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It's been a craptastic few days.
In the past 72 hours, I've ridden in an ambulance three times and gotten to know yet another ER—twice.
I am fine.
Zach is fine.
Even my dad is basically fine, although he was my companion on all of those ambulance rides. Well, I guess technically I was his companion.
Thursday's trip to the ER was occasioned by my dad becoming suddenly lethargic. But a chest X-ray, a head CT, a bunch of bloodwork, and about six hours later, no one could find anything wrong, and back to rehab he went. He was back to his perky self by the next morning.
Just a few hours later, however, what was essentially a plumbing problem—a clog in the tube through which he is receiving food and medication—sent him back to the very same ER. This time, however, the problem could not be easily fixed, despite the efforts of a diligent resident and—seriously—a can of ginger ale.
We had gotten to the ER at around 7:30PM or so and stayed until about 5AM, when my dad was moved to the euphemistically named Early Treatment of Admitted Patients unit. A more accurate name would be Better Than the ER But Still Not a Real Room—basically a holding area for stable patients. Still, it was an improvement, and my mom and I were able to come back here and crash for a few hours before returning.
ERs are never a fun place to be—especially two nights in a row—and this one was no different. Only one visitor is allowed in at a time, so my mom and I kept having to trade off. At one point, I was treated to part of an episode of "Wife Swap" in the teeming waiting room while my mom sat in an uncomfortable chair and tried to sleep with her head resting on the foot of my dad's gurney.
My dad was a sport throughout—and sometimes a pretty cheeky one. At one point, while he was asleep, the resident came in to give us an update. We happened to have had our backs to my dad during the conversation and didn't realize that he had woken up—we were talking softly so as not to disturb him. All the while, unbeknownst to us, he was trying to hear what was going on. He's not able to use his voice, which made it hard to get our attention, but he finally succeeded—by hauling off and kicking me in the butt!
The real bummer about this most recent episode is that today is my dad's 81st birthday.
A year ago we had this huge surprise party for him in a restaurant overflowing with friends and family. Zach made this great collage of photos of him throughout the years, and it was wonderful to be able to celebrate the occasion with so many people who love him.
Today he had visits from all the women in his life—his wife and daughters and granddaughters. We promised him a belated celebration as soon as circumstances allow. My nieces brought him adorable handmade birthday cards. And last night, as the clock struck twelve, I sang "Happy Birthday" to him very, very quietly.
I'm pretty sure he was asleep.
He didn't kick me in the butt or anything.
In the past 72 hours, I've ridden in an ambulance three times and gotten to know yet another ER—twice.
I am fine.
Zach is fine.
Even my dad is basically fine, although he was my companion on all of those ambulance rides. Well, I guess technically I was his companion.
Thursday's trip to the ER was occasioned by my dad becoming suddenly lethargic. But a chest X-ray, a head CT, a bunch of bloodwork, and about six hours later, no one could find anything wrong, and back to rehab he went. He was back to his perky self by the next morning.
Just a few hours later, however, what was essentially a plumbing problem—a clog in the tube through which he is receiving food and medication—sent him back to the very same ER. This time, however, the problem could not be easily fixed, despite the efforts of a diligent resident and—seriously—a can of ginger ale.
We had gotten to the ER at around 7:30PM or so and stayed until about 5AM, when my dad was moved to the euphemistically named Early Treatment of Admitted Patients unit. A more accurate name would be Better Than the ER But Still Not a Real Room—basically a holding area for stable patients. Still, it was an improvement, and my mom and I were able to come back here and crash for a few hours before returning.
ERs are never a fun place to be—especially two nights in a row—and this one was no different. Only one visitor is allowed in at a time, so my mom and I kept having to trade off. At one point, I was treated to part of an episode of "Wife Swap" in the teeming waiting room while my mom sat in an uncomfortable chair and tried to sleep with her head resting on the foot of my dad's gurney.
My dad was a sport throughout—and sometimes a pretty cheeky one. At one point, while he was asleep, the resident came in to give us an update. We happened to have had our backs to my dad during the conversation and didn't realize that he had woken up—we were talking softly so as not to disturb him. All the while, unbeknownst to us, he was trying to hear what was going on. He's not able to use his voice, which made it hard to get our attention, but he finally succeeded—by hauling off and kicking me in the butt!
The real bummer about this most recent episode is that today is my dad's 81st birthday.
A year ago we had this huge surprise party for him in a restaurant overflowing with friends and family. Zach made this great collage of photos of him throughout the years, and it was wonderful to be able to celebrate the occasion with so many people who love him.
Today he had visits from all the women in his life—his wife and daughters and granddaughters. We promised him a belated celebration as soon as circumstances allow. My nieces brought him adorable handmade birthday cards. And last night, as the clock struck twelve, I sang "Happy Birthday" to him very, very quietly.
I'm pretty sure he was asleep.
He didn't kick me in the butt or anything.
posted by Jody Rosen Knower at 7:20 PM
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