I keep thinking about writing about my past week, but I don't have the words. Each time I try, I fall short because what words could there possibly be for the emotions behind bringing my dad to the hospital on Tuesday night and having him die on Sunday?
We took my dad to the ER on Tuesday evening because he had been lying in bed for about a week. He said he was constantly tired, dizzy, and without appetite. I forced him to go to the family doctor on Tuesday during the day, and she called later and said that his numbers were all wrong, and we had better take him now to the ER. Dad was in bed, so I knocked on the door, and he groaned.
"Dad, the doctor called and said we need to take you to the emergency room."
"Uhhh. Right now? Whyyy?"
"Dad, she said that your blood count is very low, and your liver enzymes are high. Don't you want to go to the hospital now, so that you can feel better sooner?"
Dad got up, and we took him to the ER. We were given a beeper with a number 37 on it. My dad was so confused that every time they called a number, he would stand up and say that it was our turn.
"100!"
"That's me!"
"No, Dad, we are number 37."
(A little later) "104!"
"That's me!"
"Dad, look at our beeper. It says 37."
This memory makes me laugh, although my dad was a very intelligent man, and when you think about how this was indicative that there was a health problem, it is a little less funny. Anyway, we get in to see the doctor, and the doctor suggests it might be liver disease. He takes blood tests, and he says that Dad will need a blood transfusion, and they will keep him overnight. Dad kept trying to get us to leave because he was worried about TJ going to work the next day and me picking up Blake. Eventually, we did go home before he got admitted to the hospital.
The next day (Wed.), I called the hospital to find out what was going on, and they said they were taking him for a CT scan of his lungs because Dad was saying he was short of breath. So when the test was over, Blake and I went in to see him. He was exhausted because they had him up all night with tests and things. So we only stayed for a few minutes. I told him I was going to let him rest, and we would come back in the evening. But when we arrived that evening, he was sleeping. I didn't want to wake him. We spoke to the doctor, and the third word out of his mouth was "oncology." I knew what that word meant, so before he even talked about the diagnosis, I knew what he was going to say. He told us that Dad had cancer in his liver and his lungs, as well as a few other health concerns. He did not know yet the extent of the damage and what treatments might be helpful, but he said we should talk with my dad about what measures he might want to take. When I got home, I had to make phone calls to my family that Dad has cancer.
On Thursday morning, I got a call that they were going to do a biopsy in the morning, so Blake and I were going to go to the library for playtime and head to the hospital afterward. On my way to the library, they called me to say that Dad had trouble breathing after his test and do I give permission to put in a breathing tube. My answer was YES YES YES! I turned the car around and headed to the hospital where my whole family was there waiting. Apparently the doctor had told my aunt that she better tell everyone to come because this might be it. My dad was in the ICU. He was sedated with a breathing tube. It was hard to see him, but he was peacefully sleeping at that time. The biopsy on his lung, where they had punctured to get some tissue out, made him bleed, and he couldn't breathe. He was coughing up a lot of blood (but not too much by the time I saw him). They said that the next step was to turn the sedation off in the morning and let him wake up so they could remove the breathing tube.
On Friday morning, they turned off sedation and told me that Dad would probably be awake by the afternoon. So I went in during the afternoon, but Dad was not awake. They said due to the damage in his liver, he would probably take a while to flush out the sedation meds. I was all alone on Friday, and it was terrifying to see Dad like that. He was coughing a lot, which sounded like vomiting. And he was moving around. It was on Friday that I just held his hand and talked to him a lot, trying to comfort him. He seemed so distressed. He opened his eyes a little, but he didn't focus them. There was one time that I was sure he was looking at me, and I said, "Dad, you know I love you, right?" And he nodded. That was the last two-way communication we had.
On Saturday morning, the doctor called me to say that Dad would have weeks to live at most, with the breathing tube or without. They were fairly certain he could breathe on his own, but they aren't allowed to take the tube out if Dad wasn't cognitively able to follow commands that they gave him (i.e. wiggle your toes, squeeze my hand). They said we needed to figure out when we would want to take the tube out, and in the event that he needed his heart restarted, would he really want that if he knew he would only live "weeks at most" more? These are not easy questions to answer. My dad has a living will that states he doesn't want to live on machines in the event of an incurable disease. Jason and I decided that Dad would not want to keep having this breathing tube and hydration machine sustaining his life. We didn't know if Dad would breathe on his own afterward, so we told all family who wanted to be there, they ought to say goodbye just in case. We were expecting that Dad might die that day, so my brother and I kind of made peace that day and said our goodbyes. There were many people there, which was really great. Dad tolerated the extubation, and when we left that evening, he was stable and breathing at 85%.
On Sunday morning, I called to check up on him, and they said that he was still stable, and they were going to move him out of the ICU. At this point, we knew it was just a waiting game for his death because of the decisions we had made. I chose not to go in that morning because sitting by his bedside was not comforting for him or for me. Dad was on high doses of morphine at that point, so he was sleeping peacefully and not aware of our presence. I was planning on stopping in after lunch time, so I called to check again at that point, and that is when the nurse told me he had just passed (probably a minute before my phone call). And it was weird. We were expecting it at any moment, and yet, when I called, I was expecting her to say there were no changes. And the weird thing about situations like this is that you kind of just want to curl up in a ball, but there are phone calls to be made. I made those phone calls, and TJ and I headed in to see him. Seeing my dad this time was much different because I didn't see his chest rise and fall. It was too hard, I only stayed in the room for a minute.
We went back home, and I cried myself to sleep thinking about how cruel this week had been. I can say without hesitation that I am at peace, given the circumstances, with the medical decisions that we made and the fact that he went so quickly. But why the hell did the circumstances have to be like that in the first place? A week ago, we were just at home wondering why Dad was sleeping all the time. And a week before that, Dad was up and moving, complaining that he was feeling sick. And a week before that, he was 100% normal, fully functioning.
So now I am left to handle the arrangements, figure out the financials (when the medical bills start rolling in), and sort through my dad's files and belongings. This is too much for someone to handle, especially a pregnant woman with a sick toddler. Shouldn't I just be grieving right now instead of being bombarded with questions and decisions? Doesn't anyone understand that in a whirlwind, I just lost my dad? I don't know what else to say or how to finish this post.
