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.