hey, I'm no chicken.
We were troopers. We had to be.
My family and I had gotten very good at what we did. Like war-beaten soldiers, we could be called together at a moment’s notice to assume the roles we so detested. I was a perfect cog in this well-oiled machine - 15 minutes lead time and I could be in any hospital in the region prepared for a stay of any length, complete with a game face that could withstand the force of world-changing news. I suppose 10 years of experience does that to a person. This day was no different.
Awake at 5, I showered, dressed and packed for a surgery-tastic day. Discman. Sweatshirt. Cards. At least 7 one-dollar bills (vending machines are placed on every floor because they know that a day full of waiting means a day full of candy bars, soda and off-brand chips.) Excedrin - and so on and so forth, all the necessary little items that made a “day” - often more than 24 hours - in a stark medical center bearable. My brother arrived on schedule at 5:45 to pick me up to take me to the hospital. It was the only time he could be counted on to arrive on time for anything. Go time. Surgery Day. Game on.
I was 4 when Dad was declared diabetic, 8 during his first amputation, 9 for near death and open-heart number one, and from there, every 6 months or so marked another hospital stay, another operation, or another late-night crisis. I remain fairly certain that the members of our church kept a casserole in their freezer to whip out in the event the prayer circle relegated the members to pitch in and help us in our time of need. Hell, I was half raised in a hospital. It was with no level of surprise at all I learned in 2005 of my dad’s latest hospitalization in October. By January of 06 though, we knew that this surgery was different. More sinister, somehow, than the drudgery of treatments in the past. This time, “life-threatening” did not mean in the next couple of years. It meant now. It meant prepare yourself, because this, ladies and gentlemen, is a hail-Mary pass at seeing the next few years.
At 18, I knew the drill. I would allow it to be the popular belief of the “adults” that I was sheltered from this knowledge. I was to show up, appear bored at the long day of waiting and be naively reassuring to all those who knew what was truly at stake. For a few years now it had been a thin veneer. All those involved knew we were playing a part. This time, no one could really pull off the show. We knew - the façade was tense and trying, not comforting.
Promptly at 6, we were ushered into his room. This was not the average hospital room. It bore the unmistakable signs of having been thoroughly lived in for weeks. Clothes scattered the backs of chairs and bags full of personal effects lined the walls. The bed was made up mostly with blankets and pillows from someplace other than the hospital, and the available space was filled with cards and gifts. This was a home away from home. I began my unspoken job - belonging gatherer. He would not be coming back here, no matter the outcome. The best we could hope for was an extended stay at the ICU, where such familiarity was not allowed. I packed up the room and listened to the episode of Bonanza Dad was watching. With my brothers and me in the room, he would not betray fear. It was his well-rehearsed part. This was just another day, another procedure. No biggie, how’s school? One important lesson learned-you don’t have to be strong and healthy to be protective.
It would be an hour before he was taken to surgery, during which time we would either talk about whatever mundane subject we could latch onto or discuss “the plan” for the upcoming weeks of recovery and rehab with each other - who would do what, be where and be responsible for which duties. At no point would any of us mention that there was a good chance that these plans would never be put into action. As hard as it was to sit and participate in this charade, at least the mood was light. This was what I called “essential personnel” time. We were the experts at dancing around our deepest fears and being there for one another in allowing each other space while forcing optimism as if it could deny the smiling threat if death itself. Immediate family only; no aunts or uncles or other extended family to fidget, worry and crack our well-crafted screen of calm. No one struggling to find a central place in this drama, morbidly, curiously vying for a place in our “inner circle” we so wished we weren’t included in. Wish as we might for this portion of the day to last forever, the moment came, as we knew it would, that he was wheeled away. Only mom could follow now, and even she would rejoin us, clueless as any, for the 12-plus hours of hell to come.
Most would assume that the day passed as a blur for me; they would be wrong. I can so accurately remember each and every moment, vividly recount what I wore, everything I ate, every turn of every hallway in that miserable place, remember every detail down to the colors and pattern of the waiting room upholstery. The friends and family holding the vigil with us meant well, but I found myself exchanging tense glances with the rest of my central group, each of us caught in our own world and all of us smart enough to allow us each our space. I found myself wishing desperately for my cousins, none of whom could be there, who would know me better than to ask the stupid probing questions or to allow me to think about where I was and why. They knew me, and knew that sometimes, avoiding the problem was exactly what I needed. Avoidance, among these people, was not the awkward “elephant in the room” type; it was the kind, agreeable sort in which we all knew the situation, so why discuss it? I was, however, luckier than I knew that day to have with me the best friend I had in those days; he kept me sane and fielded whatever annoyances he could. I don’t know that I have ever properly thanked him for this, but I love the person he is more than I could express for it.
The day ended as well as we could have hoped. Our small group of immediate family was allowed to see him, incredibly weak and swollen, intubated and monitored by no less than 10 machines but alive, and then we went to the cafeteria to attempt a real meal. Food for me was no option. I, instead, ended my day vomiting in the parking garage and later in my dormitory, succumbing at last to the endless waves of panic and despair that had shaken me for 14 hours. The next 3 months would be much of what we knew; the slow climb to recovery, the endless litany of dietary restrictions, medications, rehabilitation, and day to day care. My spring break that year was spent as a day nurse to my father while my mother went back to work for the first time in months. It was also my last week with my father. This, it would turn out, was our last battle for his life.
I cannot bring myself to regret this day or the months that followed, for what else would there have been in their place? Only days without him. I have plenty of those to come. Days of struggle are far better than days of loss. That is a lesson a decade in the making.
