Dad has been struggling with respiratory fatigue, coughing
so violently that his nose was constantly bleeding. Paramedics were called and
sent away. His caretakers thought he was about to have a heart attack, either
from gasping or from exertion related to constipation (he yells when he’s on
the toilet). I visited last week to find him struggling with globs of mucus
caught in his throat and panic attacks. We went to his doctor twice. Drugs didn’t
work and he threw them up anyway. He didn’t have pneumonia or a fever, maybe he
had another stroke, it was all guesswork. He couldn’t breathe without continuous
oxygen but in order to get it prescribed he had to demonstrate he was about to
die without it. Setting up tank delivery was a nightmare. He cried when I left town
and it broke my heart.
Three days later Dad was taken to the ER. Specialists took
many x-rays, removed some goo and sent him back home. He kept insisting that if
they used the right tool, he would be fine. Things got worse. After another
doctor visit he went straight into the hospital. It happened to be my birthday
and all I could think of was how my mother’s sister died on her birthday, which
traumatized her for decades. So, like any rational person, I called my dead mother
on the old rotary phone I keep in my living room as vintage decor. I asked her
to not take him yet, and although there was no obvious response I think she
heard me.
I flew back to San Diego today to find Dad looking much
better after his “tune up.” He was holding a long vacuum suction tube that a
respiratory therapist dug up from the supply room. “It did the trick” he
beamed, “can I go home now?” He was correct; he just needed the right tool. He
was discharged in time for dinner with his buddies.
Official diagnosis: acute bronchitis and lung infection. He
also happens to have chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, cardiac failure,
asthma, diabetes, dysphagia (inability to swallow properly), prostate impairment
and a touch of anemia. He was given a choice – change his diet, get rehab therapy
and live a while longer, or do whatever the heck he wants and take the nearest
exit. He chose to live, at least for this round. Sid is a fighter and a
survivor; I got another tutorial in patient advocacy.
Meanwhile, I showed up assuming Dad would be
hospitalized for a while and that I’d be using his bed. There is no lodging in
this town on a Saturday summer night. I figured I’d be camping in the hallway
or laundry room with my emergency cot. However, I convinced the security guard
to let me squat in an empty apartment downstairs. The resident just died and it’s
being prepped for the next tenant. It’s clean and peaceful, there are no mystery
stains. I walked to the nearest bar, had 2 cocktails, then quietly sneaked back
in. Is this the circle of life? My father is happy I’m here. I’m exhausted. I’m
leaving (again) on Monday, unless I start paying rent for my own early admission.
It’s a nice room.
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