April 20, 2012
Andrea--I am so glad you are still there to write to.
That, has to be enough.
Sunday, April 1 my Dad had a heart attack after being in an accident with a hit and run driver.
My sister Linda and I went to the hospital that afternoon to see him. To see if there was anything we could do for his wife Mari.
A heart cath was scheduled for Monday morning.
My sister Linda and I called in to work to sit with our Dad's wife. So that she would not be alone if anything happened.
Always be prepared.
If you can be.
The cardiologist said the procedure would be about an hour. We could expect to see him in about half an hour or forty five minutes. If they found a blockage Dad might be in a little longer because they put in a stint.
I watched the door, beginning at the half hour mark.
An hour later, still no doctor.
An hour and fifteen minutes later the cardiologist came in. He had a pad of paper, and a young woman in a lab coat with him.
I could feel in an instant my chest bracing for bad news.
“I wish I had better news.” The cardiologist sat down next to Mari, took his pad of paper and drew an outline of a heart for her. I watched over her shoulder.
“Your husband had a major heart attack. The arteries on the right side are totally blocked. That side is dead.”
He scribbled ink in the right side of the heart for emphasis.
“And there are three other major arteries. One is totally blocked. But it has compensated with other blood vessels and has created a sort of bypass of its own.” He drew pictures of three arteries on the left side of his hard. “So we have one vein totally occluded. The other 2 are about 90% or more closed off. We have to do heart surgery.”
I’m watching Mari watch the doctor draw his pictures.
My brain freezes up.
Negotiating Possibilities it says on its screen.
What possibilities.
“We also my need to transplant his aortal valve as it is not functioning at peak capacity.” The Cardiologist adds.
“Any questions?” He asks.
I have a hundred thousand questions, but I know he does not have all the answers.
Chances without the surgery.
He could drop dead from a major heart attack on his way to the door of his hospital room or he could live another 10 years or more with the heart the way it is.
Chances with the surgery.
There is about a 90% chance he’ll survive the surgery. Later he would explain to my dad that means 90% chance he will survive the first 30 days. After that…
I am his oldest child.
He wants my input.
It is his decision.
We walked into Dad’s hospital room together. Linda, Mari, me. Dad was awake. Mary went to his right side. He took her hand. From the foot of the bed I witnessed that moment when my dad confronted his mortality and his wife faced the possibility of losing him. I saw the tears fill their eyes, run down their cheeks.
I looked at Linda, she looked at me. “Let’s go out in the hall.” She said.
………………………
Twenty days later my Dad whispers to me “I am tired.”
He struggles for breath even with an oxygen mask.
He struggles for breath even with an oxygen mask.
“I know Dad. You need to rest.”
………………………
Resolution.
I will not get drawn back into this.
…………………………
I say goodbye.
………………………..
Conflict.
I will no longer be a part of it.
………………………..
I kiss my Dad on his cheek.
………………………….
Anger.
On the way home from the hospital I stopped at Safeway, bought a dozen red helium balloons, took them to Frontier Park. Released them one by one into the sky.
………………………….
Hunger.
I took the basket I had packed for you—the promise of lunch today. Sitting on a log, I spread the red cloth napkin on my lap. I cradled the bright porcelain Asian sceened bowl between my thighs. I opened the thermos full of Ginger Chicken soup, with pieces chopped to the speech therapist’s and nutritionist’s specifications, low sodium everything. The smell of lemon grass, kefir leaves, lime and coconut milk snaked its way through my nose nesting in my salivary glands.
I promised you soup.
I promised you I would be there to help Mari.
I promised I would be there for you.
……………………………………
I am cold.
Thank God it is not raining.
Looking into the lake, all I see now is my reflection.
Listen to birds.
Ducks.
My balloons float overhead.
……………………………………..
I am my father’s oldest daughter.
He was counting on me.
He is counting on me.
……………………………………..
Stronger.
I have to be stronger. I pour the soup into the bowl cradled between my thighs. I love to eat soup with the bowl shaped porcelain spoons I bought at Uwajimia. I stir the finely chopped chicken, the minced baby corn cobs, carrots, mushrooms, fill the spoon with that and broth.
The soup is stove hot. It burns the roof of my mouth, my tongue. I wait for it to cool.
Close my eyes and feel myself breathe.
Release.
The 12 red balloons have floated away.
Another spoonful of Dad’s soup warms me.
……………………………………….
I am sorry.
I am not strong enough for this.
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I remember you yelling at me the last day I saw you alive “I am going to die. I am going to die. You have to accept that Mom.”
“You can’t die.” I told you like I was saying “you can’t cross the street without holding my hand” when you were younger.
You looked at me.
“You won’t die.” I commanded, as if I had control of anything.
“I’m sorry, there was nothing we could do.” The medic told me.
……………………………….
Eleven days ago, as my Dad lay on the operating table, his chest cut open, I heard you whisper through me, “He will be ok.”
Now I wonder what that means.
He will be ok.
Please explain.
Awaiting your response.
Love, Mom.