My family and I had gotten very good at what we did. Like war-beaten soldiers, we could be called together at a moment’s notice to assume the roles we so detested. I was a perfect cog in this well-oiled machine - 15 minutes lead time and I could be in any hospital in the region prepared for a stay of any length, complete with a game face that could withstand the force of world-changing news. I suppose 10 years of experience does that to a person. This day was no different.
Awake at 5, I showered, dressed and packed for a surgery-tastic day. Discman. Sweatshirt. Cards. At least 7 one-dollar bills (vending machines are placed on every floor because they know that a day full of waiting means a day full of candy bars, soda and off-brand chips.) Excedrin - and so on and so forth, all the necessary little items that made a “day” - often more than 24 hours - in a stark medical center bearable. My brother arrived on schedule at 5:45 to pick me up to take me to the hospital. It was the only time he could be counted on to arrive on time for anything. Go time. Surgery Day. Game on.
I was 4 when Dad was declared diabetic, 8 during his first amputation, 9 for near death and open-heart number one, and from there, every 6 months or so marked another hospital stay, another operation, or another late-night crisis. I remain fairly certain that the members of our church kept a casserole in their freezer to whip out in the event the prayer circle relegated the members to pitch in and help us in our time of need. Hell, I was half raised in a hospital. It was with no level of surprise at all I learned in 2005 of my dad’s latest hospitalization in October. By January of 06 though, we knew that this surgery was different. More sinister, somehow, than the drudgery of treatments in the past. This time, “life-threatening” did not mean in the next couple of years. It meant now. It meant prepare yourself, because this, ladies and gentlemen, is a hail-Mary pass at seeing the next few years.
At 18, I knew the drill. I would allow it to be the popular belief of the “adults” that I was sheltered from this knowledge. I was to show up, appear bored at the long day of waiting and be naively reassuring to all those who knew what was truly at stake. For a few years now it had been a thin veneer. All those involved knew we were playing a part. This time, no one could really pull off the show. We knew - the façade was tense and trying, not comforting.
Promptly at 6, we were ushered into his room. This was not the average hospital room. It bore the unmistakable signs of having been thoroughly lived in for weeks. Clothes scattered the backs of chairs and bags full of personal effects lined the walls. The bed was made up mostly with blankets and pillows from someplace other than the hospital, and the available space was filled with cards and gifts. This was a home away from home. I began my unspoken job - belonging gatherer. He would not be coming back here, no matter the outcome. The best we could hope for was an extended stay at the ICU, where such familiarity was not allowed. I packed up the room and listened to the episode of Bonanza Dad was watching. With my brothers and me in the room, he would not betray fear. It was his well-rehearsed part. This was just another day, another procedure. No biggie, how’s school? One important lesson learned-you don’t have to be strong and healthy to be protective.
It would be an hour before he was taken to surgery, during which time we would either talk about whatever mundane subject we could latch onto or discuss “the plan” for the upcoming weeks of recovery and rehab with each other - who would do what, be where and be responsible for which duties. At no point would any of us mention that there was a good chance that these plans would never be put into action. As hard as it was to sit and participate in this charade, at least the mood was light. This was what I called “essential personnel” time. We were the experts at dancing around our deepest fears and being there for one another in allowing each other space while forcing optimism as if it could deny the smiling threat if death itself. Immediate family only; no aunts or uncles or other extended family to fidget, worry and crack our well-crafted screen of calm. No one struggling to find a central place in this drama, morbidly, curiously vying for a place in our “inner circle” we so wished we weren’t included in. Wish as we might for this portion of the day to last forever, the moment came, as we knew it would, that he was wheeled away. Only mom could follow now, and even she would rejoin us, clueless as any, for the 12-plus hours of hell to come.
Most would assume that the day passed as a blur for me; they would be wrong. I can so accurately remember each and every moment, vividly recount what I wore, everything I ate, every turn of every hallway in that miserable place, remember every detail down to the colors and pattern of the waiting room upholstery. The friends and family holding the vigil with us meant well, but I found myself exchanging tense glances with the rest of my central group, each of us caught in our own world and all of us smart enough to allow us each our space. I found myself wishing desperately for my cousins, none of whom could be there, who would know me better than to ask the stupid probing questions or to allow me to think about where I was and why. They knew me, and knew that sometimes, avoiding the problem was exactly what I needed. Avoidance, among these people, was not the awkward “elephant in the room” type; it was the kind, agreeable sort in which we all knew the situation, so why discuss it? I was, however, luckier than I knew that day to have with me the best friend I had in those days; he kept me sane and fielded whatever annoyances he could. I don’t know that I have ever properly thanked him for this, but I love the person he is more than I could express for it.
The day ended as well as we could have hoped. Our small group of immediate family was allowed to see him, incredibly weak and swollen, intubated and monitored by no less than 10 machines but alive, and then we went to the cafeteria to attempt a real meal. Food for me was no option. I, instead, ended my day vomiting in the parking garage and later in my dormitory, succumbing at last to the endless waves of panic and despair that had shaken me for 14 hours. The next 3 months would be much of what we knew; the slow climb to recovery, the endless litany of dietary restrictions, medications, rehabilitation, and day to day care. My spring break that year was spent as a day nurse to my father while my mother went back to work for the first time in months. It was also my last week with my father. This, it would turn out, was our last battle for his life.
I cannot bring myself to regret this day or the months that followed, for what else would there have been in their place? Only days without him. I have plenty of those to come. Days of struggle are far better than days of loss. That is a lesson a decade in the making.