My heart feels like it’s breaking as I recall the Monday morning of March 20th, 2000. Much like any Monday, I was concerned with myself. The trivial ritual of getting to work and accomplishing the tasks at hand were interrupted early by a call from my mother who wanted me to know she was on the way to the emergency room at Alachua General Hospital with my father who wasn’t well.

Dad actually hasn’t been well for years, and this trip was like many others in the past. Dad wasn’t taking care of himself, preferring to take his own advice than that of countless physicians in the wake of the cancer diagnosis he had received almost a year ago. As she talked, I heard Dad yell to me in the background “No big Deal” so, I was concerned, but only mildly, advising her I would stop by the hospital on my lunch hour. Dutifully, I rang my brother Joel at work and advised him of what was going on. His replies were short, almost curt and the conversation must have lasted less than a minute. We both had work to do, after all.

I selfishly did errands before going to the hospital in search of them. When I arrived, the orderly acting as doorman told me Dad wasn’t there. I had to go to another receptionist before being allowed to find him right where they had said he wasn’t. I wasn’t angry, just grateful to find them, they seemed happy to see me and Dad was not in any more or less than usual discomfort. I was there when the doctor suggested a catheter to alleviate the pressure that was causing Dad’s pain [from being unable to urinate]. Dad readily agreed and I was surprised, he hates catheters, so I realized the pain must be pretty bad. Things got worse when they inserted the device, poor Dad howled in pain screaming for them to get it out, but they couldn’t. They tried and tried, but the thing wouldn’t come out and I knew this was bad…but still didn’t allow myself to realize how bad.

He started shaking violently, he kept saying he was cold and I thought this must be shock, so I stood next to him rubbing his neck trying to talk to him and get his mind on something other than the pain. Mom was on the other side looking worried and rubbing his arm, not knowing what to say. The nurse came in with some warm blankets and we thankfully tucked them around him. After a while of this, the device fell out on its own and the blood started, a team of nurses came and shooed us out of the room while they labored over him. Mom and I went to the waiting room as they instructed for awhile, but wandered back towards Dad’s alcove, wanting to know what they were doing with him. I saw the bloody linens fall to the floor behind the curtain they had drawn. I was horrified to see how much blood was coming from him. I knew he didn’t have that much to spare, but still I clung to the idea that Dad was going to pull out of this like so many other times.

After what seemed to be an endless amount of time, the curtain was pulled back, they had clean linens around him and the catheter was gone, Dad was still in excruciating pain, much worse than when he had arrived that morning. The nurse offered him medication for pain and gratefully, he accepted. I could see the release on his forehead as the morphine did its work. Still, I couldn’t believe that was the last time Dad would see me and know me for his daughter. When he relaxed, and the shaking was over, the Doctor assured us that they were preparing a room for him. Mom seemed worried but, handling it, Dad was in a drug induced sleep and I saw that it was 2:30 p.m. Still, I thought this would be all right and again, I selfishly decided to go back to work. Mom agreed and so I took my leave promising to return for her after 5 p.m.

It wasn’t 4 o’clock when the cell phone rang, I tried to answer it, but my inexperience with the tool disconnected me from the calling party. I managed to use the recall feature and found out that the calling party had been at the hospital. Hurriedly, I used the land line to call back searching frantically for Mom, feeling much like a basketball, I grew angry as the nurses and receptionists bounced my call from one line to the other and I was still holding when the other line rang. It was a man, a stranger, from the hospital, who asked for me and said that my mother needed to speak to me; Mom’s voice croaked that things had gone from bad to worse after I’d left that afternoon and could I please come back to the hospital. I readily agreed, and as hastily as I could, left the office in disarray. Traffic was bad and the emergency lot was packed, luckily I spotted a space that was fairly hidden by two larger cars, I thanked the stars for my little vehicle as I squeezed it between them easily. This time, I didn’t pause at the emergency room doors, but rushed past as someone else went through and fairly ran to the alcove where I’d last seen Dad. Still there, Mom’s eyes were full of anxiety mixed with the relief of seeing me fairly bound toward here down the hall.

She explained that they had used the shock paddles to try to regulate his heart, but that it wasn’t working and Dad was in critical condition now. Could I please get hold of my brother? Well, I tried, but the cell phone betrayed my efforts, so I was forced to leave their side to try the land line on the wall down the hall. I spoke to Kim at the airport Hertz desk; she informed me that Joel had already left for the day. I told her the situation, and most kindly she told me she would contact him at home for me.

