A year ago today...part IV

Tuesday, September 2, 2008

Another night. Fitful sleep. No phone call. Daddy is still alive.

Another muffin to-go to the hospital.

Daddy keeps trying to talk. There's a tube down his throat. What basically comes out is a hoarse whisper. We find that even when we can hear what he says, it doesn't usually make any sense. I wonder what it's like to be hopped up on morphine. I wonder what Daddy thinks is going on. Does he think he's dying because I have flown in from Seattle and thrown myself on his bed, sobbing and saying I love you and apologizing for being a terrible daughter the past few years? Or does he even know what's happening?

It's hard to tell, seeing as how he says things that make no sense and grabs in the air at things that are visible only to him.

He's had nothing to eat or drink for more than 2 weeks. Nothing except the IV coursing through his veins. His lips are cracked and raw, dry from thirst. I ask the nurse for more swabs. When she brings them, I dip the swab in his water cup and hold it to his lips. He tries to suck on the swab. I wet his tongue, which is also cracked from dehydration.

I make my calls to Gayle and Kim. As I speak with them, I wander down the hallway. That's when I realize that outside the window at the end of the hall is Daddy's church. Mama's church. My church when I was little. Right there across the street.

When Jesse is in the room, Daddy watches him like a hawk. He has never seen me with a boyfriend before. I'm sure he is trying to figure out if Jesse is a hallucination from the morphine or if I've finally found a man.

Finally, Daddy looks at Jesse and whispers to Royce, "Well, I guess he's one of us now."

Later, he tells Jesse to come back and see him in four months. Jesse says he will.

At one point, he becomes annoyed with all of the women in the room and waves us off, but tells Jesse to come over to him. Jesse can't make out what he tries to tell him. I like watching them talk.

Jesse and I take a break. We walk to my elementary school, which is right next to the hospital. 25 years ago I had been a first grader here. We sit on the swings, and I start to cry. I can't believe that I am sitting in a swing that I might have sat in as an innocent little girl, yet can look up to see the hospital where my second parent is dying. I share with Jesse some of my childhood and the frustrations of being the child of a parent with limited mental capacity. And he was Jesse--patient and comforting.

Based on the fact that Daddy is still alive and quasi-alert, the nurse tells me that Dr. Brackett now gives Daddy a 5% chance of surviving. Doctors of different types come by throughout the day and examine Daddy. His previous physician visits, the one who told him at age 50 that since everything seemed to be normal he didn't need to have a colonoscopy. I wonder if he had had one, if it would have cut his life short by ten years or given him an extra thirty.

I am told that the miracle sign we are looking for is for Daddy to pass gas. I find this ironic, considering how often his stinky, stinky toots had sent me gagging. At a minimum, the doctor wants to hear sounds in his bowel. He puts his stethoscope to Daddy's abdomen and says he thinks he heard something. For the rest of the day, we hope for a toot.

That evening, we watch country music videos on CMT. Daddy seems to tune in once in awhile. I flip to the Astros baseball game, which Daddy loves to watch. He seems more interested in the imaginary things on the ceiling.

We turn in early, as I have to take Jesse to the airport in the morning. Without knowing how long this might go on, Jesse can't stay.

To be continued...