Thursday, June 26, 2008
"This?" (Update 4)
My aunt and I went back to the hospital this morning unsure of what to expect from my dad. Twenty-four hours earlier we were surprised to find a wide-eyed man ready to at least participate in determining what was or was not to be next in this journey. Later in the same day, that optimism was overtaken and saturated by the disappointment of his vacant stare. I had no idea which version of my dad we were going to get.
I purposely took extra time when dressing in the medical gown and gloves. I stared down or off into a non-specific distance, avoiding my peripheral. I did not want to glance into the room and catch a vision before I walked in fully and fully prepared for which version we were getting.
He was again propped up facing away from the entry to the room, and did not see us walk in. I took my spot facing him on the other side of the bed and clutched his hand tightly before I had even settled into a spot on the floor. Like yesterday, he looked up as if he was trying to place a vaguely familiar face. Again, it seemed to click who I was, but the excitement was muted this time. Instead he set out again to mouthing his specific and important orders, instructions, points or whatever else he was trying to say. Again, he gestured with his hands although they were bound to the sides of his bed to prevent him from grabbing at the monitors and tubes.
As he silently spoke to me, I nodded in confirmation despite not knowing to what I was agreeing. He made point after point and emphatically explained the position to which he was committed in his head. He started gesturing to something behind me. I moved to the side and looked in the direction to which he was pointing. There was only an empty electrical socket. It was red as if to indicate what could and could not be plugged in there. I gestured back toward the outlet and asked, “that? The outlet?” He nodded clearly and insistently. In and effort to confirm that I understood exactly what he was saying for the first time, I bent down and touched the outlet, “this?” Again he nodded in confirmation. He then gestured the hand signal widely accepted as the “stop it” or “enough!” signal.
My quest and prayer for clarity seemed to get an answer. Was he pointing to “the plug” and telling me to stop it? I didn’t have to mull this over very long. It seemed clear. It seems clear.
Avoiding what appeared obvious, I picked up a pad of paper and a pen. I put the pen in his left hand and placed the pad in front of him. He took to the paper with supreme purpose as if he would finally have his say. He slowly touched the pen to the paper and stalled paralyzed in the same spot. He couldn’t convince his hand to move in the ways needed to write anything at all much less communicate something.
On the same pad, I wrote two questions – one at a time. First I wrote, “do you know who I am?” The second question was, “do you know why you are here?” This time I was ready to settle for a nod or gesture of some sort. Nothing.
Tomorrow is the meeting with the family and the doctor to discuss what is next. I shared my father’s communication with the doctor who understood it more quickly and clearly than even I did, so we’re all going in with the same understanding and perception. We seem to be on the same page. I don’t want to understand what page that is, but it follows me around and into my dreams. I am now writing on and on in an effort to avoid closing my eyes and seeing that vacant look or his impassioned, inaudible orders. I am legitimately exhausted and discouraged.
I purposely took extra time when dressing in the medical gown and gloves. I stared down or off into a non-specific distance, avoiding my peripheral. I did not want to glance into the room and catch a vision before I walked in fully and fully prepared for which version we were getting.
He was again propped up facing away from the entry to the room, and did not see us walk in. I took my spot facing him on the other side of the bed and clutched his hand tightly before I had even settled into a spot on the floor. Like yesterday, he looked up as if he was trying to place a vaguely familiar face. Again, it seemed to click who I was, but the excitement was muted this time. Instead he set out again to mouthing his specific and important orders, instructions, points or whatever else he was trying to say. Again, he gestured with his hands although they were bound to the sides of his bed to prevent him from grabbing at the monitors and tubes.
As he silently spoke to me, I nodded in confirmation despite not knowing to what I was agreeing. He made point after point and emphatically explained the position to which he was committed in his head. He started gesturing to something behind me. I moved to the side and looked in the direction to which he was pointing. There was only an empty electrical socket. It was red as if to indicate what could and could not be plugged in there. I gestured back toward the outlet and asked, “that? The outlet?” He nodded clearly and insistently. In and effort to confirm that I understood exactly what he was saying for the first time, I bent down and touched the outlet, “this?” Again he nodded in confirmation. He then gestured the hand signal widely accepted as the “stop it” or “enough!” signal.
My quest and prayer for clarity seemed to get an answer. Was he pointing to “the plug” and telling me to stop it? I didn’t have to mull this over very long. It seemed clear. It seems clear.
Avoiding what appeared obvious, I picked up a pad of paper and a pen. I put the pen in his left hand and placed the pad in front of him. He took to the paper with supreme purpose as if he would finally have his say. He slowly touched the pen to the paper and stalled paralyzed in the same spot. He couldn’t convince his hand to move in the ways needed to write anything at all much less communicate something.
On the same pad, I wrote two questions – one at a time. First I wrote, “do you know who I am?” The second question was, “do you know why you are here?” This time I was ready to settle for a nod or gesture of some sort. Nothing.
Tomorrow is the meeting with the family and the doctor to discuss what is next. I shared my father’s communication with the doctor who understood it more quickly and clearly than even I did, so we’re all going in with the same understanding and perception. We seem to be on the same page. I don’t want to understand what page that is, but it follows me around and into my dreams. I am now writing on and on in an effort to avoid closing my eyes and seeing that vacant look or his impassioned, inaudible orders. I am legitimately exhausted and discouraged.
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