Ad Patres...To the Fathers

July 17th, Saturday

Today started out well and happy, but now not so great. I watched my grandmother as a stroke hit her. Rushed her to the hospital and am now in the ICU. Pretty wired out, but we are here together and we will see how it goes.

It was a crazy topsy-turvy day today and I want to make sure I get all of my thoughts and feelings down. Life and death situations are not my favorite, but they merit reflecting on because you can learn a lot about yourself from how you handle...or don't handle...them.

*****
Today was going to be a fun day. Everyone is here for Pete's wedding (two days ago) and today we are getting together for breakfast at Dave & Kelly's and then it's off to the water park for lots of swimming, sunshine and fun...or so I thought at the beginning of the day. I was really looking forward to it because this was going to be an awesome event. It was going to be like old times, all of the brothers and sisters together, only with their various offspring and spouses, and we were going to reconnect.

After breakfast everyone got ready and started heading over to the water park. I was one of the last to go as I was going to take my mom and my grandma. Grace (my sister) had taken her out earlier that morning to get a bathing suit, because after the last trip to the water park she decided that she really did want to go swimming no matter how old she was. I hurried and put on my suit and my sundress, flip flops on, and out the door. I wanted to get all of the gear in the car. Towels, water bottles, sunscreen...everybody's bags and sundries...sunhats and etc. My mom was walking out of the house towards me, helping my grandma along. She is almost 90...89 for now, and 90 in October, so technically she is almost done with her 90th year on the planet.

As I looked up and at them, I noticed my grandmother was having a hard time walking and was shuffling quite a bit. At the same time my mom paused to look down at her and we both noticed that her facial muscles were spasming and pulling to the side. Immediately we both knew something was very wrong. I quickly walked to them and almost simultaneously my mom and I both said---"Something is wrong!" Briefly, while digesting it all, we thought to take her in the house. I called for my sister-in-law, and as she came out she said "She's having a stroke!" Which confirmed what my mind, in those milliseconds, was trying to convey to itself.

We turned her around and hurried her down to my car, helped her in and we were off like a shot. The moments were surreal and time ticked slowly, yet I knew they were rushing by at the same time. I kept looking over at her. She sat so quietly. The twitching in her face had stopped, but she did not look well at all. I wondered if this was it. If she was going to leave us all behind for the great unknown.

As I was driving, slalom maneuvering through traffic, like an expert skier who is racing to the bottom around newbie skiers who have no concept of what is going on behind them, I kept trying to talk to her. I spoke in English and no response. Then in Portuguese and she looked at me and tried to smile but could not do it. I put my hand on her hand and squoze it and spoke kindly, what I hoped was assuringly in Portuguese to her trying to instill in her, and in myself, that everything would be ok.

Out of all of these split seconds and few minutes I realized that the farmers had shown up to sow seeds of panic. I felt sick and hot and freaked out and in an overwhelming rush my face flushed and my eyes sprung tears. I thought "No possible way am I breaking down right now." And I shoved that panic down to the ground like a school bully. I was having none of it. There was no time for it and it would only blur my contacts and I needed to see to drive.

Over the small hill, the hospital looms up, we are almost there. I am not relieved but continue on my race to get her there.

She continues to fade in and out, dozing, startling and opening her eyes. I am trying not to jostle her. I notice she doesn't have a seatbelt on but there is nothing to be done about it now. I am not stopping--we are almost there.

I pull straight into the front driveway of the Emergency Room. I figure if now is not the time for it then there is no other time that anyone should be pulling up and parking. There is a medical staff person talking to someone in the car parked there in front of me. I hustle out, my flip flops flapping and race for a wheelchair. I know instinctively that she will not be able to walk. I open her car door, and reach in to help her out, not realizing at first that I will be bearing her whole weight as she really cannot get out by herself. I take her legs and gently place them on the ground, then I pick her up underneath her fragile old lady arms and I lift her out. She looks at me and I can see that she wants to help me but does not know how. I know she is trapped in her mind and probably very frightened.

I call out for help from the medical guy and he rushes over. He helps to get her in the chair as I explain briefly what has happened and what I know and that I think she has had a stroke. Lastly I give him her name and ask if I should come in with her or go park my car. He tells me to park and come on in. They have enough to go off of until I get in there.

I park my car, get out, open the trunk and grab a t-shirt, I pull it on over my dress, feeling awkward and underdressed. I don't know why, but even though I had on my bathing suit and my dress I felt somehow naked, fragile...exposed to prying eyes. It was not a comfortable sensation. I grab my bag and slam the trunk shut and with flip flops flapping again run into the building.

When I come in they usher me straight back to the room she is in. She is already hooked up to, what looks like, 5 different machines, they are drawing blood, flashing her eyes with light, and typing. Their questions come at me like bullets, but miraculously I have almost all of the answers. I don't understand though, how if she was here just 3 weeks ago with a similar scare that they don't have the answers to some of their questions in their database. A point of ridiculousness that I will ponder on at a later time.

I feel calm and naked. I want to put on pants and tennis shoes. I can't imagine how it must be for her, as they are starting to disrobe her. They take off her shoes and throw them in the corner--this makes me mad. They are silly little pool shoes, but they are hers and they should show some respect. At the same time, I find it ridiculous that I am mad about little plastic jelly shoes being thrown in a corner. Is it because I feel out of control? Is it because I feel protective of her? Is it because I know this is routine to them, this is their job, this is what they do, but that for us it is so intensely personal because it is her life and she is ours?

