The call came last night after supper; although it could have been a week ago, so tired are we and so long has the day been.
My aunt - "Your dad has been taken to the hospital by ambulance. The doctors are saying the family should get there. He is pretty bad."
He has terminal lung cancer and we had been told he had a year.
I live the closest to him and we are four hours away.
Three phone calls - one to each sibling. Get on the road. We're leaving now. We can get there faster than any of you. We'll see you at the hospital.
Another call - my brother "Heidi, Bill said it's a matter of hours. I'm leaving now." Bill - his best friend. My brother lives twelve hours away. He won't make it. None of us will.
Please, God. Let one of us make it.
Controlled panic.
It's not supposed to be this way. We are supposed to have a year. This death is supposed to come upon us like a dimmer switch. We are supposed to have time to adjust to each phase of darkness before the blackness hits. But no. Someone has plunged our world into blackness without warning. That kind of blackness that engulfs you and squeezes the breath out of you. I do not know how to do this.
How do you pack for what could be the last minutes with your father?
How long will I be there? Where are my tennis shoes? Why can't I find a brush? Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Why didn't I wash that last load of whites? Migraine medicine. Bible. Cell phone. I am not ready for this.
Driving, driving, driving. Will this road ever end? Phone call after phone call. More questions. "I don't know.'' "I don't know." I. DON'T. KNOW.
Twenty minutes to go, another phone call: "He has rebounded, and seems to be stabilized."
Hemorrhage from the lung. Failing organs. Fatally low vital signs. Three units of blood. Rebounding....
But.
Do not get your hopes up, the doctor says. It is time to get your plans together. It is time to consider hospice. It is time for all family to get here that will want to be here. It could be days, weeks, months. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know.
And so it begins.
The roller coaster of a terminal illness. The fear of the telephone. The spark of hope with the words "stabilized" "rebound."
HOPE.
Except perhaps it is time to believe there is none; hope that is. Only that his suffering will be brief.
Thirty six hours at home and then back to his bedside.
I do not know how to do this.
4 comments:
I know a little bit of what you're going through - I dread every phone call from my mother as both of my Grandmas have been in & out of the hospital/nursing homes in the last few months. One is dying from Alzheimer's, the other one has a prolapsed bladder & uterus. This waiting period sometimes feels more like a curse than a blessing. I pray your family finds peace & that you can work well with your siblings during this difficult time.
Thinking of you.
So sorry for you. Myself and the other ones of readers will be praying for your family.
We lost my dad February 22 of this year. My parents were here in Houston with me for Daddy's surgery. My brother and sister and my parent's life and church were 8 hours away where everyone lives but me. It is selfish of me--so, so very selfish, but I am glad that I got to be with him and MOmma the moment he left this life. I so wish my brother and sister could have been there too--all the grandchildren--but for once, I wasn't the one getting the phone call.
Blessings on you and your family as you continue to deal with the loss of your Dad.
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