Ten days from now, Brian and Jack and I are flying to California. A very generous friend has access to a free place to stay at Lake Tahoe, and we couldn’t say no to that. It will of course be Jack’s first time on a plane, so this gives me an opportunity to reflect a bit on what I’ve learned so far.
On an airplane, they tell you that in case of a loss of cabin pressure, an oxygen mask will drop from the ceiling in front of you. They tell you to put your own oxygen mask on before helping anyone else with theirs. It’s a lesson I’m still learning, that I can’t help anyone else if my own well is dry. I have to take care of myself in order to be of any use to anyone else. Brian’s post “Impact” talked a lot about this important life principle, too.
On Sunday we were in Winchester to celebrate my dad’s 71st birthday. He was hosting a cookout and cannon shoot at his house in the Shenandoah Valley. Brian and I were upstairs with Jack and our good friend Dave Knight when my uncle Fred, who was also visiting, shouted up the stairs that Dad was having chest pains. I looked at Brian and said, “Oh, shit.” I handed him the baby and started downstairs.
Dad was leaning over in his chair on the side porch. Fred was on the phone calling 911 for an ambulance. I went out and knelt beside my father and held him. He was in such pain he couldn’t speak, only make small sounds of suffering. I held him, said softly, “I’ve got you, Pop. I’m here.” Words I’ve repeated often to my son, as of late. Well worn words, soft and smooth, meant to comfort.
Our good friend Pat Jay was in the yard, and he came over to where now Fred, Dad, and I were on the porch. The dispatcher on the phone had told Fred to have Dad lie on his side, and Dad slowly moved onto the porch floor. Pat put his hand on Dad’s back and talked to him, loudly. “Can you feel both sides? Talk to me, Jim. Talk to me.” Dad could nod and speak monosyllabic words, in gasps. “Yes. Pain.” At one point he stopped breathing, his knuckle in his mouth. I called him loudly: “Daddy!” And he started to breathe again. I thought how he looked like Jack, and how I wanted to hold him and make it all better for him.
The paramedics arrived shortly and fitted Dad with an oxygen mask. I could see his breath fogging the mask, and I knew he would be OK. Through the mask I could hear him say that the pain was easing up. After giving them a brief medical history, I asked the paramedics if we should follow them. “Yes,” one of them said. “We’re taking him to Winchester [Medical Center]. Take your time.”
I went back upstairs where Dave and Brian were sitting with the baby. I told them what had happened. I started to panic a little, pacing back and forth. Brian asked if I needed him to drive me to the hospital. I wanted him with me, but I knew we couldn’t take the baby to a busy emergency room. I looked at Dave. He opened his arms and said, “I am at your disposal.” I asked if he would stay and take care of Jack while we went to see Dad, and he agreed easily.
I made sure I got cell phone numbers for my uncle Jan and one of my dad’s friends who had already arrived for the cookout, promising to call with updates. Then Brian and I left, and on the way, we stopped at a McDonald’s drive-through for lunch, knowing we would both pass out in the ER if we didn’t eat. That sure wouldn’t help Dad. And who knew how long we’d have to wait?
When we arrived at Room 16 in the ER, Brian and I were both fed and stable, and Dad was fine.
The EKG didn’t indicate a heart attack, though the doctor said that blood clots in the chest could cause a similar kind of pain. After blood work, a chest x-ray, and a few other tests, they gave Dad the option to either be admitted or go home. He wanted to go home. He kept talking about how badly he felt that he had “ruined the party.”
In the mean time, people back at the house had started to cook the meat on the grill. Brian’s folks had arrived and eagerly taken over baby care from Dave. So when we finally got back, after only two hours in the ER, Dad received a hero’s welcome, making a grand entrance to cheers from family and friends.
Today he was scheduled for a follow-up appointment with Dr. Gemma, his oncologist, who would run further tests to see what happened and decide on a treatment plan.
I can’t see the future. I don’t know what will happen to my dad, how his health will be in the days, months, years to come. But I can see the present, that he’s here, laughing at the funny desk clerk in the hospital. I can see him with his grandson, both grinning from ear to ear. I can hold his hand and hear his voice. But I can’t do any of that if I don’t work very hard to keep myself as stable and healthy as possible.
So next week, on June 11, I’m taking a much needed breather and going to Lake Tahoe with my husband and new son. We’ll send the pictures to Pop.
