I had just gotten the kids settled in for the night. We had arrived in Austin earlier that day for a relative's wedding. It was late and I was eager to get to sleep. My mom had called me earlier while I was herding kids into bed, so I figured I'd get around to calling her once I had gotten into my pajamas. Then my older brother called. Dad had been rushed to the hospital, but he didn't know much beyond that.
The following days after that were a blur. I didn't see much of my three young children as they were shuffled between relatives and friends. I pretty much lived at the hospital with my mom and two brothers. The waiting was the worst part. So many tests had to be done to determine a course of action. While my mom's friends came and went to pray with her, I found comfort in talking to the doctors and nurses. They were more than willing to give me straight-up information on my dad's condition. Medical facts were soothing to me, and I was grateful to have a dedicated and patient medical team doing their best for my dad.
I called my younger brother. They were at a friend's house for dinner when Dad lost consciousness. His head slumped forward before his breath started to "rattle" and his lips turned purple. My younger brother tried to open Dad's airway and Mom attempted chest compressions as best she could until the paramedics arrived - at which point my 23-year-old brother had to console my hysterical mother. They weren't at the hospital at that point, so I told him to call me back when they found out what was going on.
Shaken, I tried my best not to panic. Dad had episodes before. Two years ago, he was hospitalized with a blood infection (from which he fully recovered). His health was always poor, but somehow he had always managed to pull through.
The next phone call brought worse news... and the next. Dad coded once in the ambulance and again in the ER. It wasn't looking good. I had to drive back to DFW in the middle of the night, leaving the kids with their other grandparents. Since they were the ring bearers and flower girl, they needed to stay.
A flood of regret washed over me. I had just seen him the day before. I had stopped by to pick up the boys' pants my mom had tailored for the wedding. Dad brought them out to me. I gave him a quick hug and kiss, promising to come by after our trip. At that point, I broke. I sobbed uncontrollably in the car... the kind of uninhibited sobbing that rarely comes over me. I don't like crying or showing emotion. I internalize my feelings and have a good cry every five years or so. This was different. I felt like my insides were tearing.
During the drive to the hospital, I tried to prepare myself to see my dad hooked up to dozens of machines with hundreds of wires. Two ladies from my parents' synagogue were waiting for us. They spoke about sensing my dad's guardian angel, another claimed to connect with his spirit in prayer. I was angry, but kept my mouth shut because it seemed to comfort my mom. She offered to go with me to see Dad, but I insisted on going by myself.
Dad was almost as white as the prayer shawl someone had laid over him. The room was silent except for the beeping of machines and whirring of the ventilator. His chest rose and fell mechanically with each artificial breath. I gently brushed my fingers over his soft, gray beard. The only word I could get out was "Hi." His skin was icy cold. The medical staff had lowered his body temperature in an attempt to prevent any more damage. I stood there, numb.
The following days after that were a blur. I didn't see much of my three young children as they were shuffled between relatives and friends. I pretty much lived at the hospital with my mom and two brothers. The waiting was the worst part. So many tests had to be done to determine a course of action. While my mom's friends came and went to pray with her, I found comfort in talking to the doctors and nurses. They were more than willing to give me straight-up information on my dad's condition. Medical facts were soothing to me, and I was grateful to have a dedicated and patient medical team doing their best for my dad.
"Do you have a minute?" I was able to catch the cardiologist alone.
"Yeah, sure." His demeanor was very kind and patient as he described in detail what was going on with my dad's heart and what surgical techniques he planned on using. I thanked him for his time. He seemed confident that the heart tissue was still doing well and could recover well after surgery. We had to wait for the neurologist to run his tests and for my dad to wake up and respond to certain basic neurological stimuli before the bypass surgery could be scheduled.
It seemed to take a few more days before we sat down with the neurologist. The nurses were unable to wake dad and he had seizures every time they took him off sedation. I could tell by the doctor's face that the news wasn't good. He explained that by medical terms, my dad wasn't technically "brain dead," but should he survive a few more weeks (or months), he would remain in a vegetative state. The part of his brain reserved for higher cognition was irreversibly damaged, due to lack of oxygen from the heart attack. My dad had already expressed before that he did not want to be a vegetable. Mom asked if an MRI could be done to confirm the findings from the other tests. The neurologist agreed for her peace of mind. We all knew what was coming, though. Before we left for the night, I went back into Dad's room by myself.
"Dad, it's okay if you want to go," I whispered, kissing his cold cheek.
