Something wakes me early...it's Sunday and I can sleep in--past the parents scrounging their breakfasts; past the sister doing her early morning on-lines; past the dog looking for attention and toast crumbs...I can sleep in till ten, if I want; but I don't.
Showered, changed, surprisingly alert before coffee--I am trying to remember the elusive details of a particularly pleasing dream when Dad falls into his easy chair, trembling. Ann is on his heels, coughing out a series of orders to us all: "I'll get him breakfast...sit,Dad! Ma, you didn't see what I just saw...get a blood pressure cuff...Karen's is better...Dad, just sit down and stay here until I get you something to eat!"
The dog is bounding at my feet, demanding I pay attention to her before anyone else. Dad is looking withdrawn and slightly sad...his teeth aren't in yet and his pj's hang on him like a second limp skin. Mom is yelling and running around and fighting with Ann that Dad is just dehydrated...or worn out from raking leaves all day the afternoon before-solo, as usual, refusing help in the yard--or it's an aftereffect of depression over the loss of his council seat...or...Ann ignores her and yells at her to shut up. Ann saw Dad go down while he was trying to get dressed and then almost go down again, while he unscrewed the peanut butter jar, for his toast. Now he's sitting quietly while Bev is upstairs, hunting for her blood pressure monitor.
I am keeping him company. He is talking in an upbeat mood. No words slurred. No pain and clutching of head or chest or arm...he tells me his legs are acting weirdly...going weak all of a sudden...but other than that, he's fine...looking forward to "60 Minutes" on t.v. and the football games of any Sunday afternoon. Ann calls me into the kitchen: "He won't listen...he needs to go up to the ER right now...look at his color...he's yellow! And Bev won't listen, either...I think he's having a stroke...Let me get some food into him, and then we can check his blood pressure and pulse...but I'm warning you, prepare for a shitstorm!"
I bring Dad his coffee. I put it on the little coffeestand made specifically to stand up by his easy chair. No more beer in his life, this "nook" is reserved for the black morning brew he prefers--or the occasional can of Coke. His hand suddenly karate chops to the side, cleanly knocking the coffee mug half-way into the hall between the living room and the kitchen. There is a widening puddle of dark liquid slipping down one wall. All he says to me is: "Better wipe it up before your Mother gets downstairs!"
I do, alerting Ann, who pounds back into the livingroom, admonishing him, and carrying some peanut buttered toast. "Eat this and we'll see how you feel in a minute," she tells him.
His hand can barely hold the bread, but he can bite and chew and swallow fine. He's also talking sanely to us, one eye on the morning news on the widescreen. The dog sits next to him...doggedly waiting for a hand-out. "We share breakfast every morning, don't we, Maeve?" he tries to lean over and stroke her head. She backs off, aware of the trembling, empty palm.
"Go get your blood pressure cuff, Karen!" Ann barks at me. I run upstairs, take it down, feeling eighty-four, myself. "I don't know how that thing works, you put it on him," she orders. I roll up his top and attach the velcro. The cuff keeps sliding down his arm, against his bone. He's about one twenty-five these days and the cuff cannot register his bp.
I try it on myself. It's fine. The whirring computer accurately reads my rising bp....I turn it off.
Ann takes his pulse.
"It's there, but we need to get you to ER, Pop," she tells him.
He looks like he's going to say "No", but I support Ann. I'm not the gruff and ready nurse. I am the flakey California failure--but I'm the oldest and closest to any of his "sons" in the house this morning, so he doesn't argue. "Dad, let's go...just to make sure nothing's really wrong, okay?" I try not to sound like I'm begging.
Mom is down the stairs with her bp monitor, which she is loudly declaring is "the best"!
I tell her we are taking him to the ER.
He almost goes down again as we get him out of his chair and head towards the door. Mom is pulling on his jacket. Ann is telling him to take the Irish shaleighleigh he got on his trip to the Emerald Isle, so he won't fall on his face as I escort him out the backdoor. He is cursing and grumbling, but lets me take his arm. I am shocked at how chicken-thin he is...this ex-footballer and fear figure of my teen years. But, he lets me help him as he nearly stumbles to his knees, again. Finally we get to the garage. Ann pulls out the car. He and Ann are arguing as she tries to shuffle him too quickly and again, falls into that psychiatric barking nurse nobody better question me Head of ER state. Even as their medical proxy and ArchAngel daughter, this gruffness does no one any good. On the other hand, maybe it is his karma. God knows we all were held captive by his gruffness and my Mom's, when we were growing up...sigh.
