Happy Birthday, Dad.
I started this post months ago and finally decided to finish it today, the day my dad would have turned 64.
When my dad died a little over three years ago, Al helped ease my entry into the club and for that (and many other things) I will be eternally grateful. It wasn't a surprise that it would happen, that's for sure. Dad had had many close calls. A lifetime smoker, he had his first heart attack at age 47. It was the day I was coming home from my first year of college. A buddy of mine had picked me up in Berkeley and we drove down to Northridge. About a block away from home, we, thinking we were so clever, called my mom to say we were almost there. She sounded funny, but I didn't understand why. As we made the last turn to my house, I saw a fire truck and an ambulance and remarked "that's not my house" because there was no way that could be happening there. But it was my house and it did happen there.
He quit smoking for about 9 months before he started up again. Heart attack number 2 was about 2 years later. And heart attack number 3, which led to triple bypass surgery was on Halloween 1993. Again, he stopped smoking for awhile, but started up again. I think once he passed the 2 year mark, he figured he was in the clear and could smoke all he liked. And I guess he did. I don't really know, since I lived at least 400 miles away (I was in Massachusetts for heart attack 3) and it's not like he would give me an accounting every day of what he smoked.
Heart attack number 4 was in December 2001, followed by a diagnosis of congestive heart failure a few months later, at which point he finally gave up smoking for good. It was the right doctor that got him in line. Essentially, the doctor said something along the lines of "do what you want, I don't care. But if you want to be around for your daughter's wedding, you had better give up the smokes." So he did. But it was too late. 2002 saw him hospitalized at least once a month, once to get this fancy, schmancy pacemaker that was to make his heart pump more efficiently. Unfortunately, it was too little too late. He did muster the strength to walk me down the aisle at my wedding. I bought travel insurance for my honeymoon because there was always the chance he would end up back in the hospital at any time. He slowly deteriorated. By October, a trip to the supermarket was too much for him.
It was also in October that my mom was diagnosed with colon cancer. After surgery to remove a chunk of her innards, she went to stay at my aunt's house because my dad was too frail to take care of her. And he was too embarrassed by that fact that he didn't go visit her at all during the week or so she stayed at my aunt's. He also started to lose weight. A lot of weight. His doctor told him to have protein shakes, but to make them with ice cream instead of milk. It didn't work. He was tired all the time and he aged. A lot.
He went into the hospital the first week of December. I had called my mom after a job interview and she told me that she thought this would be his final stay there and that I should head to LA asap. I tied up some ends and jumped in the car, begging the powers that be to not let him die before I got there. That was a Thursday. I remember offering to go out and get him a hot fudge sundae and for the first time ever, my dad, the chocoholic that chocoholics look up to, declined. He wasn't hungry. Since my brother was staying with my mom, I crashed at my aunt's house that night and went straight to the hospital on Friday morning. By this point his heart was working too hard to get blood circulating and it basically didn't get everywhere it needed to go. Essentially, what happens with congestive heart failure is that when the blood doesn't get where it needs to go, it just pools and basically the person drowns in his or her own body. It was clear that he was beginning to not get enough oxygen to his brain and my incredibly smart dad stopped being lucid. He would sort of switch between saying lucid things and gibberish. It was terrifying. My dad's best friend left the hospital in tears telling me how hard it was for him because, while I was losing my dad, he was losing his best friend.
Except for a quick trip to the mall to buy some clothes (since I had gone straight from work), I didn't leave the hospital. I stayed all night, listening to him struggle to breathe and gasp in what sounded like pain. But they assured me that he had sufficient morphine to be comfortable. Gradually, they increased the dosage overnight. His amazing doctor called several times to check on how things were going and to alter the medication. Hospitals are incredibly noisy overnight. You wouldn't think so, but they are what with the nurses going in and out of the rooms to check things and the sound of alarms going off to notify nurses that they need to switch IV bags or some such thing. Dad gasped and struggled for breath all night long. I think I finally fell asleep at around 3.
