I did NOT expect him to nearly collapse in the doctor’s office waiting room. Or to be admonished by the staff there for NOT taking him to the ER. To have to wait on an ambulance to come get him so they could stabilize him enough to get him ACROSS THE STREET to the hospital. I also did not expect a total stranger in that lobby to ask me if she could pray for us.
I did not expect the hospital staff to think he was homeless because of his unkempt appearance and scraggly beard, sweatpants, sweatshirt, and Carhart beanie he was wearing. A nurse, garbed in PPE head to toe (we think they thought he might have had TB) asked Paige “Is he homeless?” Paige, already in shock from the gravity of the situation was instantly offended (I had stepped out to smoke and cry in my car). Her response to the nurse was, “NO! He’s MY dad!” Her indignation was still on full display when I returned to hear this story from her.
But he looked homeless. He smelled like he hadn’t bathed properly in weeks. The dirt and grime under his fingernails haunted me. He was thin, gaunt, and weak. I did the best I could to bathe him at home, but admittedly it was difficult. Getting him in and out of the bath was nearly impossible. I sponge bathed him as often as he would allow it. I tried so hard to get him to eat, but he didn’t want food.
I felt overwhelmed with fear and shame. Fear for his life because the look on the ER doctors and nurses faces told me the gravity of the situation. Even when they said, “You’re a pretty sick guy Jerry, we’re going to take you up to the ICU.” I knew then he was even sicker than I thought. Shame that I wasn’t able (financially, physically, or emotionally) to care for him as I should have been. As what I expected of myself, as what I had always done in our marriage.
I couldn’t fix him. I couldn’t make an excuse for this to my family or his. I couldn’t make it okay in my mind this time. And I was scared. For the first time, I had nothing in my arsenal to put a positive spin on this. THAT was MY job, had ALWAYS been my job. To make everything okay. And this. This was definitely NOT going to be okay. How could I have let this happen? Why did I not try harder to get him to quit drinking? What more could I have done? I had no answers and the sadness that enveloped me was like a heavy coat I could not take off, weighing me down.
The first 30 hours in the ICU, I had hope. Hope that with proper medical intervention, he would pull through and get the desperately needed help to quit drinking. I was drinking then too, and I would come home at night from the hospital, grab a beer and collapse into the sadness and exhaustion.
I don’t know what day it was that the realization hit me that he wasn’t coming home. Maybe the day they cut him down for a central line. But I know Paige and I talked. We had had many conversations over the years about not being hooked up to machines and she and I both knew he didn’t want that, but we weren’t at that point yet. We also talked to her brother; he wasn’t there yet either. We were all still holding on to some thread of hope that he could turn around, that his liver would heal. His kidneys start working properly again. We watched his urine output bag for signs of a better color (not rust colored like it was). We talked with doctors.
Jerry would be perfectly coherent at times, then other times, he would talk crazy. We would learn that ammonia builds up when the liver shuts down, also excessive fluid in the brain causes pressure to build up and cause disorientation, confusion. We were there. We tried to make light of it with him.
Paige and I came in one day to find him with a feeding tube in his nose and he was restrained. He was so mad. She and I were agreed that he wouldn’t want this. We accepted the fact that he was, in fact, dying. Getting her brother on board wasn’t as easy because he didn’t live with us. He didn’t know what Jerry had told us, what not to do. But he wasn’t ready to give up on his dad and I understood that.
Day 6. When I walked into the ICU (alone), he looked at me like, “help me, please.” He was still restrained, thirsty (he could only have mouth swabs, then tried to suck the liquid out of the sponge swab) and even with all the aggressive measures they were taking, his numbers were going down. He was not improving and all we were doing was prolonging the inevitable.
From somewhere deep inside me the anger boiled up and over like a storm taking control of its’ surroundings. I said, “NO MORE!” “No more. Stop it all now.” I called Paige and told her what I had done, went outside and dissolved into a crying heap of raw emotion.
During his time in the ICU, family, and friends made sure they were there for us. Many would stay hours in the waiting room.
Jerry was moved to the palliative care unit. I asked him if he understood what this meant. He said (weakly and out of breath) “Yes. Thank you.” I told him I loved him. Told him if he could scooch over, I’d get in that bed with him. To my surprise, he did. So, I crawled up into that bed with him
