Battle Wounds

When my Dad called me at 6:43 am on a Tuesday, I knew something was wrong.

When I heard my Dad struggling to catch his breath, asking me to come get him so he can go to the ER, every petty little worry no longer mattered.  As I sat in traffic during rush hour trying to get to him, I wondered if the ambulance I just called for him was having the same problem.  How on earth could the ambulance be moving any faster than I was?  Complete helplessness settled in, and I tried to remind myself that I must focus, slow my breathing, and just take one road, one stop light at a time. 

And as I sat still on the Dodge "Expressway" my mind wandered and every memory of January 2010 came back, flooding me with fear and complete disdain for what lies ahead.  We've been here before, so I know that there will be tears and sleepless nights.  I  know that laundry will pile up, bills will be paid late, and the dog will feel abandoned.  I also know to grab my cell phone charger and laptop because we'll be settling in for the long haul.  And I know that work doesn't matter, and I don't feel compelled to give them anything more than a text that says "Family emergency -- will check in later."  And I take some comfort in knowing, at the least, that we have done this before.  That we know what questions to ask.  I know where to find an outlet to recharge electronics.  I know exactly how many minutes it takes to get from our house to the hospital and from work to the hospital.  And I know that I will make the best of working from the chair next to Dad's bedside; having take-out in the waiting room; prioritizing those things that really matter and cancelling those that don't.

I hoped and hoped that it was just the flu, a kidney infection maybe.  But when the emergency room nurse said Dad is being transferred to the cardiac unit, I knew this was more than that.  When I heard terms like MI, myocardial infarction, I could not help but wonder what lied ahead.  And while one part of me rejoiced that Dad was stable, another part knew there was more to come.

So we geared up for an angiogram.  And then we geared up for bypass surgery.  I cried.  I read.  I wondered.  I worried.  I heard stories from those who had done it before.  I felt like a soldier preparing for war ~ arming myself with information and building strength and endurance for the long day that awaited us.  I felt a sense of foreboding but did not say the words aloud.  My gut told me this would not be as easy as everyone said it would be.  And I was right. 

Surgery day came.  And we gave Dad hugs and kisses, trying as hard as we could to push the fear that this may be our last "I love you" down, deep down.  And we waited.  And waited.  Then we were delayed.  Finally, the nurse told us that surgery was underway.  Some sense of relief came and new worries rushed in, but we were comforted knowing that this step in the process had begun. 

When the doctor came out an hour after surgery began, we knew something wasn't right.  While I am grateful that Dad's surgeon took the safest steps possible to remove the cyst in Dad's chest that would prevent bypass from happening as scheduled, I felt complete and total disappointment.  The battle was supposed to be a 3-6 hour affair, not a 7-10 day affair.  Adrenaline left my body, and all that was left was complete and utter exhaustion.

But we'll rise and do this again.  I'll smile and offer words of encouragement for Dad even though fear is pulsing through my veins and stifling my breathing.  Through teary eyes I'll respond to texts asking how Dad is doing.  I'll ignore hunger pangs, too worried to leave the waiting room in search of food.  I'll be satisfied with an out-of-office notice that gives nothing away even though I really want to scream to my colleagues that I am sitting and waiting while my Dad has open heart surgery, and while your request is important to you, it's at the bottom of my priority list today.  My sisters and I will exchange hugs and hand squeezes, looks of worry and fear, supporting one another through silent encouragement.  And I'll look forward to hearing from the scrub nurse that the surgery is over and that Dad did well, that this battle is over. 

On to the next: recovery.