I wasn’t certain that I would bother posting this, but given that there is a quasi-happy outcome to it, I figured, why not? Plus, it’s my fuckin’ blog so if you don’t want to read, just scroll right on by. Okay, rant over. So, as some of you who have read my posts in the past week are aware, I found myself caught in an unfortunate emergency trip back to New Brunswick to see to my father, who was admitted to the ICU with pneumonia and a fungal infection in his lungs, rendering him incapable of breathing on his own.
The first thing that came as a surprise to me is that he allowed himself to be intubated. My father has been waiting to die for well over a decade now, living his life in chronic pain and relegated to a wheelchair. He hasn’t had any measurable quality of life for years and as a result, every time he gets sick, he usually gets angry when he recovers. He’s also in his mid-70’s, which adds a layer of ornery to the mix. I get all my anger instincts from him. The second surprise was that the hospital had no knowledge of my existence and without proof of my identity, would tell me nothing over the phone. Apparently, living on the other side of the country didn’t sway them at all.
Hence, my impromptu trip back to the Maritimes. I’ve already walked you through what went down through the days that I was home, so I won’t rehash all of that. The morning of my departure, I visited my father one last time before starting the 3-hour trip down to Moncton to catch my flight. Still sedated and intubated, I consulted the doctor who updated me on his condition and that he would likely be that way for days to come. By virtue of this, I made the decision to carry out my travel plans and return home. There was nothing else for me to do there and I was of no help. So, I travelled home.
Setting aside flight delays, fighting through crowds in Toronto Pearson Airport and exhaustion. I got home in the early hours of last Thursday morning. On Friday morning, I received a phone call from the hospital advising that my father was taken off sedation and they removed the intubation. He was now breathing on his own and was now starting the rehab necessary to allow him to swallow on his own and complete his antibiotic regimen to fight off the infection. I missed him by just shy over twenty four hours.
I asked the staff if he knew I had been there. They offered to let him know so I passed on that he should be told I was with him for three days, had checked in on mom repeatedly and that all he needed to worry about was recovering. If anything changed or help was needed, I was to be called immediately. They agreed they’d pass on the message and let him know. It’s a difficult thing, recognizing when one has reached the point in life where one must care for one’s parents in much the same manner as they care for you. But we all get there.
I’m not surprised that my father recovered. He’s the only man I know who’s even more stubborn than I am. I’m also not surprised when he advised medical staff that regardless of his condition, he would not be consenting to intubation ever again, come what may. True to form, he was pissed to wake up and find himself well and alive, which is consistent with how he’s been for the past few years. I would have liked to have been there when he woke. Maybe if I still lived in New Brunswick, that might have happened. But you know what they say, we most often find our destiny on the road we least thought to travel.
I can take comfort in the fact that at least for the moment, my father is alive and recovering and should soon be making his way back to the care home to be with my mother. Despite how much of her mind is gone, she definitely hasn’t forgotten him and is looking forward to seeing him back home. ☯️
The Blogging Buddhist 