She looks so small and frail and fair on that huge bed. I wonder if she is cold and ask if she can have a blanket or not yet. She has no words and I must speak for her, at least all of the things that I know. She keeps looking at me. I hold her hand and tell her that they are taking good care of her and doing all that they can for her. I tell her that these are competent people and that they will take care of her. I avoid telling her that everything will be o.k. because I don't know if that is true and I don't want to lie to her because this all looks really bad. I speak to her in Portuguese because it is in private and I can console her and they are not a part of it, with all of their needles and vials and machines. I tell her I love her and I smooth back her white hair.

I am hoping that they won't cut her new bathing suit. I am hoping that she will be able to use it again. I wish that we were at the pool and that none of this had happened. I wonder if she will die. I wonder if my dad is somewhere here in the room as his mother is going through all of this. I wish I were anywhere but here. I am glad that I am the one that drove her here and that I am here for her. I am 40 years old and I want my mom.

They say that they must take her away to do a CT scan. They ask me if they should give her some "Clot Buster" medicine, that it is time sensitive and must be done quickly. There is no question in my mind and I say "Of course!"

They roll her away, there are a few more questions, and then I am alone in the room. It is quiet. The curtain is open. My bag and her shoes are on the floor. Her glasses are on the sink. I fold her skirt and her bathing suit. I pick up her shoes. I look around and wonder how my day came to this place and why.

*****
My mom, my sister-in-law and my grandpa arrive. Now it is all a waiting game. I feel calm and wired all at the same time. I feel relieved that my mom is here. Somehow if she is here everything will be o.k. I realize that no matter how old you are you are never too old to need your mom and that my mom is always a comfort to me when I feel things spiraling out of control.

They bring her back and they take vial after vial of her blood. It has been two hours since the stroke. She is talking now. First in Latvian to my grandfather, then in Portuguese to me, and finally her English is back. I am very happy about this because maybe now she won't die, at least not yet. They tell us that she has more tests and that she will be admitted into the ICU (Intensive Care Unit) and that she will be there at least overnight. I am glad for it. I am glad that they will be keeping her and taking care of her.

They get her settled and come for us in the waiting room. They tell us all of the rules and what you can and cannot do. They usher us back. We go past room after room after room, full of whooshing machines, beeping and labored breathing. There is a lot of whispering and quiet talking. I avoid looking in the rooms past their curtains. How awful is your life, how poorly off are you that you need to be in Intensive Care...and as bad and horrible as whatever it is that happened to you, you don't need strangers peering and peeking into your business. I keep my eyes straight ahead of me.

We visit with her, and she takes a turn for the worse. She can't speak again and they are running more tests. My mom looks very distressed and calls my brothers. After, she asks me if I can feel my dad there. I can, and I tell her so, but I don't really want to talk about it just yet. Is he here to take her away? Is he here as a comforter? Is he here to see her even though it is not quite her time yet? I wish I could see him, just once. I wish I could see his face again. I wish I could see his big ol' beard, and his twinkling eyes. I wish. I wish. I wish.

I comfort and console myself with memories and quiet words within my own mind. I look at her and I know that I love her and that she has been good to me. She has been a good grandma and she has given me so much. She's not perfect, but then who is? I watch her, and I want her to be well, I want her to be at peace. I know that if she dies that I will be sad and that I will miss her, but I also know that I don't want her to suffer or to hold on to this life unnecessarily. If it is her time to go, then so be it. I am at peace though melancholic.

*****
My other siblings get the children settled with the babysitter and come over to the hospital. I am happy to see their faces, though sorry for the circumstance. I realize how much I love them and am so glad that I have the siblings that I have. I can't believe that we are all adults now, with our own families. I miss them, even the ones who live close by. I wish we could all be together more often. This is the first time in almost 10 years that we have been able to all be together. All 6 of us. That is too long to be parted. We are independent creatures and we do what we must, but it would be better if we were together more often. It would be better for our families and for us.

They have a few minutes to visit with my grandma and then it is time for the rotation of the nurse's and we are all shooed out for two hours. We decide to go to the hospital cafeteria for dinner and to relax for a little bit. My husband meets us there as well. After dinner some go home to tend to tired children and some of us stay put and head out to Barnes & Noble for a brief reprieve and a few magazines. Then it is back to the hospital.

At the end of the night, after everyone has wandered home, I am the last one to leave. It has been a long day and I am tired, but strangely not ready to go just yet. The lights are dimmed and she has stabilized to a degree. They only come in every 30 minutes instead of every 15. She is resting, and is actually sleeping. I pull up a chair to her bed, and put my hand over the railing to hold hers. Her eyes flutter open and I am sorry for that. She looks at me and smiles and says "Oh, my little Tracy I love you. Go home, it's o.k." My mind smiles and I tell her not to worry, I'll be leaving soon, I just wanted to stay a few more minutes. She closes her eyes, with one more whisper of "My little Tracy."

I look around the room, and reflect on this day. When I woke up, I had no inkling that it would end up here. After a few more minutes of peace and quiet, except for the beeping of her heart monitor, I decide it is time to go. I let go of her hand as gently as possible so as not to disturb her and I quietly get up and leave.

The ICU is quiet and dark, most visitors have left. I take the elevator down to the main floor, walk quickly through the dark and creepy hallways that feel like zombies are on the verge of attacking and I walk out to my car. I look over at the waterfall feature and notice that there is a woman in a hospital gown sitting on the ledge. She has rolled her saline bag holder outside with her and is sitting there with an open laptop. I briefly wonder why she is there, but am also glad that she is having a peaceful moment at the end of a day in the hospital for whatever reason it is that keeps her here instead of pleasantly at home.

The night is balmy and warm and sings of summer. There are a few stars out but the giant yellow moon is bright and hangs low in the sky, obscuring many of them with its greater light. I get in my car, roll down the windows, pick a song, and drive off into the night. I am glad to be going home.