We headed back to my mom's house to sleep, but didn't get much rest before receiving a 3:00 AM call from the hospital asking us to head back. Dad's vitals were failing and we were told to prepare to say our goodbyes. By the time we got there he had stabilized, but was still critical. We spent the day camping out in the hospital, taking turns sitting in the room with Dad while the others walked around or got something to eat. I was thankful for a moment alone with Dad. There were so many friends and family in and out, it was rare. I didn't say anything... I just sat there, staring at the machines surrounding my dad.
The results from the MRI finally came back and confirmed what we already knew. Dad, as we knew him, was gone. His body was beginning to fail as well, and my mom had to make the difficult decision to remove the ventilator and let nature take its course. It was time to end Dad's suffering. The preceding moments were difficult and emotionally charged.
We gathered around Dad's bed: Mom, my grandmother, my older brother and his wife. I was on the other side. I slipped my hand into Dad's and didn't let go. The nurses removed the ventilator and made sure he had a morphine drip so he would be comfortable. We all watched his vitals slowly drop on the monitor like some sick countdown. I tried to gather every ounce of mental strength to keep it together.
Imagine that sick feeling in your stomach when you're riding a roller coaster. That's the closest thing I can compare it to. My stomach literally felt like it was in my throat and then came crashing through the floor as the numbers on the monitor reached zero and he finally flatlined. Dad was Home. I imagined him running to the Pearly Gates to meet my grandfather, who probably had a huge smile and open arms. Father and son were reunited and whole.
We walked numbly out of the room, arms around Mom. I hugged Dad's nurse, Janice, and thanked her for taking care of our family as much as she did my dad. Her eyes were filled with tears as she hugged me back.
"Take care, sweetie."
"Yeah, sure." His demeanor was very kind and patient as he described in detail what was going on with my dad's heart and what surgical techniques he planned on using. I thanked him for his time. He seemed confident that the heart tissue was still doing well and could recover well after surgery. We had to wait for the neurologist to run his tests and for my dad to wake up and respond to certain basic neurological stimuli before the bypass surgery could be scheduled.
It seemed to take a few more days before we sat down with the neurologist. The nurses were unable to wake dad and he had seizures every time they took him off sedation. I could tell by the doctor's face that the news wasn't good. He explained that by medical terms, my dad wasn't technically "brain dead," but should he survive a few more weeks (or months), he would remain in a vegetative state. The part of his brain reserved for higher cognition was irreversibly damaged, due to lack of oxygen from the heart attack. My dad had already expressed before that he did not want to be a vegetable. Mom asked if an MRI could be done to confirm the findings from the other tests. The neurologist agreed for her peace of mind. We all knew what was coming, though. Before we left for the night, I went back into Dad's room by myself.
"Dad, it's okay if you want to go," I whispered, kissing his cold cheek.
We headed back to my mom's house to sleep, but didn't get much rest before receiving a 3:00 AM call from the hospital asking us to head back. Dad's vitals were failing and we were told to prepare to say our goodbyes. By the time we got there he had stabilized, but was still critical. We spent the day camping out in the hospital, taking turns sitting in the room with Dad while the others walked around or got something to eat. I was thankful for a moment alone with Dad. There were so many friends and family in and out, it was rare. I didn't say anything... I just sat there, staring at the machines surrounding my dad.
The results from the MRI finally came back and confirmed what we already knew. Dad, as we knew him, was gone. His body was beginning to fail as well, and my mom had to make the difficult decision to remove the ventilator and let nature take its course. It was time to end Dad's suffering. The preceding moments were difficult and emotionally charged.
We gathered around Dad's bed: Mom, my grandmother, my older brother and his wife. I was on the other side. I slipped my hand into Dad's and didn't let go. The nurses removed the ventilator and made sure he had a morphine drip so he would be comfortable. We all watched his vitals slowly drop on the monitor like some sick countdown. I tried to gather every ounce of mental strength to keep it together.
Imagine that sick feeling in your stomach when you're riding a roller coaster. That's the closest thing I can compare it to. My stomach literally felt like it was in my throat and then came crashing through the floor as the numbers on the monitor reached zero and he finally flatlined. Dad was Home. I imagined him running to the Pearly Gates to meet my grandfather, who probably had a huge smile and open arms. Father and son were reunited and whole.
We walked numbly out of the room, arms around Mom. I hugged Dad's nurse, Janice, and thanked her for taking care of our family as much as she did my dad. Her eyes were filled with tears as she hugged me back.
"Take care, sweetie."
I left the hospital feeling like all of the air had been sucked out of my lungs. The numbness of shock sank in. I didn't cry much at the funeral. All I could do was focus on holding my sobbing mother. The numbness didn't leave until much later, because the pain had just begun. Six weeks later saw me suddenly a single mother thrown into an ugly custody battle.
But that's another story.
But that's another story.
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