My father came back to life at 1:25am Sunday. It was before my son arrived from Texas and sister, from India. Dr. Chen - the ICU pulmonologist following his case - recommended she come home, telling us without life support our dad's chances of survival were slim.
I stayed in his room Saturday night, dozing off to muted oxygen intake beeps and heart rate monitors, the hum of an inflatable bed sore prevention cushion, and dripping of the catheter. Just before 1:30am, the doctor on duty stopped by and suddenly my dad was awake. After 17 hours of non-responsiveness, he became agitated and combative.
I pulled myself off the couch and he relaxed, surprised to see I was there. The physician agreed to a 10-minute break from the breathing machine and removed the mask my dad was trying to pull off.
"I'm not me," my dad said, wide-eyed. "I don't understand. How can I be someone else?" "You're you but I'm not me." He repeated variations on this theme until the biPap had to go back on and he fell into a lighter sleep. I knew he would be okay.
That afternoon I picked up my son, and the next day, my sister, from SFO - the entire little family gathered for a possible death that was averted. "He's not out of the woods yet," said Dr. Chen. "His lungs are compromised and his heart is stiff. His chances of a repeat visit are high."
I was glad Chen gave me justification for calling in the next of kin. My sister had checked with her channeler, who told her Dad's soul was ready to take off and it was an auspicious time. I spent most of Saturday reconciling myself to not having communicated everything I would have liked prior to his sinking out of consciousness.
I had begun grieving him while anticipating freedom from this particular responsibility and certain financial constraints.
When he re-entered the world of the living with his flair for the dramatic, dread of the unknown, rudeness, humor, dementia-muddled intelligence, endless repetitions, and childish vulnerability, all enhanced by his near-death experience, I became mother to an impossible toddler once again.
Comentarios