I headed back to the alcove to find mother trying to hold Dad down in the bed as he tossed from side to side angrily unaware of the needles, sensors and tubes he was dislodging. “Help me” she asked calmly, as I pinned his other shoulder, “no, Daddy, lie still, lie still honey, don’t fight it, lie still.” She crooned. I must have yelled for the nurses, because they appeared with more drugs, blankets and straps to tie him down. “No, no, no. Help me, help me, help me.” Dad cried to no one in particular as they strapped him to the hospital bed.

Time seemed to drag and still no Joel, despite my attempts to contact him at my house and then at his. Finally after what seemed an eternity, I spoke to Joel who was fairly cavalier. I told him we needed him and to come right away. Still, it was over forty five minutes and no Joel. I speculated that he had gone to the wrong hospital and would be blaming me for giving him the wrong directions whenever he actually arrived. We were following Dad’s gurney to the ICU just as my tardy brother strolled calmly up the long hallway. First, I felt relief to see him, and then anger and disbelief as he seemed to take this all as a matter of course. “Where have you been?” I chided him angrily.

“I had to take a shower,” he replied indignantly, as if I should know better. I must have looked at him as though he were crazy, but then it hit me, he didn’t realize yet the gravity of the situation, how could he when only this morning I had told him how Dad had said “No big Deal” on his way out the door to the ER? Joel too, had been through a number of these episodes with Dad and always with an upbeat and easy resolution.

Slowly, I think the reality of the situation began to dawn on him as the nurse came in to explain that Dad was in critical condition and was not expected to recover. Joel’s face was stoic, and his manner changed almost imperceptibly, suddenly more deliberate, more grave. I told the nurse Mom had been there all day and needed some dinner and a rest. The nurse lectured us saying Dad’s condition could not be guaranteed and he may not be here when she returned. I looked at Mom and saw the weariness, I insisted she must rest. Daylight was beginning to wane and I knew their car was still in the parking lot and needed to be driven home. Mom would insist on driving, and I knew she was afraid to drive at night, her eyesight not being as good as it used to be.

I offered to stay with Dad while Joel followed Mom home and took her out to eat. Mom nodded assent, and Joel shuffled her out unceremoniously. The kind nurse looked at me and asked if there was anything she could do for “Yes,” I answered quickly, “Please make sure my family is allowed in whenever they return, despite your visiting hours rule.” It was now suddenly 6 p.m. and the ICU was closed to visitors, the nurse closed the door and asked me not to come out, but I was allowed to stay with Dad while they closed off the rest of ICU to others.

For two hours I felt helpless and hopeless while Dad thrashed unknowingly through the maze of morphine in his system. He called for help constantly, and I had none. He called for his elder and only brother Elmer, for Helen, for Ellen, for Eleanor [none of whom I know] and for Jean, but never for me, and I was all he had. I felt small and inadequate and stared for a long time out the window of his room onto the barren landscape of what appeared to be an unlovely garbage alley. I didn’t often have the courage to try to comfort him as each time I did, it seemed only to agitate him. Once, only once & for an instant, his eyes opened and looked at me clearly with recognition and he spoke “Kaye?” as though my name were the ultimate question…and then took to restlessly thrashing against the deep miasma of morphine once again. I could hardly bear it, listening to his calls for help and being totally without help for him. I began to understand the anguish of the survivor’s guilt that Dad had been living with all these years after WWII.

During a span of silence, I called Karen on the cell phone, which mercifully, worked this time. She answered and I began to explain my situation, and she for once, listened silently. As I talked, I remember Karen offered to come to the hospital, but I told her no, she would not have been allowed in to see us anyway. But I was so thankful to be able to speak with her, with anyone at that moment when I felt more alone than I ever had in my life. Dad must have heard my voice because his agitation began again and I told her I should go, she solemnly agreed, offering her help… I assume she must have heard Dad’s calls because she readily hung up, not like Karen at all, who usually has two or three more topics to discuss after the initial attempt to break off a conversation.

 

 

In that room, my heart felt like it was being slowly ripped apart, still, the tears had not yet come. How unlike me, the crybaby of the family, to be tearless at such a time. I don’t think I could allow myself to comprehend what was happening. Still I stood staring out the window at the terribly inky darkness of night and then I felt the moisture on my face, this was real, not a nightmare, this was happening now. I was losing my father; my wonderful, crazy, zany, character of a father lay there slipping away from me forever. The door opened, a new nurse glided in, the shift had changed, this one had red hair and an even more comforting nature than the first. She removed the restraints from Dad’s hands finally, and I fervently wished that I had had the courage to do so earlier. Magically, Joel and Mom appeared at the door with a Styrofoam box of food for me which I devoured unabashedly.

