| 11/17/2005 |
TEARS IN HEAVEN
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*actually written 11/15/05
I cried yesterday.
As a typical activity I am not unknown to emotional outbursts. I'm a sappy guy at heart. A perfectly timed song can sneak up and make me misty if the moment is right. So as rule of thumb. Cris = Crier.
Last week my Grandfather was in the hospital with an enlarged heart, slow pulse, dizziness and labored breath sounds. During my weekly call to my Grandparents my Grandmother spoke of the incidence in the same breath as funeral arrangements. I was trying to hold it together, because I was on the road. Yet, I was freaking out inside. Had he died? Was he on his death bed?
He wasn't at the hospital at the time. He was home and doing fine. Part of me figured that he must not have been too bad off if they sent him home. The other part knows it was also a good thing to think to at least keep me calm enough to drive.
They were going to do further tests in the following days. Tests which showed that he would need a pacemaker. That was scheduled for last Thursday in Lincoln. It was a 'routine' operation, but on an 84 year old man... Nothing is routine. The doctors that examine him all talk about how stubborn he is, in the good sense. Always a good thing to hear. What could have been a simple procedure turned a little more complicated. The doctors explained that about 1 in every 100 or so cases happen like this. The were unable to run the leads to his heart through the first small incision that was made on his right side. The rest of what was said is unclear because all that was relayed to me at the time, still in Omaha was "open heart surgery." They next attempt to place the heart leads for the pacemaker were on Monday. I made arrangements to be there.
My Grandfather and I have never been super close. Not that we've ever had a falling out or any problems. We care about each other and we both know it, but it's never really said. He keeps his thoughts to himself that way and I am negligent in speaking them more often. Monday was different, obviously...
I was the first to arrive at the hospital Monday morning. My Grandmother hoped that one of us would be able to be there when the Doctor made his rounds. When I showed up I asked my Grandfather if the doctor had stopped by. He wasn't sure. In one sentence he'd tell me he had. Then a little while later he'd recant, and say he'd not stopped yet. The same was when I asked if he'd has any breakfast. He wasn't sure. He couldn't tell me what he had or even if he had any breakfast. He asked me several times what the weather was like outside. Repeating yourself because you have nothing else to talk about is one thing. Repeating yourself because you don't recall a conversation from ten minutes ago had me worried.
I watched his heart monitor and the irregular and sometimes weak pulse that it displayed. It was fascinating and frightening all at the same time. This wasn't just a rhythm that I could get hypnotized by. This was the readout of my Grandfather's heart. When it would seemingly 'skip' my heart felt like it skipped too. I'd shoot him a glance if I saw that it was not reading out normally. What was going on inside him? I teared up.
Finally my Grandmother arrived. She'd told me that she had worried he was getting forgetful for sometime. His hometown doctor has prescribed a medication to help with his memory. I forgot the name, right at the moment (no irony intended, but still kinda funny). He had not been on it since he stay in the hospital. Plus, whatever drugs they were giving him for his discomfort. Might have contributed to his memory issues.
The doctor came in and explained what they were going to do to him. Make an incision under his left pec and slip in that way to attach the pacemaker leads. They wouldn't have to crack his chest. Thank God! I didn't know how anyone could stand that, let alone an ailing octogenarian. As the doctor asked questions, my Grandmother would answer for my Grandfather. He is hard of hearing. She's used to doing that by now. It was the worst ventriloquist act. The doctor agreed and even commented on her ability to speak "for him."
He was taken in to pre-op around 1130am. He surgery was to be around 130pm. I never knew it took so long to get ready, but I was glad that the time was at hand. I watched as they got my Grandfather moved to the gurney. They loaded him up and moved him down the hall to the patient elevator. We walked beside his gurney as far as we could. The nice nurse explained what was going to happen now and where we could wait for the doctor to come speak to us. We told my Grandfather that we'd see him soon, because... What else do you say? Honestly..? I teared up. I couldn't help but wonder if this would be the last time I'd see him.
The waiting room is a special kind of Hell. It's a kind of Hell that people are in who have done nothing wrong. A punishment for those who have done nothing wrong other than to know someone. And that's not a crime. Yet there we sat for hours.
