What matters, or Reprieve
My father is in the hospital with severe sepsis. For the uninitiated among you, sepsis is basically an infection of the blood, or an overall body infection — an infection run amok. It’s when the bacteria attacking the body are so extreme and vigorous that the body essentially gets overcome trying to fight it and inflamed to such a degree as to damage the organs of the body.
When my dad was brought to the emergency room by ambulance on Tuesday night, I was told — after being held in the waiting room for nearly an hour — that he had severe sepsis. Upon reading the definition just now however I realize he was actually in septic shock — the third and last level of sepsis — the identifying attribute being extremely low blood pressure, which he had, in addition to all of the other symptoms. I know, I saw, and I should have written down, his blood pressure of 79/40. His fever was 102.
But it was the mask of pain and trauma on his face when we were finally allowed to enter the “room” (really, it was a half-room, divided by a curtain) that was most arresting. His body was rigid, his chin rising up, his head extended backward at an unnatural angle. His eyes were squeezed shut, and he either wouldn’t or couldn’t open them. Although he didn’t seem unconscious, he wasn’t able to open his eyes or speak or murmur or show he heard me at all. His brow was furrowed in agony and remained so for the duration.
I later learned he had been catheterized and that it hadn’t gone well and that there was a lot of blood. Later, several hours later, I saw this blood, seeped into the pads beneath him, as the orderly, Brian, and the accompanying nurses, lifted him from the gurney to a hospital bed in Room 9750 at 2 a.m.
The next day, my dad was better. Color had returned to his face, but he was still exhausted and profoundly confused. Fading in and out, unable to speak or focus on my face, but the trauma in his face was gone. I thanked God for that.
The next day, he was good. Smiling, chuckling, warm, almost back to his old self. His old self has advanced dementia, so he was still seeing ships sailing by, “There goes the Baruna!” (the California Maritime Academy’s sailboat that he used to take out). “Look at that cargo!” he’d say of the heavily loaded container ships evidently passing by the window.
When we looked, we just saw the houses and warehouses of the flatlands of Oakland tumbling down to the glistening bay, but that was normal. Seeing ships passing by at any and all hours of the day was baseline for my dad, and has been for at least the last several years. On a ship, seeing a ship, seeing a girl on a ship (a redhead, if you must know)… his visions almost invariably involved ships.
The next day was Friday. I hadn’t been in the office all week due to my dad’s illness. I wanted to be near, I wanted to see him in the hospital. But, after two good days and steady improvement, I felt it was safe to work all day and accept a dinner invitation. So, that’s what I did. Worked all day in my home office and dined out with a tango friend at a great Berkeley restaurant 20 minutes from my house where we shared a T-bone steak.
The next day, Saturday, was a different matter altogether. I entered the room in good spirits and found my dad basically unconscious again, and unwake-able. While I was there, distressed, the neurologist on the floor came by. He couldn’t wake him either. He slapped the soles of his feet, pulled on his hands, and yelled in his ear. He was so obtrusive that I wanted to ask him to stop. But, incredibly, my father wouldn’t wake.
Shortly after that, I notified my brother and two sisters that they should come as soon as possible. I reminded them that my dad has a DNR — a Do Not Resuscitate order. In other words, he made clear long before that he wanted no extraordinary measures, that he wanted to die a “natural death,” when the time came.
My siblings were upset and wanted to change the DNR. I assured them that our father had the middle level — that he’d receive some care, just not extreme measures, but that he was receiving more care than simply comfort measures. He was on four different antibiotics simultaneously, for example, to fight the sepsis.
I slept poorly last night and woke anxious. I wanted to go straight to the hospital, but my daughter was still sleeping. I knew she’d likely been on her phone late into the night, that chances were good she’d fallen asleep later than I had. It was Sunday morning. I wanted to let her sleep.
I padded over and got my neighbor’s New York Times (they give it to me every Sunday as they prefer to read it online). I made coffee. I sat on the front stoop and sniffed the soft morning air, redolent of earth and grass and Springtime.
I teared up a few times. I spent some time castigating myself. “We didn’t have enough picnics with dad!” I wailed inside my head. “Why didn’t we have more picnics?! How hard was it to make picnics happen, when you knew that was his favorite thing in all the world?”
I told myself, “You knew this would happen, that this time would come, and you still didn’t take your father on enough picnics. WHY NOT?”
Then, my mind would jump to the next castigation. “When did you last take him to the ocean? You know how he loves the ocean! Why didn’t you take him to the ocean more! NOW IT’S TOO LATE.”
And then, “Why did you allow him to be in that nursing home? When you knew it was sub-par? When you knew it was wrong?”
And on. And on.
I was quiet and distracted. Aggrieved.
I tried to wait patiently. I tried to enjoy myself on the front stoop. To feel the rays of Spring sunshine. To read the articles that interested me. But, I was agitated. My breath came short. I had to keep reminding myself to take full breaths.
I realized I’m not ready. I’m not ready for my dad to die. I know I’ll never be ready. But I have got to be readier than this. Right now, I feel I will fall apart when it happens. I feel that I will not be able to withstand the searing grief. It cuts like a knife, as Brian Adams once said in an old song. That’s true. That’s how it feels.
I’ll never forget how much grief hurt when our dear Colleen died three years ago. How I drifted about the house basically wailing, unable to stop, unable to care who heard. Unable to control myself. I’m sure I was distressing to the kids. The pain was extreme. It cut, yes, like a knife. It hurt, physically. I’m not ready for that again. And I’m terrified it will be even worse with my dad. How does one prepare for this?
Finally, I shut the paper and burst into the house and up the stairs.
“Donny? Donny!” I shook my daughter awake.
She understood. She got up. She got ready.
I didn’t know what to expect. We parked. As we neared the hospital, I braced myself.
When we got there, my dad was awake. He was himself. He chuckled. He smiled. He saw container ships and sailboats passing by his window. Order was restored.
