Where dads die and I have a lot to say.
It's really about time I updated. I know I've said this before, but I've been looking at the last six months, and realized that whereas before I had been moving along doing some pretty spectacular things, all of it seemed to mundane and habitual to continue updating here. The one-sentence status update structure of Facebook has been infinitely more appealing, but I'm discovering that I have more words for things that genuinely knock my everyday-routine on its ass.
Mid-January I received a phone call while at work that my father was in the hospital. No big deal, he had been acting a little off, knocking things over, dropping things, falling from time to time. Through a series of events, my aunt relayed that he had pneumonia, but was doing all right. When I phoned the hospital to speak with him directly - I hadn't previously spoken to him in a couple of weeks, probably since the new year, which isn't weird since sometimes he lets his phone bill go unpaid - I was informed he was in the ICU and that they couldn't give me more information or let me speak to him. I called my sister Bridget who got heated with the hospital until they let us know that he actually had suffered a heart attack and possibly a stroke and wasn't really breathing on his own. From this information and the financial help of my fantastic wife, Ellen and I jumped on a plane to Louisiana.
Seeing my dad in the ICU was difficult; not getting to spend more time with him was difficult. All in all we spent four days spending maybe three hours with the man. He was out of his mind for the most part, talking about cheeseburgers as big as his head, trying to make a run from the bed despite being strapped down. When we returned home he was getting better, almost off of oxygen, but then he had another heart attack and a return to ICU. All in all he spent approximately three weeks either in the hospital or a rehabilitation center. While there he set into a pretty deep depression about another long recovery ahead of him.
For those of you who don't know, my pops has had a rough existence for the past fifteen years. He had two brain aneurysms and a stroke fifteen years ago, which events following ended in my mom leaving my dad, and him coming through a life-threatening ordeal only to find his law practice shut down and dissolved, himself bankrupt, without home and family. He struggled to become somewhat normal after that, but for the most part became a shut-in in his later years. Since 1995, he has constantly been fighting failing health and has lived in some state of poverty after spending most of his adult life in relative success and financial comfort.
With that back story it's not difficult to understand why my dad seemed confused that he survived another trip to death's door, which resulted in such lovely door prizes as the inability to walk more than a couple of steps at a time. His time in the rehabilitation center was marked with his lack of patience and lack of cooperation. All he wanted was to go home.
He did, where he remained for ten days before he had an incident with his diabetes, which for the first time dropped to near-coma levels. The EMTs who responded had no idea why he was conscious, but he was. This prompted another week-long stay in the hospital. Speaking to my dad during this time was a chore, when it never had been before. He was angry, and sad. He acted as if no one wanted him around and that his life continued would be a burden on whoever he would live with. My uncle, the head of my dad's household, reacted in his concern as if my dad wasn't that sick. Or he would verbalize not-so-eloquently the many things that he would have to do to take care of my dad. I can only imagine how this made my dad feel.
Ten days after his return to his room in my uncle's house, my father Michael passed away in his sleep. On March 30 my dad woke up to my cousin Shane asking him if he was hungry for breakfast. My dad said he would sleep in longer, and never woke up again. A couple days before, his shower had taken him three hours. On Tuesday when I spoke with him, all he could talk about in the brief moments he responded were the handful of independences he had like walking or driving were unavailable to him. He talked about my grandmother Happy getting sicker - she had been in hospice care at home since February - and how she needed my grandfather's care. My grandfather had always been the one to take him to appointments, and now my grandfather was constantly at Happy's side. The conversation was short, and I didn't take much note of it, except that he seemed melancholy. I wish I had known it would be the last time I spoke to him.
The trip home in March/early April was hard. Harder than I could have ever expected. There's a lot to say about the funeral, and cleaning my dad's room, and my sisters, and my mother, and maybe I'll talk about it all later.
On May 7 Happy, my dad's mother passed away. I have a lot to say about that, too, but I find myself tired reliving everything. Though it is good to purge all of it, and I want to make sure I remember every detail as clearly as I can. My days have been challenging to get through, but business goes on as usual. I started a new job on Friday, and I have quit Starbucks. It needed to happen. Some drastic overhaul needed to happen.
