A Bird In Hand

Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw.  No amount of discussion from nurses, doctors, family, people who had been there....nothing.  But, after 12 hours in the ICU waiting room, I was gnawing at the bit to get back there and see my dad after his heart surgery.  That is, until I got there. 

My big, strong, race winning dad was simply an appendage of the machines that were keeping him alive.  He was covered in wires and tubes of various colors.  There was the biggest flexi-straw I had ever seen coming out of his mouth.  Not to mention the sounds: swishing, beeping, alarming, tapping, clanging.  I don't think I would have been any more disturbed if I had seen my dad lying in a casket.  The worst part was that he wasn't simply just lying there.  He was struggling.  I assumed that he would be out, as in asleep.  He was on Michael Jackson grade sedatives, for God's sake.   His brow was furrowed, his mouth was trying to work out that flexi-straw (ventilator), his hands were slowly raising up (probably to remove the breathing tube), when I say it was the most horrifying thing I had ever seen...I am not exaggerating. 

I had been dry eyed thoughout the process, from the general practitioner appointment to the OR waiting area....I was there, firm and patient.  I knew that if my face registered worry or concern, my dad would have packed up his goody bag and went on home.  Today, my dad should have been released from the hospital.  I told him little lies like this (Oh, it will just be a 4 day hospital stay) not to intentionally deceive him, but to put his mind at ease so that he would address this issue in the appropriate manner.  I had to share this moment with my dad's other children, who only refer to him as "Pop".   I didn't want them there, to be quite honest.  They were there to see Pop, I was there to see my daddy.  Daddy trumps Pop any day of the week.  The dry eyed drought ended there at daddy's bedside.  The only consolation I had was that my dad is strong and that he would pull through this like a prize fighter. 

Turns out, this would be more true than anyone could have imagined.  Sure enough, my dad made leaps and bounds that first night.  They were able to remove the ventilator and he was eating ice chips by sunrise.  However, when my dad actually came to himself, he was having none of that.  He fought and wrestled with the staff and dislodged the balloon that was holding up his aorta.  This is the same man who rarely, if ever, took a Tylenol.  Now, he was coming out of the Diprivan haze...and he was fighting mad!  So, just when I thought it couldn't get any worse...my next visit was as bad as the last, except with four point restraints.  Working in a psych unit, I understand that the restraints only come out as a last resort.  Welcome to The Last Resort...let me get you another flexi-straw.  The progress made had been negated and he was back on the ventilator. 

I wanted to tell those people that the same gigantic Shrek-like hands that they feared were the same hands that once held a panting hummingbird that had stopped to take a rest.  They brushed my hair before loading me up to take to the babysitter.  They fed an obese hound dog ice cream each night.  Those hands built me a bookcase for my dorm room.  They used to hold both of my feet entirely while we watched the news.   I understood the necessity of the restraints, but it broke my heart to view the reality of them.  I was also slightly mortified that my daddy had acted that way in public.  I wondered for a second if he said the "really bad cuss words" during his tyrade.  This was another side of my dad that I wanted to warn them about.  I knew very well the uneasy feeling if we were kept waiting too long at a restaurant.  The disquiet that would accompany a solicitor at our front door.  Used car salesmen, rude waitresses, snappy grocery clerks, and missionaries all saw the brunt of my dad's impatience.  I spent most of my adolescence courting mortification.  I didn't want to even imagine what the ICU staff had witnessed. 

But, I can't focus on that now.  We are on day three of his ICU stay.  He is making a little progress, not the leaps and bounds that I expected...but clearly, that isn't the right way.  He has been taken off the Jacko meds, so he should be slowly coming out of the fog...again.  The brute strength that he has relied on to get him out of sticky situations is of no use now.  What he needs now is quiet determination and patience.  There are a couple of machines that won't be there when I go see him today, but most of all, I hope the furrowed brow, the restlessness, and the struggle have also been removed from the room.  I want hummingbird in the hand dad back.