At 4am, my dad's sister from Michigan called in a panic, wanting to know what was going on. So they woke me to tell her. I don't think I went back to sleep and I was afraid to even take a short walk because I didn't want him to die alone. That's why I stayed over. Gradually the time between painful breaths got longer and longer.
On Saturday morning, my mom came over. Then my cousin and my dad's other sister (who had flown in from New Jersey) arrived. I can't remember if my brother arrived before or after they did. All I know is we were yapping about something and he just died.
I thought I would be writing this as an advisory to smokers about how ugly death from smoking can be. I listened to my Dad gasp for breath. I heard him speak and make no sense and not remember who was there or what he had said to them. I saw him wither away. My formerly 200+ pound father weighed maybe 160 pounds at the end. And the fancy pacemaker, a small rectangular thing about the size of a pack of cigarettes, stuck out from his body, almost as a reminder of how he had gotten this sick in the first place. At the end, he looked like he was in terrible paid, his mouth was open, his eyes were closed, and when he died he turned a horrible shade of yellow. I don't know the exact moment he died, but mom did. All I know is that it got quiet. Scarily quiet. He was wasn't making noise and we stopped talking. We called a nurse and she confirmed he was gone. I was the first one out of the room. I just couldn't be there anymore.
Then we all left. And my cell phone rang. The aunt from Michigan called in a panic. I guess she called every cell phone she could think of and I was the idiot who answered and got to tell her that her baby brother had died. Somehow, I had to be the one to console her. Swell. Not exactly what I had in mind. I honestly have no idea what happened next. I probably called G tell him to come to LA for the funeral and to take care of me.
I guess that's about all I have to say about that. I'll try to be more cheery next time.
When my dad died a little over three years ago, Al helped ease my entry into the club and for that (and many other things) I will be eternally grateful. It wasn't a surprise that it would happen, that's for sure. Dad had had many close calls. A lifetime smoker, he had his first heart attack at age 47. It was the day I was coming home from my first year of college. A buddy of mine had picked me up in Berkeley and we drove down to Northridge. About a block away from home, we, thinking we were so clever, called my mom to say we were almost there. She sounded funny, but I didn't understand why. As we made the last turn to my house, I saw a fire truck and an ambulance and remarked "that's not my house" because there was no way that could be happening there. But it was my house and it did happen there.
He quit smoking for about 9 months before he started up again. Heart attack number 2 was about 2 years later. And heart attack number 3, which led to triple bypass surgery was on Halloween 1993. Again, he stopped smoking for awhile, but started up again. I think once he passed the 2 year mark, he figured he was in the clear and could smoke all he liked. And I guess he did. I don't really know, since I lived at least 400 miles away (I was in Massachusetts for heart attack 3) and it's not like he would give me an accounting every day of what he smoked.
Heart attack number 4 was in December 2001, followed by a diagnosis of congestive heart failure a few months later, at which point he finally gave up smoking for good. It was the right doctor that got him in line. Essentially, the doctor said something along the lines of "do what you want, I don't care. But if you want to be around for your daughter's wedding, you had better give up the smokes." So he did. But it was too late. 2002 saw him hospitalized at least once a month, once to get this fancy, schmancy pacemaker that was to make his heart pump more efficiently. Unfortunately, it was too little too late. He did muster the strength to walk me down the aisle at my wedding. I bought travel insurance for my honeymoon because there was always the chance he would end up back in the hospital at any time. He slowly deteriorated. By October, a trip to the supermarket was too much for him.
It was also in October that my mom was diagnosed with colon cancer. After surgery to remove a chunk of her innards, she went to stay at my aunt's house because my dad was too frail to take care of her. And he was too embarrassed by that fact that he didn't go visit her at all during the week or so she stayed at my aunt's. He also started to lose weight. A lot of weight. His doctor told him to have protein shakes, but to make them with ice cream instead of milk. It didn't work. He was tired all the time and he aged. A lot.