You'll probably see more of me in the next couple of weeks, and I hope that everything isn't nearly this tragic.
Mid-January I received a phone call while at work that my father was in the hospital. No big deal, he had been acting a little off, knocking things over, dropping things, falling from time to time. Through a series of events, my aunt relayed that he had pneumonia, but was doing all right. When I phoned the hospital to speak with him directly - I hadn't previously spoken to him in a couple of weeks, probably since the new year, which isn't weird since sometimes he lets his phone bill go unpaid - I was informed he was in the ICU and that they couldn't give me more information or let me speak to him. I called my sister Bridget who got heated with the hospital until they let us know that he actually had suffered a heart attack and possibly a stroke and wasn't really breathing on his own. From this information and the financial help of my fantastic wife, Ellen and I jumped on a plane to Louisiana.
Seeing my dad in the ICU was difficult; not getting to spend more time with him was difficult. All in all we spent four days spending maybe three hours with the man. He was out of his mind for the most part, talking about cheeseburgers as big as his head, trying to make a run from the bed despite being strapped down. When we returned home he was getting better, almost off of oxygen, but then he had another heart attack and a return to ICU. All in all he spent approximately three weeks either in the hospital or a rehabilitation center. While there he set into a pretty deep depression about another long recovery ahead of him.
For those of you who don't know, my pops has had a rough existence for the past fifteen years. He had two brain aneurysms and a stroke fifteen years ago, which events following ended in my mom leaving my dad, and him coming through a life-threatening ordeal only to find his law practice shut down and dissolved, himself bankrupt, without home and family. He struggled to become somewhat normal after that, but for the most part became a shut-in in his later years. Since 1995, he has constantly been fighting failing health and has lived in some state of poverty after spending most of his adult life in relative success and financial comfort.
With that back story it's not difficult to understand why my dad seemed confused that he survived another trip to death's door, which resulted in such lovely door prizes as the inability to walk more than a couple of steps at a time. His time in the rehabilitation center was marked with his lack of patience and lack of cooperation. All he wanted was to go home.
He did, where he remained for ten days before he had an incident with his diabetes, which for the first time dropped to near-coma levels. The EMTs who responded had no idea why he was conscious, but he was. This prompted another week-long stay in the hospital. Speaking to my dad during this time was a chore, when it never had been before. He was angry, and sad. He acted as if no one wanted him around and that his life continued would be a burden on whoever he would live with. My uncle, the head of my dad's household, reacted in his concern as if my dad wasn't that sick. Or he would verbalize not-so-eloquently the many things that he would have to do to take care of my dad. I can only imagine how this made my dad feel.
Ten days after his return to his room in my uncle's house, my father Michael passed away in his sleep. On March 30 my dad woke up to my cousin Shane asking him if he was hungry for breakfast. My dad said he would sleep in longer, and never woke up again. A couple days before, his shower had taken him three hours. On Tuesday when I spoke with him, all he could talk about in the brief moments he responded were the handful of independences he had like walking or driving were unavailable to him. He talked about my grandmother Happy getting sicker - she had been in hospice care at home since February - and how she needed my grandfather's care. My grandfather had always been the one to take him to appointments, and now my grandfather was constantly at Happy's side. The conversation was short, and I didn't take much note of it, except that he seemed melancholy. I wish I had known it would be the last time I spoke to him.
The trip home in March/early April was hard. Harder than I could have ever expected. There's a lot to say about the funeral, and cleaning my dad's room, and my sisters, and my mother, and maybe I'll talk about it all later.
On May 7 Happy, my dad's mother passed away. I have a lot to say about that, too, but I find myself tired reliving everything. Though it is good to purge all of it, and I want to make sure I remember every detail as clearly as I can. My days have been challenging to get through, but business goes on as usual. I started a new job on Friday, and I have quit Starbucks. It needed to happen. Some drastic overhaul needed to happen.
You'll probably see more of me in the next couple of weeks, and I hope that everything isn't nearly this tragic.