Shock

There are whiskers on my dad's beard trimmer still.  It sits where he left it, in the charging cradle on the counter in his bathroom.  Each time I notice it, I'm struck by the notion that they were him and my grief is renewed.




The time I spent in that emergency room in Draper feels like a lifetime ago.  It's been six months and three days since Dad died and the memories of those three days in hospitals have become a bit less sharp.  My recollection definitely won't be perfect anymore.  I will always remember the essence of that time, but things like the order of certain events will probably become jumbled.

After my dad got wheeled into his room in the ER, I remember that I was still very hopeful about the cause of his seizure.  At that point I hadn't spoken much to the medical staff.  As that changed it became clear to me that they were extremely concerned by my father's behavior prior to being medicated.  They mentioned his general lack of responsiveness.  I still didn't really understand.  While I waited, I asked one of the attendants what they thought his future would be like.  Would he lose anything? Speech? Movement?  The girl gave vague answers.  I remained hopeful.

I sent text messages and made phone calls while I waited for an update from the doctor.  The calls I made were to my mom and my grandma and the texts went to Lauren and work.  The area I was in was strangely open.  The overall room was square shaped with the individual patient areas branching off around the perimeter, separated by hanging partitions.  In the center of the room was an area with counter tops, computers, chairs, phones, etc; everything fenced off from the rest of the room by cabinets.  The doctor was sitting almost arm's length from where I had been on the phone, just outside of dad's "room."  He called me over to look at an x-ray of Dad's head.

The x-ray was unmistakably of my father.  Somehow his head shape was unique to me.  I could have picked it out of a lineup.  The image we were looking at was taken from the side.  In the center of the film was a large white shape, in the middle of where Dad's brain was.  I initially thought that it was a tumor.  The doctor explained to me that it was blood from a ruptured blood vessel.  His demeanor was very grave as he spoke.  He kept saying that it was horrible because my dad was such a young man.  I still didn't quite grasp what he was saying.  It's unclear to me how that conversation ended.  I think the doctor told me that he was going to consult with somebody from the University of Utah hospital, to confirm his evaluation.

My next few minutes were spent either pacing, or sitting with my dad.  I can't actually remember which.  At a certain point the nurses had to close the curtain around the room so they could catheterize Dad.  The worst conversation of my entire life came next.  Again, my recollection of details has diminished in the time since; I just remember what the doctor said.  "It is extremely unlikely that he will survive."  I just remember a shudder running through me when he said that.  One of my eyes involuntarilly twitched.  Both of them lost focus and the first thing I thought was that my birthday was in exactly four months and he wouldn't be there for it.  From there my mind just kind of went into neutral.  The doctor kept talking, saying things about the severity of the injury Dad's brain had sustained.  I had to collect my thoughts because even then I knew I had a role to step into.

At this point I was given some time alone with Dad.  The ER wasn't particularly comfortable.  His room had chairs that were much lower than the bed.  I sat next to Dad, holding his hand in both of mine, crying.  I was hysterical.  There was a point where I started hyperventilating.  All the time this was going on, a portion of me was marveling at how alive my dad still looked and felt.  His hand was warm, his breath steady.  The doctor had closed his eyes.  Aside from being a bit crooked on the bed, he just looked like he was getting a little rest.  I felt cheated and angry.  I needed more time with my dad.

The medical staff informed me that, despite the abysmal chance of survival, they were going to LifeFlight Dad up to the neuro-ICU up at the University of Utah hospital.  While I waited what felt like hours, I called my mom.  We both wept as I told her the news.  I can only imagine her shock.  Selfishly, I started berating myself  for the shortcomings of my relationship with Dad.  I couldn't even remember the last time we'd said "I love you" to each other.  Mom gently scolded me.  She didn't want me to burden myself with that guilt.  Not doing that takes effort every day.

The phone call I made to my grandma (Dad's mother) was short.  She didn't cry out when I gave her the news.  Grandma's reaction was that of an emotionally strong person.  Still, I could tell how crushed she was.  She asked if she should come to the ER.  I told her we would be going up to the U of U hospital and would be leaving soon enough that she should just head there.

My final memories of the ER are of dad being wheeled out to the LifeFlight helicopter.  His body looked so meager under the blanket.  His head so exposed to the bitter cold Feburary day.  I didn't wait for the helicopter to lift off.  I stumbled back to my car, carrying a plastic bag filled with what my dad had on that day.  I'll always hate the sound of helicopters now.  I know LifeFlight helps make miracles happen for a lot of people.  I just can't separate that sound from the sadness in my heart.