He went into the hospital the first week of December. I had called my mom after a job interview and she told me that she thought this would be his final stay there and that I should head to LA asap. I tied up some ends and jumped in the car, begging the powers that be to not let him die before I got there. That was a Thursday. I remember offering to go out and get him a hot fudge sundae and for the first time ever, my dad, the chocoholic that chocoholics look up to, declined. He wasn't hungry. Since my brother was staying with my mom, I crashed at my aunt's house that night and went straight to the hospital on Friday morning. By this point his heart was working too hard to get blood circulating and it basically didn't get everywhere it needed to go. Essentially, what happens with congestive heart failure is that when the blood doesn't get where it needs to go, it just pools and basically the person drowns in his or her own body. It was clear that he was beginning to not get enough oxygen to his brain and my incredibly smart dad stopped being lucid. He would sort of switch between saying lucid things and gibberish. It was terrifying. My dad's best friend left the hospital in tears telling me how hard it was for him because, while I was losing my dad, he was losing his best friend.
Except for a quick trip to the mall to buy some clothes (since I had gone straight from work), I didn't leave the hospital. I stayed all night, listening to him struggle to breathe and gasp in what sounded like pain. But they assured me that he had sufficient morphine to be comfortable. Gradually, they increased the dosage overnight. His amazing doctor called several times to check on how things were going and to alter the medication. Hospitals are incredibly noisy overnight. You wouldn't think so, but they are what with the nurses going in and out of the rooms to check things and the sound of alarms going off to notify nurses that they need to switch IV bags or some such thing. Dad gasped and struggled for breath all night long. I think I finally fell asleep at around 3.
At 4am, my dad's sister from Michigan called in a panic, wanting to know what was going on. So they woke me to tell her. I don't think I went back to sleep and I was afraid to even take a short walk because I didn't want him to die alone. That's why I stayed over. Gradually the time between painful breaths got longer and longer.
On Saturday morning, my mom came over. Then my cousin and my dad's other sister (who had flown in from New Jersey) arrived. I can't remember if my brother arrived before or after they did. All I know is we were yapping about something and he just died.
I thought I would be writing this as an advisory to smokers about how ugly death from smoking can be. I listened to my Dad gasp for breath. I heard him speak and make no sense and not remember who was there or what he had said to them. I saw him wither away. My formerly 200+ pound father weighed maybe 160 pounds at the end. And the fancy pacemaker, a small rectangular thing about the size of a pack of cigarettes, stuck out from his body, almost as a reminder of how he had gotten this sick in the first place. At the end, he looked like he was in terrible paid, his mouth was open, his eyes were closed, and when he died he turned a horrible shade of yellow. I don't know the exact moment he died, but mom did. All I know is that it got quiet. Scarily quiet. He was wasn't making noise and we stopped talking. We called a nurse and she confirmed he was gone. I was the first one out of the room. I just couldn't be there anymore.
Then we all left. And my cell phone rang. The aunt from Michigan called in a panic. I guess she called every cell phone she could think of and I was the idiot who answered and got to tell her that her baby brother had died. Somehow, I had to be the one to console her. Swell. Not exactly what I had in mind. I honestly have no idea what happened next. I probably called G tell him to come to LA for the funeral and to take care of me.
I guess that's about all I have to say about that. I'll try to be more cheery next time.
posted by JenL at
1:54 PM
2 Comments:
i'm sorry you had to go through that.
i don't know what to say.
By
dizzy von damn!, at 9:48 AM
I'm sorry I didn't get to read this until today. I can tell you that I know I was lucky to meet your dad. I was so lucky to see the look on his face as he walked his baby girl down the aisle. It was a combination of adoration, pride, nostalgia, and sadness that his baby girl was all grown up and on her own. But mostly, of course, his eyes were full of love.
He was a lucky man. He had a wonderful daughter, a wonderful son, and YOUR MOM, who was so wonderful as to deserve all caps all the time.
I know how hard the past several years have been for you. How you miss both of them every second of every day. I'm so glad you have G and Bug for comforting snuggles every day.
Kisses.
By
Anonymous, at 9:30 AM
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