Dad is in trouble

My father suffered a massive stroke at approximately 2AM Sunday morning. My mother called 911, and then her children. 2 of us met her at the hospital, the other lived close enough to arrive in time to see my father being loaded into the ambulance.

Once they arrived, we calmed my mother and went to see my Dad in the ER. He wasn't responsive to our voices exactly, but did make an attempt to look in our direction. He wasn't moving anything on the right side of his body, and the right side of his face was slack and failed to respond when he opened his mouth, or blinked, etc.

Upon examining the results of a catscan, we learned the worse; a blood clot formed the initial stroke. Without circulation, the surrounding tissue died within an hour. This would have been bad enough, but the clot then dissolved and the blood rushed into the weakened blood vessels. They gave way and the blood began to flood into the left hemisphere of his brain. This was most likely when he awoke and simply asked my mother for help.

They put him through the MRI late Sunday afternoon, and the neurosurgeon confirmed the spread of blood, and the increasing size of the damage. The surgeon presented us with the option to perform surgery. He wasn't convinced the bleeding had stopped. Much more and Dad would slip away. While surgery would likely preserve his life, it wouldn't preserve the quality of his life. Effectively, my father and one of my closest friends is gone.

I think the surgeon really wanted us to consciously make the decision to commit to a much more difficult process of helping Dad in whatever rehabilitation he can make. 5% chance to walk, 25% chance to talk. That's assuming that he makes it through surgery and the subsequent 48 hour window within which the bleeding could begin again.

I can't tell you how often my father and I discussed situations like this. I really don't know why. I don't think many of us really look forward to death, regardless of your personal beliefs on an afterlife. Dad always made it clear, he wanted every opportunity to live that we could give him. "Don't let your mother pull the plug", he'd jokingly say.

So, I spoke up when we got together to make the decision. I was adamant to keep my promise to him. I don't know what will happen at the end of this. I really hope we did the right thing. I believe we did. I feel this much very strongly. For a variety of reasons, but really, if nothing else, I desperately want to honor my commitments to him.

So, here I sit. 24 hours after the surgery. I think around 12 hours of sleep over the last 3 nights. I'm tired. I'm sad. I miss my father, and I miss my friend. I've cried a lot over the 2 days. Heh, I'm tearing up now. I hope it's healthy for my young daughters to see their father so vulnerable. I don't know.

I talk to Dad when I'm in the room. He's heavily sedated, his arms are restrained. The rhythmic sounds of the breathing machine are soothing in a way, and at the same time, discerning. So many tubes.

My mother just exchanged hugs with another mother from the Bahamas. I don't know why she's in Oklahoma, except that her daughter is also in the intensive care unit. She's alone. She cries a lot too. There seem to be a lot of stories like this. I'm sure that we have a relatively small hospital. But the ICU is huge. Lots of families in the waiting room. The same room that has become my 2nd home recently. It feels like weeks, and we've only been here 2 days. Weird.

I argued with a nurse today. Well, sort of argued. Really, I gained an immediate dislike for the guy when I first arrived. He was cussing at a computer. He has this good old boy attitude going on. Maybe it's too much time in the medical field? Oh, we come and go in the ICU. Trading places with the 2 visitor limit. Trying to see him around the weird visiting times of the unit. Something like 4 visiting periods during a 17 hour window.

So anyway. Later in the morning, my Mom and I arrive in time to see him shoving this tube up my Dad's nose. Not something I recommend viewing. It was upsetting. Watching my helpless shell of a father thrashing around on the bed, while captain jackass was calling him by his given name (he goes by something else) and saying something about steak and taters. When we walked up, I said something. I don't remember what, but I think it was appropriate. He said something back about being almost done, and then pulled a curtain so we couldn't watch anymore.

Afterwards, I stopped him and asked to talk. I asked him to please treat my father with dignity. To remember that he had sons and daughters, grandchildren, and a wife that he loved very much. He snapped back something about always using dignity, and then, I really sort of blocked him out. I checked on Dad. Tube now securely bandaged to his nose, there was some sort of stuff dribbling out of his mouth. It looked a little bit like applesauce. It ran out of his mouth, down his neck and was pooling on his chest. I wondered to myself about how dignified my Dad felt at the moment.

I cleaned him up, and told him that he wouldn't have to worry about the nurse again.

It's ironic that church softball comes into play here. But it just so happens one of my old buddies from softball is now the Executive VP of the hospital. This sort of thing provides tremendous confidence when asking the charge nurse to make a change. I didn't use his name when making the request, but I was confident all the same.

We're approaching the end of visiting hours for today. It's my turn to go in and talk with him. I like the night shift nurse. His name is Mac (I hear Frank Sinatra in my head every time I speak with him). He's young and covered with tattoos. But he seems to understand that he has a person to take care of. A father. A husband. A grandfather. A person.