My Father and his family had made the trip from Alabama to be there for my Grandparents. They brought their children with them, which shocked me. Hospitals used to be pretty strict on not letting anyone over a certain age in patient's rooms. That is no longer the case. They were rather hyper, but what kid wouldn't be after a two-day car ride, and then to be asked to be still while adults fretted and worried. Their behavior was understandable, yet annoying to me.
My Grandmother and her brother, who was also there for support, were randomly chatting about anything under the sun. My Grandmother seemed like a lot of her speech was just nervous chatter. Anything to take the place of having to think about what her husband of over 60 years was going through. I was annoyed.
You see, when I get really stressed I need to have quiet time. I need to be alone with my thoughts. I'd rather immerse myself in what's happened, even if I do so by thinking about it quietly. Process it all. Worry about it. Hope for the best. I'm not saying it's the right or best thing to do. It's what I do.
As I looked around, the room was filled with other families doing the same thing. Some were playing cards. Others were sleeping. A few were watching CNN. All of them were ignoring the Giant White Elephant in the room that threatened each of their loved ones.
It's not that I wanted to talk about it. Yet, I didn't feel right ignoring it either.
After three hours my Grandfather's doctor came out to speak with us. He spoke directly to my Grandmother in a very even and deliberate voice. Each word carefully chosen to express the right meaning. She pulled me in close to her so that if she missed something that hopefully I would pick up on it. I was Back-up Ears.
The surgery went well. Everything went as expected. He would spend about an hour in Post-op until they were sure he was suitable to be moved back to his room where he would recover. The doctor was pleased with the operation.
My Grandmother felt relived. As did we all. Neither of us had eaten since seven that morning. It was time for food.
Once in his room, the nurses began their job of making sure everything was going ok and that he was monitored closely. Obviously weak as a kitten, he couldn't remember what happened to him. The nurse asked what his wife's name was. "George." Everyone laughed, but me. We all knew he was just being his usual jokester self, but there was a serious reason why the nurse was asking him such questions.
"In 60 years of marriage he's never actually said my name more than a handful of times," my Grandmother would say.
"What holiday is coming up soon?" The nurse continued.
"My birthday." While correct, is not what she was looking for.
He looked around the room at all of our faces. "Cris, I think they are pulling my leg. What am I doing here?" Everyone laughed.
It made me irate. Mostly, he was stoned out of his gourd because of the anestethia, but he honestly didn't know what was going on. He didn't remember having heart surgery (thankfully). He didn't even remember how he got to the hospital. He couldn't say anyone's name. Yet, he'd keep asking me if this was all some joke and everyone would laugh at how funny Stoned Grandpa was.
It was not the time for jokes, people! Laugh to keep from crying I guess...
I finally had to walk out because it was too much for me to see my Grandfather so confused and no one seeming to take his confusion seriously.
Everyone was leaving for the night. My Grandmother and I remained. He was sitting up more and about ready to have some dinner. When they say hospital food is bad, I can tell you that it isn't really 'that' bad. Yet, when you take a dietary specific meal and roll it around in a hot steamer cart from floor to floor, it loses some of it's luster.
My Grandfather couldn't cut up his food. You know, because he just had surgery. Weak kitten and wet paper bags and all that... As I stood there cutting up my Grandfather's meal of dried out herb-chicken and new potatoes, I just bawled. It was all just so odd in ways that I've never experienced before.
I've been to hospitals before. I work in one now. The air is thick with emotional energy. I know why. It's just all raw emotion. It's the things that hospitals remind us of. We break. We are not going to live forever. Miracles happen. People die. Other brand new little people are born. The whole circle of life can be seen it's various stages. That's a pretty powerful scene in my opinion.
Now is the recovery time. He'll go home in a few days. Hopefully he'll remember that he had surgery and that he shouldn't be driving for a while or climbing stairs. Hopefully he'll remember to bundle up because it is cold outside. He can't be watched all the time. It's those times that I worry about.
He'll be fine. Now is the time for the mindless chatter to drown out the mental reminders of what is worth worrying about in the world. |
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I posted this @ 11/17/2005 08:44:00 AM.............Need a link?..........
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