My Dad has nine lives. Possibly more. Shortly after my Mom passed, he fell down a full flight of stairs. Cracked a bunch of ribs, a vertebra, and his sternum. He got pneumonia in the hospital, and spent about 3 weeks in intensive care. We though for sure that was the end for him. That was five years ago. At the end of his stay, when the intensive care nursing staff came to visit the miracle man before he got released, he said, with a twinkle in his eye, “I just love life.”
He’s had some other scares through the years, and each time we think, this is it. And then he rebounds. Now, he’s motivated by the second love of his life, Fran, who he met shortly after his first hospital stay. His hospital stays are now punctuated by the phone calls to and from Fran, which she smartly regulates.
Because I come from a large family, we tend to over do it with the visits, often crowding 6 people in the room to watch him try to sleep. I try to time my visits so I can relieve someone else, but nobody ever leaves.
Last night, my brother Greg had the night duty. And evidently it was quite a night. Greg said that at about 1am, the nurses slammed all the overhead lights on to reveal what he describes as a crime scene from the TV show Dexter. Dad is a bleeder. Always has been. And due to this week’s heart attack, he’s on blood thinners. Evidently, he needed to poop in the night, and instead of using one of the multiple call buttons to reach a nurse, or leaning over to wake Greg, he removed his IVs and tried to make his way to the bathroom. Greg described waking up to panicked nurses, bloody handprints on the walls, the bed, the door knobs, and spatters all over the room. Greg said all that was missing was a chalk outline on the floor. Dad made it to the bathroom safely, but the poop was elusive. And there's now an alarm on his bed. Evidently his nocturnal antics did him a world of good. This morning, his shortness of breath has gone away and he’s eating again. And so he lives another day, waiting until it’s time to call Fran.
He’s had some other scares through the years, and each time we think, this is it. And then he rebounds. Now, he’s motivated by the second love of his life, Fran, who he met shortly after his first hospital stay. His hospital stays are now punctuated by the phone calls to and from Fran, which she smartly regulates.
Because I come from a large family, we tend to over do it with the visits, often crowding 6 people in the room to watch him try to sleep. I try to time my visits so I can relieve someone else, but nobody ever leaves.
Last night, my brother Greg had the night duty. And evidently it was quite a night. Greg said that at about 1am, the nurses slammed all the overhead lights on to reveal what he describes as a crime scene from the TV show Dexter. Dad is a bleeder. Always has been. And due to this week’s heart attack, he’s on blood thinners. Evidently, he needed to poop in the night, and instead of using one of the multiple call buttons to reach a nurse, or leaning over to wake Greg, he removed his IVs and tried to make his way to the bathroom. Greg described waking up to panicked nurses, bloody handprints on the walls, the bed, the door knobs, and spatters all over the room. Greg said all that was missing was a chalk outline on the floor. Dad made it to the bathroom safely, but the poop was elusive. And there's now an alarm on his bed. Evidently his nocturnal antics did him a world of good. This morning, his shortness of breath has gone away and he’s eating again. And so he lives another day, waiting until it’s time to call Fran.