We pull out of 88 Maple and head to the hospital. It's Sunday. Below us, the street is filling with older people about to attend the first morning mass at Sacred Heart. Our Church. The streets are wet and foggy. The cold of early November rushes past us. Ann navigates to the hospital, old hand that she is. This is my first trip with either parental unit there, but Ann has been doing this for years now. Still, this time she is grim.
When we pull up to valet parking there is no valet.
"Go inside and get a wheelchair..." Ann tells me.
"Don't I have to ask, first..." I am already out of the car.
"Just grab one. We'll put him in and then I'll park and meet you inside..." Ann answers.
I open Dad's door, readying him.
I enter the lobby. It's darkened and deserted. I pull out a waiting wheelchair, stunned at how unguarded everything still is in my little hometown. Far cry from the ER mornings in L.A. ! I take the chair out to the car. We practically haul Dad's bony ass into it and then, like I'm a kid pushing a grocery cart for the first time, I push my Dad inside.
We go up to the registration desk. He's got his medical info in a small wallet and hands it to me. I hand it to the nurse. She takes it. There is a young father with two croupy kidlets in front of us and some working guy who smashed his hand, with his drinking buddy. We are third. The nurse takes one look at Dad, has a mini conference with Ann, who has no arrived at our side, and they haul Dad from my hands and whisk him into the bowels of the ER. Chagrined, unsure of what to do, keyless, I sit down.
The little kids come up to me. They hold out crayons and an ER coloring book. They show me what they've done. I smile. Tell them it's great. They show me more. The young Dad gives me a wide smile, clearly relieved to have some help in the early morning. The two workmen get up when the registration nurse returns. She tells me nothing. She takes the kids and the father into another closed off room. The workmen follow and turn off where she points. I am left in silence with only the fluorescent lights for company. I sit.
No magazines.
I pick up an abandoned crayon. It's tip is worn round. Crayola. Crimson. I begin to color where the two kids left off...
Showered, changed, surprisingly alert before coffee--I am trying to remember the elusive details of a particularly pleasing dream when Dad falls into his easy chair, trembling. Ann is on his heels, coughing out a series of orders to us all: "I'll get him breakfast...sit,Dad! Ma, you didn't see what I just saw...get a blood pressure cuff...Karen's is better...Dad, just sit down and stay here until I get you something to eat!"
The dog is bounding at my feet, demanding I pay attention to her before anyone else. Dad is looking withdrawn and slightly sad...his teeth aren't in yet and his pj's hang on him like a second limp skin. Mom is yelling and running around and fighting with Ann that Dad is just dehydrated...or worn out from raking leaves all day the afternoon before-solo, as usual, refusing help in the yard--or it's an aftereffect of depression over the loss of his council seat...or...Ann ignores her and yells at her to shut up. Ann saw Dad go down while he was trying to get dressed and then almost go down again, while he unscrewed the peanut butter jar, for his toast. Now he's sitting quietly while Bev is upstairs, hunting for her blood pressure monitor.
I am keeping him company. He is talking in an upbeat mood. No words slurred. No pain and clutching of head or chest or arm...he tells me his legs are acting weirdly...going weak all of a sudden...but other than that, he's fine...looking forward to "60 Minutes" on t.v. and the football games of any Sunday afternoon. Ann calls me into the kitchen: "He won't listen...he needs to go up to the ER right now...look at his color...he's yellow! And Bev won't listen, either...I think he's having a stroke...Let me get some food into him, and then we can check his blood pressure and pulse...but I'm warning you, prepare for a shitstorm!"
I bring Dad his coffee. I put it on the little coffeestand made specifically to stand up by his easy chair. No more beer in his life, this "nook" is reserved for the black morning brew he prefers--or the occasional can of Coke. His hand suddenly karate chops to the side, cleanly knocking the coffee mug half-way into the hall between the living room and the kitchen. There is a widening puddle of dark liquid slipping down one wall. All he says to me is: "Better wipe it up before your Mother gets downstairs!"
