Life-threatening.” These words weigh on me. The cardiologist says that V-tach and A-fib aren’t abnormal in someone as sick as my dad, and therefore not as worrisome, and may be expected to occur again – still… “life-threatening.” The V-tach may have been a result of the pulmonary edema, I’m told. The edema itself appears to be the result of all of the fluids that he’s on. His liver isn’t processing these fluids fast enough, and so it’s going to other parts of his body: his tissue spaces (resulting in his puffy, bloated appearance) and now his lungs. He’s on meds to help counter these effects, but nonetheless, the effects remain.

They’ve stabilized him, yet again. He’s here, in front of me, handsome as ever – if still bloated – sick, and still very much in danger of losing this battle. I can’t get past the words of the cardiologist: “I can’t say he’ll come back.” Come back? He hasn’t left yet, but I understand the insinuation. His unconscious state is a result of the medication that they have him on, to keep him sedated. So, it’s not like he’s in a coma. He’s not in a comatose state, unresponsive, and possibly never coming out of it. We could easily wake him if we so chose. Just start pulling back the medication and he’d be bound to come around. But we can’t do that. He can’t breathe on his own properly. He needs that plastic tube snaking down his throat and helping him to get all of the oxygen that his body needs. And in a wakened state, he’d fight that tube – as would anyone.

So we’re back in this state of waiting. We’re in this ‘holding pattern,’ unable to move forward, and praying that we don’t again move back. It’s up to him now; him and the antibiotics that haven’t yet made their presence apparent in his system and in his progress (or lack of one). He lays there unconscious, but not comatose, the battle raging within invisible to those who love him, standing on the sidelines silently cheering through our tears.

I Saw My Dad

6/24/09

I saw my Dad today. It was the hardest thing that I think I’ve ever done. The man lay there, three chest tubes no longer draining fluid (though they gathered 10 liters on the first day), endotracheal tube helping him breathe, central line providing him with the necessary fluids and meds, and a catheter giving him a place to do what he’d normally do standing up. This was my father; a healthy man in his early sixties – not that old, really – vibrant, intelligent, sharp, strong-willed, and possessed with an overwhelmingly positive outlook on life. But here he was: unconscious, breathing with the help of a machine, taking nutrition through a tube, and heaven only knows whether he was aware of my presence or not, despite the assurance from the nurse that he did.

The last time that I saw this guy he was laughing heartily, full of mirth and a zest for life. He normally has a twinkle in his eye – be it humor, mischief, or even tenderness – that speaks of so much of his vitality and youth, despite his age. A shorter man in stature, his physical strength and presence of character (read absolute sweetness) make him a definite warmth in any room. He’s a man that is quick of reflex – so strong and fast that he’d have me flat on my back and screaming uncle if such were his inclination. But this man, my dad, may be the gentlest of beings you ever met. His heart, the one whose beats are being measured by the machines to which he is hooked, is enormous, warm, deep and strong. The man’s a damned teddy bear. And it kills me seeing his strength being tried like this.

The first time I approach him, see him in this state, I do the obvious: I break down crying, sobbing, snot hanging from my nose, and tears streaming down my face. I’m standing there, looking down on this person who has been a source of immeasurable support and comfort for me, now relying on something with a plug to keep him alive, and a hole opens up inside of me. My chest caves in with grief and hopelessness. What the hell am I going to do without him? What if he doesn’t make it? I’m lost. Like never before, I’m lost.

I’m holding his head, stroking his arm, and my brother is in the background describing his medicine, what it means, what the pumps are doing, and why he’s swollen in appearance (edema, or fluid underneath his skin). My brother is a Certified Registered Nurse Anesthetist (CRNA) – essentially a step, two years away from being a doctor (too much liability and not enough money for him to have gone that route, he says). So he sees the diagnosis, prognosis, and prescribed treatment in this situation. He understands these things from a clinical standpoint; a place that I’m not at. More importantly, I think that this is how he best copes with the enormity of the situation. Logic. It gives him something quantifiable, measurable, and reliable to judge the situation by. Science doesn’t leave room for the unknown, for the “what if,” for providence, for God.

