I have pondered what to write about when it came to last November. The month from hell, but also the month I will treasure - in a bitter sweet sort of way. The way you treasure an old pair of pyjamas that you don't wear any more, but you cannot get rid of them because even though they clutter your closet, they made you comfy. Any maybe when you run your hand across the faded flannel or cotton or whatever-material-it-is-made-of, you will feel comforted. Or maybe I just have a thing for old pyjamas However, I digress. This was a tough month. A fucking brutal month at times to be quite honest. I knew that one day I would have to go through this, but I did not think it would be so soon. I mean really, is there a GOOD time to go through this? No. It all started on Thanksgiving (Canadian), even though I did not know it at the time. I had some intuition that something was not quite right in my world. Something was very wrong with my Dad.
I knew he was not healthy. Not in the way that he had been in the summer. The week of Halloween I called him daily. Well, I called him daily for years, but this week I called him a few times per day. I guess I knew. His breathing sounded worse as the days went on and I got mad. I was pretty pissed off. Finally, on November 2, I called him in the morning and told him to call 911 or I was going to call. I called back and he answered and I heard the sirens. And then it sunk in and I got scared. He dropped the phone because (I late found out) he passed out due to lack of oxygen. The phone stayed connected and the ambulance attendants put the phone in his pocket, not knowing I could hear EVERY. SINGLE. THING. I became terrified. I started to cry. I started to scream into the phone for someone, anyone to pick it up and tell me what was going on. And then I went silent. I listened to hear which hospital he was going to. I waited to hear his voice - something that let me know he was OKAY. He coughed. It was enough. When I got to the hospital, he was not in the room they directed me to - he was still in triage. They wheeled him into his own private little room in the ER where I waited, and he looked bad. I think I knew then he was not going to be coming home. Don't get me wrong, he was talking, he was alert. He was apologizing to me. Over and over. Telling me he thought he was drowning when he was in the ambulance, that it scared him. And I thought NO! He CANNOT be scared! He is TOUGH! And all I could do is nod my head. The doctor came in, asked how he was feeling and then looked right at me, instead of him and spoke to ME. I followed the doctor out of the room and asked how serious it was. The doctor looked at me and said bluntly "It is critical. He had 0% oxygen when we brought him in. He was being bagged when they brought him to the ER". And a little piece of me wanted to run away and cry. But I stayed. My god, I stayed.
I knew he was not healthy. Not in the way that he had been in the summer. The week of Halloween I called him daily. Well, I called him daily for years, but this week I called him a few times per day. I guess I knew. His breathing sounded worse as the days went on and I got mad. I was pretty pissed off. Finally, on November 2, I called him in the morning and told him to call 911 or I was going to call. I called back and he answered and I heard the sirens. And then it sunk in and I got scared. He dropped the phone because (I late found out) he passed out due to lack of oxygen. The phone stayed connected and the ambulance attendants put the phone in his pocket, not knowing I could hear EVERY. SINGLE. THING. I became terrified. I started to cry. I started to scream into the phone for someone, anyone to pick it up and tell me what was going on. And then I went silent. I listened to hear which hospital he was going to. I waited to hear his voice - something that let me know he was OKAY. He coughed. It was enough. When I got to the hospital, he was not in the room they directed me to - he was still in triage. They wheeled him into his own private little room in the ER where I waited, and he looked bad. I think I knew then he was not going to be coming home. Don't get me wrong, he was talking, he was alert. He was apologizing to me. Over and over. Telling me he thought he was drowning when he was in the ambulance, that it scared him. And I thought NO! He CANNOT be scared! He is TOUGH! And all I could do is nod my head. The doctor came in, asked how he was feeling and then looked right at me, instead of him and spoke to ME. I followed the doctor out of the room and asked how serious it was. The doctor looked at me and said bluntly "It is critical. He had 0% oxygen when we brought him in. He was being bagged when they brought him to the ER". And a little piece of me wanted to run away and cry. But I stayed. My god, I stayed.
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