I do, alerting Ann, who pounds back into the livingroom, admonishing him, and carrying some peanut buttered toast. "Eat this and we'll see how you feel in a minute," she tells him.
His hand can barely hold the bread, but he can bite and chew and swallow fine. He's also talking sanely to us, one eye on the morning news on the widescreen. The dog sits next to him...doggedly waiting for a hand-out. "We share breakfast every morning, don't we, Maeve?" he tries to lean over and stroke her head. She backs off, aware of the trembling, empty palm.
"Go get your blood pressure cuff, Karen!" Ann barks at me. I run upstairs, take it down, feeling eighty-four, myself. "I don't know how that thing works, you put it on him," she orders. I roll up his top and attach the velcro. The cuff keeps sliding down his arm, against his bone. He's about one twenty-five these days and the cuff cannot register his bp.
I try it on myself. It's fine. The whirring computer accurately reads my rising bp....I turn it off.
Ann takes his pulse.
"It's there, but we need to get you to ER, Pop," she tells him.
He looks like he's going to say "No", but I support Ann. I'm not the gruff and ready nurse. I am the flakey California failure--but I'm the oldest and closest to any of his "sons" in the house this morning, so he doesn't argue. "Dad, let's go...just to make sure nothing's really wrong, okay?" I try not to sound like I'm begging.
Mom is down the stairs with her bp monitor, which she is loudly declaring is "the best"!
I tell her we are taking him to the ER.
He almost goes down again as we get him out of his chair and head towards the door. Mom is pulling on his jacket. Ann is telling him to take the Irish shaleighleigh he got on his trip to the Emerald Isle, so he won't fall on his face as I escort him out the backdoor. He is cursing and grumbling, but lets me take his arm. I am shocked at how chicken-thin he is...this ex-footballer and fear figure of my teen years. But, he lets me help him as he nearly stumbles to his knees, again. Finally we get to the garage. Ann pulls out the car. He and Ann are arguing as she tries to shuffle him too quickly and again, falls into that psychiatric barking nurse nobody better question me Head of ER state. Even as their medical proxy and ArchAngel daughter, this gruffness does no one any good. On the other hand, maybe it is his karma. God knows we all were held captive by his gruffness and my Mom's, when we were growing up...sigh.
We pull out of 88 Maple and head to the hospital. It's Sunday. Below us, the street is filling with older people about to attend the first morning mass at Sacred Heart. Our Church. The streets are wet and foggy. The cold of early November rushes past us. Ann navigates to the hospital, old hand that she is. This is my first trip with either parental unit there, but Ann has been doing this for years now. Still, this time she is grim.
When we pull up to valet parking there is no valet.
"Go inside and get a wheelchair..." Ann tells me.
"Don't I have to ask, first..." I am already out of the car.
"Just grab one. We'll put him in and then I'll park and meet you inside..." Ann answers.
I open Dad's door, readying him.
I enter the lobby. It's darkened and deserted. I pull out a waiting wheelchair, stunned at how unguarded everything still is in my little hometown. Far cry from the ER mornings in L.A. ! I take the chair out to the car. We practically haul Dad's bony ass into it and then, like I'm a kid pushing a grocery cart for the first time, I push my Dad inside.
We go up to the registration desk. He's got his medical info in a small wallet and hands it to me. I hand it to the nurse. She takes it. There is a young father with two croupy kidlets in front of us and some working guy who smashed his hand, with his drinking buddy. We are third. The nurse takes one look at Dad, has a mini conference with Ann, who has no arrived at our side, and they haul Dad from my hands and whisk him into the bowels of the ER. Chagrined, unsure of what to do, keyless, I sit down.
The little kids come up to me. They hold out crayons and an ER coloring book. They show me what they've done. I smile. Tell them it's great. They show me more. The young Dad gives me a wide smile, clearly relieved to have some help in the early morning. The two workmen get up when the registration nurse returns. She tells me nothing. She takes the kids and the father into another closed off room. The workmen follow and turn off where she points. I am left in silence with only the fluorescent lights for company. I sit.
No magazines.
I pick up an abandoned crayon. It's tip is worn round. Crayola. Crimson. I begin to color where the two kids left off...