Then, I excused myself to smoke a cigarette. I was amazed at how easily I found the smoking area and even more amazed to see the nurse’s helper appear behind me. She recognized me immediately despite the darkness and struck up a conversation, for which I was grateful until the subject of my Dad came up. “Doctors” she said shaking her head from side to side, disgust apparent in her manner. “Why did they put your father in ICU when they knew he had a living will? Now he’s taking up the last bed that might be needed at any time by somebody who actually wants to live.”

Shock and anger welled up in me. “Don’t tell me, I had nothing to do with the decision to put him there.”

Still she continued, “Doctors, I swear they are so dumb, they could have put him anywhere but no, they insist on putting him in critical care. Now if someone else needs that bed, we’ll have to put them in the hall.”

As she turned to leave, I thought to myself, ‘don’t worry, maybe he’ll die soon for you.’ Then I became even angrier at myself for thinking the thought.

I returned to the room to find things unchanged. Mom by Dad’s bedside, Joel sitting in the chair by the dark window. The lights subdued and Dad’s vital signs slipping. It was approaching 9:30 p.m. now, and Mom was tired, we were all tired. There would be a long day ahead of us tomorrow. “Will he last the night?” I asked the nurse. “It’s hard to say, he might.”

“I think we should go and get some sleep, there’s nothing we can do for Dad here. Mother needs the rest and so do we.” I spoke to the room, but looked at Dad as I picked up my bag and prepared to head for the door, Mom and Joel in tow. Just as we took our first steps, Dad’s breathing became erratic. We returned to his bedside as the monitors flattened, then screamed as the Nurse switched them somehow and they began to blip again. “No” she spoke, “He will not last the night.” She turned and left the room. Joel returned to his seat, Mom in the chair by the bed, I standing on the other side watched as Dad’s breath became worse and then stopped all together again. Then, suddenly he gasped and coughed and was gone.

“He’s sleeping.” Joel said.

“Yes.” I heard my voice speak sardonically, “The final sleep.”

I left Dad’s side to sit next to Joel by the window while Mother’s head lay on the bed next to Dad while she held his hand. “Oh, Daddy! Oh, Daddy!” We heard her whisper as her head rocked from side to side on her forehead against the sheets, “You gave me a good life.”

An unfamiliar man came in, an orderly. “I believe this gentleman has passed.” He said, as he methodically turned off the machines and silently left.

Joel sat disbelievingly next to me, as though someone had struck him and then disappeared into thin air right before us. I for one was desperately fighting an urgent need to run from this place. I felt as though I had to pull them from their spots, rising to signal them we had to leave, when really, it was I who had to leave, and yet, couldn’t think of leaving them. It seemed eons before the nurse came in and told us we could take all the time we needed. I struggled as the minutes seemed to crawl; I wanted so badly to sprint, to tug them both by the hair if necessary to get them out of that room. But, I somehow managed to stay until they rose to their feet, thank the nurses, and leave with me.

We three shuffled down to the dark parking lot in a self-induced fog as I prepared to shuttle Mom and Joel to their car. They had now parked far from the emergency room but mine was still waiting, close to the door where I had mercifully found a place barely large enough for my little Subaru, over five hours earlier. It was askew in the slot, reminiscent of the tight fit it had made when it was flanked, but now stood alone, empty slots on both sides. Mom and Joel directed me easily to the Explorer and I told Mom I would meet them at her house after I picked up a few things to prepare for the night. I wouldn’t leave her alone, I would be there soon.

I don’t remember how I got home, but I do remember calling Chuck, my boss, while packing an overnight bag. I identified myself as his wayward secretary, then, heard my own voice waiver and crack as I told him what had happened. His kindness surprised even me and I soon found myself in the car again headed towards Mom’s with his blessing to take as much time as I needed. The streets seemed unusually dark and deserted even though it must have only been around 10 p.m. or so. When I arrived at the house, I parked so Joel could depart without having to move my car. I found the front door unlocked, and Mom and Joel were standing there, staring at each other in disbelief. Neither one of them had a tear, but I was a mess. How typical. After a while of trying to shake off the shock, Joel left with a promise to see to the pets for me in the morning.

I spent the week with Mom while we busied ourselves with the details of death. Faced with paperwork, phone calls, arrangements, emails, viewing and funerals, the days seem to have passed by at lightening speed. Now we are faced with the reality of going on about the business of life with this huge hole of hurt, yearning to be filled in each of us. Now is the difficult time, to face the world without him, to acknowledge our own mortality, to test our faith in God and trust our father to his mercy. The memories are painful reminders of all that we might have done, all that could have been and was not, all the possibilities that are lost now, forever. Each of us, Mom, Joel and me, like three lost Musketeers, long only for a future day when the memories will comfort instead of sting.

End