Medicine: it’s predictable.

To be honest, I’m jealous. I wish I had the understanding of these things that he does. I wish that I could submerge my emotion under a professional understanding. And I need to submit that I don’t believe that my brother is running from his emotions, just dealing with them in a manner that makes the most sense, one that is most relevant to his working life. And man, is that an attractive way of coping. Because, the thing is, there’s no right, or wrong, in how you deal with your emotions, as long as you really are dealing with them. My brother is definitely dealing with his in his own way; meanwhile I’m dripping snot onto my dad’s blood pressure cuff.

It’s sad, really. I’ve never really had a lock-down on the faucet. I need a plumber, and a good one at that. Put me in front of a sappy movie, TV show, or even commercial, and you’re likely to see some hydration. I can’t hide it, and nor do I want to, but I’m a feeler. I’m good with that. When I hurt, dammit, I hurt. And though I know I’m using italics a lot in this particular piece, it’s important, so important, to convey what’s happening – the internal insanity and all – without having it all necessarily needing to drip onto my dad’s blood pressure cuff. But with the assertion from the nurse that the old man can indeed hear what I’m saying – or sobbing – I want him to make no mistake exactly what his presence in my life means. I want to take no chances that he has an internal dialogue saying, “Just let go.” If the time were right, I’d tell him to just let go, that it would be ok, that I would be ok, and the time was right to move along to a place that he and I both know that he would find himself: in the presence of God. But for the time being, I need him here. So I’ll drip onto his blood pressure cuff all I damn well like and use itlalics when they’re really, really, necessary.

I’m not ready for my dad to leave. And though I know that nobody is ever really ready for the loved one to pass on, this is just too damned silly of a situation for his life to be in question. I mean, the guy has pneumonia. Pneumonia! People get pneumonia all of the time without the necessity of chest tubes and sedation. Give them some antibiotics and presto! A week later they’re better. My brother had pneumonia once. He stayed home from school. Nobody tried to stick a tube in his chest, much less three. But my dad’s a different story. He went into the E.R. exactly two weeks ago because he couldn’t breathe, and was admitted to the hospital from there. And this was ok – he wasn’t in any real danger at the time, just sick. It was hard for me, being on the opposite coast and unable to be there, and never having had any of my parents really sick. I was struck with the reality that they are getting older, their mortality, and my distance. But it was only pneumonia. Big whoop.

The next day I was told that he was moved to the ICU. His chest xray revealed a collapsed lung from all of the fluid that had built up in the cavity around his lung. So, they gave him the chest tubes to drain the fluid and were continuing to treat him with antibiotics. But he was awake, conscious, drugged, but still sharp, and still not appearing to be in any immediate danger. But things haven’t gotten better. His breathing has still been so labored that they decided to sedate him, to put him under, give him a machine to help him breathe and allow his body to rest, gather strength, and start to heal. Then they wanted to do surgery. They used a scope to remove more of the infection that mysteriously wasn’t being affected by the antibiotics and things should have gotten better from there. But here he is, still sick, still infected, still sedated, still unable to breathe on his own, and now we’re being told that his condition is worse than we appear to have realized. He might not make it, they say. My dad, this strong and healthy bear of a man – albeit, a teddy bear, but bear nonetheless – is lying here helpless and weak; fighting for his life.

Dude. Just Relax.

It happened about 10 and a half years ago. Months of preparation, lurking in dark clubs, stalking a few key people, shoving tapes into hands, and keeping my parents up at all hours of the night with a repetitive "thumpa thumpa" had finally paid off. All the money that I had spent on 12 inches of black vinyl that housed the scratchings that, with the right needle and equipment, translated into soundwaves would finally see its validation in those sound-waves emanating from mediocre speakers in a room larger than the "room-above-the-garage." All of my daydreams and possible nightmares were about to come true.

