|
This Day In His Story
Sunday, Dec. 12, 2004 - 4:50 PM
Three years ago today, my dad had an emergency quadruple heart bypass. Three years ago last night, my mom came into my room and said, "Dad thinks he's having a heart attack and is going to the hospital." Not having experienced a situation like this before, and having already laid down to go to sleep for the night, I asked, "Do you want me to go with you?" "Yes," she replied. My parents, Keri, and I got in the car and sped toward the Howard County ER. This was the first time I'd ever been to the ER there, out of what would be three total trips for three emergencies for three people I cared deeply about. My dad kept telling me to slow down. I did not. His mother died of a heart attack while washing the car when she was the same age that my dad was � only 55. I was going about 20 over the speed limit and kept hoping I'd be pulled over so I could explain the situation to the officer and maybe he'd escort us a little faster than we were going. Only later did I realize that the only time you're allowed to speed to the hospital is when you're driving an ambulance. Your father having a heart attack in the seat next to you is not a valid reason to go 80 miles per hour. After getting to Howard General, we checked him in, and then I went outside to call my brothers and tell them what was happening. Kevin came to the hospital, too, that night. Chad did not. Nobody called Todd because he lives in California and no one wanted to worry him when he couldn't sit in the waiting room to hear the first news -- good or bad -- that a nurse would report to us. This was even more of a concern since the next day, December 12, was his birthday and no one wanted to worry him on his birthday if we didn't need to. Several hours later, Kevin, Keri, and I went home to try to get a few hours of sleep. My mom stayed with my dad. Early in the morning, they did stress tests on him and decided that this wasn't a heart attack -- this was two arteries that were 90%+ clogged. Another was 60% clogged. He was air lifted for an emergency triple bypass to what was rated that year as the number one heart surgery center in the country -- John's Hopkins, about 20 or so miles away in downtown Baltimore. Suddenly the rest of the world didn't matter as much anymore. Even September 11, just three months and one day ago, seemed much less important after being compared to the man that I call Dad laying in a hospital waiting to be cut open. Later that same morning, he was taken in for eight hours of surgery. He ended up having four arteries bypassed. The last thing he remembers is his wife, three of his four sons, and his daughter surrounding his gurney in the middle of the hospital hallway and praying for him. After that, nothing. Just before they rolled him away, we all told him we loved him. And then, as everyone was leaving the railing around him, I told him "I love you, Dad. I'll see you soon." I realized I might not. I wanted to be brave for my dad. We spent that day in various places in the hospital. We ate breakfast at the big cafeteria in the hospital where I called Todd at work in California and broke the news to him. We went to the sushi place in the hospital for lunch. We sat in a lounge area and Keri and I colored. We also spent a lot of time in the waiting room. Several people came to the waiting room that day to see us. I was happy to see so many familiar faces. It was comforting that they were there. I didn�t want to talk to any of them. I just wanted them to sit there chatting about things that didn�t involve my dad�s chest being cut open and insides ripped apart to take my mind off of things. A little bit, it worked. Mostly it did not. I was thankful for the bit that did. We all got to take turns, two by two, seeing him in ICU a few hours after they were done with the surgery. I've never seen my father, a normally strong and resilient man, look so weak and helpless. Tubes came out of every orifice of his body and there were even new orifices made so they could insert some more. His eyelids fluttered and his eyes rolled up in the back of his head. We asked him questions and he would respond by ever so slightly shaking his head in the appropriate direction. Chad made a joke. It brought a tear to my eye. We told him we loved him and we would see him again soon. My dad, barely conscious and in no state to remember this at a later date, cried. I have to assume this was from feeling very loved by his family at that point. He was in ICU a couple more days before being moved to recovery. Over the next few days, when you came to visit, he would tell you cheerfully about the progress he was making. He sat up today. He walked down the hall with a walker today. He ate some very delicious pudding today. Soon he would be moved home to continue his recovery. And that is an entirely different story. Three more years, Dad. I�m glad you�re still here.
Speak Up
< - Latest - Ex-entries - Pete's
Mom Index - CoffeeOrder - Notes - Email - >
|
