I got the call tonight that I’ve dreaded for ages. I knew it was coming, I just never knew when.
Dad ended up in the hospital again.
One of my sisters called me tonight. He was admitted. Pneumonia and heart failure. They lost him twice. Brought him back twice. Concepts like what to do about breathing machines and end of life decisions — he has a living will but I think Mom was panicking. My fuzzy brain is trying to process all this and, well, I can’t. Or won’t. I don’t know.
They’re in Florida, fercryinoutloud! It’s not like I can just hop in the car and drive like a crazy woman. Effing Florida! I knew he was having trouble breathing — we all did — and I had a ton of questions I wanted answered by a pulmonologist. If it’s not COPD, is it mesothelioma? Great that there’s no cancer, but that asbestos shit is doing something. Is the nebulizer enough? Should he be on an inhaler? Is there sleep apnea? Asthma? Allergies? The heart issues from last year have a helluva lot to do with the lungs, why didn’t anyone look into that?? WTF?! They can’t be treated in isolation!
Pneumonia again? Cheezits crackers…
I just… ::sigh::
I’m numb. That’s all I can be right now. I have papers to grade, a baby to take care of. Life goes on. And tomorrow morning I will be without my dad. He had such a fantastic life, full of love, travel, family. Am I ready to let him go? Not by a long shot. Of the 4 of us, I’m Daddy’s Girl, and if any of the other three try to play that card, I call shenanigans. They may have had him first, but I had him best. I had him all to myself.
11:15 p.m. EST
1/8/36 — 10/20/13
Another sister called me while I was writing the above, so I amended it accordingly. I’m sad and relieved. His health wasn’t the best for a while and now he’s finally breathing well. No more coughing. The last time I spoke with him/saw him was on Friday. We Skyped. He was smiling, trying to get the baby to wave at him. I never want that image to leave my mind, that smiling, happy dad. No matter what, we said “I love you”.
I’m glad today was quick. I’m glad he got to see my daughter. I’m glad he got to be in Florida one last time. I’m glad he didn’t have to put up with snow anymore. I’m glad we got to Skype just about every day. I’m glad he was mine for 32 years.
Rest easy, Dad. I’ll make sure your Selena Bean knows how much you love her. I’ll help take care of Mom. Us girls will stick together. We’ll make you proud. I’ll tell Selena all the goofy stories and jokes you told me; afterall, the apple hit every branch as it fell out of the tree. I’m so proud I’m your daughter.