I was 18 or 19 years old and worked the second shift in radiology at a local hospital. In retrospect, the fact that I wasn't getting off of work until 11:30 at night can only mean that I could only get to where I needed to be no earlier than midnight. In retrospect, this should have meant a hell of a lot more to me at the time. Then again, if I knew what this meant at the time, I might have been a hell of a lot more worse off than I was. You see, midnight is considered prime time for a DJ. And for your first gig, this means pressure.

Now before we go getting all impressed about the fact that I had been given the prime slot for my first time ever playing for anyone other than my mom, I should probably qualify this. For one, this was Columbia, South Carolina. And though there's nothing entirely inherently wrong with Columbia, South Carolina, it's not exactly the heart of the dance music community. Secondly, the venue was a battered old reggae club on the outskirts of town. And keep in mind that the outskirts of Columbia, South Carolina more or less equate to the tattered string hanging from the cut-off jean shorts gracing the ever-so-lovely -- but undeniably redneck -- form of Daisy Duke. Finally, I must submit that even though the electronic music community in Columbia, South Carolina is a dedicated one, at the time they numbered in the tens. However, none of this deterred me from having to deal with the persistent nausea and ever-present feeling that I was about to soil myself with the prospect of actually having to DJ in front of other people.

I had spent weeks in that room-above-the-garage with the volume full-blast, pre-planning my set, my cue points, what mixed with what, what speed to play each track at, and which breakdown I could cut in a sample. I think I may have even gone so far as to program my set, from beginning to end, with the pitch levels written down -- "Bad DJing 101"

I spent the entire day wiping away the sweat from my palms, taking deep breaths to calm my stomach, and running patients into walls as I took them down for their CT scans. What if I forgot which track was supposed to come next?? Wait! I've got the records in order in my egg crate! What if the DJ before me played one -- or more -- of the tracks that I planned on playing?? Shit! I've got nothing! Breathe... breathe, Evan. Breathe...

The entire eight-and-a-half hours was a feverish nightmare. All I had ever wanted, all I had ever envisioned, was the pride I would feel walking into a club, records in hand, imagining all the whispers: "There's the DJ! That's him!" NEVER had I imagined the nerves I'd be feeling instead. Pride? Certainly. If you can call countless trips to the bathroom something to be proud about, then yes, I was proud.

Finally the time had come. At 11:23 I clocked the hell out of there, changed out of my scrubs into an outfit that I had thought was befitting a DJ, and spaghetti-legged, walked to my car. The drive over to the venue was a blur. All I remember is mentally rehearsing my set, drilling myself as to what I was going to play, and the pre-programmed speeds at which I was going to play it; never considering the fact that I would be mixing my first track into the DJ's before me, thereby having to match the speed of my first track to his and screwing my whole system to hell. Never did I consider that, even though I was playing at a reggae club on the "tattered string of Daisy Duke's shorts," that they would have Technic turntables that head a different pitch control than my Gemini's at home. Nope. None of this crossed my mind. And it's probably best that it didn't. Because that would have been the last straw, the one that broke the DJ's back and sent him scurrying on home, records between his legs.

I entered the club, record/egg crate in-hand, and a small sense of pride as I passed the 15 or so people in the joint. I ascended the DJ booth like a Roman emperor, ascending the steps of Apollo's temple -- apprehensive, yet assured in my "status." I patted my friend, the DJ before me, on the back and set down my records. I grabbed the first, plucked my headphones from the crate, and stepped up to the tables. The record was placed, the needle was at the genesis of the grooves on the vinyl, my headphones were in place, and I was ready to take control.

But, wait! I couldn't hear a thing from my headphones! I looked, I double-checked, I checked again, and everything was as it should be. My record was reading in the mixer, the headphones were set to the channel that my record would be playing from, and the headphone volume was up! By why wasn't I hearing anything?? All my fears were coming true, the sweat was returning to my hands, my stomach was beginning to churn, and I was beginning to panic. Frantically, I turned to the DJ before me and begged him to help. Surely I must be missing something!

He looked at all of the settings on the mixer, he quickly scanned the levels, and confidently peered at my record. A moment later, he calmly looked down, picked the headphone jack up off of the ground, and plugged it into the mixer.

He turned to me and said, quite simply, "Dude. Just relax. You'll be fine."