I write this blog as a way of getting through a difficult divorce with a difficult man who was the love of my life but turned out to be bipolar, self-absorbed and controlling. After being diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, he told me he had never stopped gambling, an addiction that had caused us a lot of pain in our earlier years. This led to me filing dissolution papers before he had a chance to run up any more debts against community property.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Code Blue in ER Number 8
I guess when you work in an ER, you learn to keep your cool in the face of any medical emergency. The intake nurse worked efficiently but didn't seem to look the least bit rushed. We were sent to a small room, number 8. By then Carmi and I were with Dad. He didn't look good. Over the past seven weeks, the intervals between the reemergences of his pneumonia had become shorter and shorter. This time they had barely stopped the IV antibiotics before his fever had returned. He was in pain. He was frightened. He had been looking at me to help him. And the delays with the doctor and now the ER admittance had felt like they had taken hours. I held his hand. I told him it was hard for us to watch him suffer. We didn't want him to be in pain, we didn't want him to suffer, and we didn't want him to be afraid. I told him please don't be afraid. I said that God loved him and was waiting for him and that he didn't need to fight anymore and he didn't need to worry. He was loved. He was forgiven. It was okay I said. You can go. Go home. Nurses came in. One said, "Sir. Sir? Can you hear me?" Then to the other nurse, "Call for the crash cart." She placed the palms of her hands on Dad's sternum. Then she looked at me. "Does he want this?" "Yes," I said. "He does."
I stepped into the hall. I covered my eyes. I did not want to see that. I did not want the memory of my father, my elegant, sophisticated father, being thumped and jumped and defibrilated to be the last thing I saw of him. I fought not to see it or mentally conjure it. I heard the call go out over the loudspeaker, "Code Blue in ER Number 8." Then again, "Code Blue in ER Number 8." They didn't sound frantic. But the personnel descended on little ER Number 8. They didn't come loudly with crash carts clanging and running feet pounding on the linoleum. They came swiftly and silently like an owl flying in the night. Instantly the room was crowded with medical personnel. I went into the next room. It was small, dark, empty. Hospital stark. I sat on the lone metal chair, stuffed my fingers in my ears, pinched my eyes shut, and cried like a helpless child. I rocked back and forth. I had never seen my father frightened before that day. I had never felt so incapable. And my kneejerk reaction was that I had let my father down. I hadn't been able to see him on Thursday and I hadn't understood the intensity of his distress that Friday morning. I hadn't known that the stupid caregiver, the one I had told Carmi to fire, the one I subconsciously and unwillingly thought of as the 'village idiot', had been in charge of him that morning.I had let my father down. He had trusted me, and I had let him down. A woman came to comfort me. She introduced herself as Kathy. Did I want a glass of water? Yes. She left. She returned. I had water. She disappeared. I didn't want to hear. I didn't want to see. I wanted this not to be happening.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment