Life and Death
Every so often something happens that reminds us what a thin line we balance on between life and death. As you age these reminders become more apparent as declining health speaks like an owl in the night reminding you that your body is fragile. That life is only for a short time and that eventually it will all come to an end.
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The call can come at any moment. I dread hearing the telephone ring in the middle of the night, it can never be good. When I answer it I know something has happened and in a half dream like state I confront the news. Recently the call came but it wasn't the middle of the night. It happened during a simple moment when I was out with my son practicing driving. I left my phone at home as the battery was dying. It was only going to be a few minutes away from home anyway. We passed by the grocery and picked up a sandwich for dinner. As we pulled my son's Karmann Ghia into the garage my wife was there to great us. I thought she just wanted to help with the groceries and check how our drive went. Her face had a note of distress as she told me that the hospital in my father's home town had called. They were trying to locate me but I was not answering my phone.
The news wasn't good, my father had suffered a heart attack. I tried to be calm yet at moments like those so many thoughts start racing through your mind. Fortunately my family seemed to take a cue and both my wife and son immediately began assembling things so that I could get on the road as soon as possible. I called the hospital desperate for information on my father's condition but was told that under the Health Information Privacy Act (HIPAA) all they could do was tell me he was alive. "But I am his son." I pleaded. "I am three states away and about to jump in my car, can't you give me any more information?" The nurse refused. I knew it wasn't her fault, it was the fault of a medical system designed not for patients or families but for liability and profit. Still my blood boiled. "So you mean if he was dead you could tell me what killed him but since he is alive you can't give me a clue?" I expected no response and hung up.
The fault was with my father. You see, apparently in the midst of a heart attack, calling an ambulance himself and wondering if he would live or die had unfortunately not addressed his wishes concerning patient confidentiality and the status of his son to know his condition. How could he have possibly overlooked that? At least that is what the hospital seemed to suggest.
Six and a half hours driving through the middle of the night toward an unknown situation is enough to make a person think and contemplate life. Lines and darkness merge into a seemingly endless ongoing rush of lights and sounds. Minutes, hours and miles slide by yet no amount of thinking seems to provide catharsis to the mind.
When I arrived in my father's home town I drove straight to the hospital and went to his room. The simple confirmation by a nurse at station that he was alive and sleeping seemed to make me relax a little. When I approached his bed he noticed me right away. Wires and tubes connected to him in an awkward and unnatural way. My father is only 20 years older than I am and for some reason seeing him in such a helpless state jolted my consciousness and the collection of all my memories. We all know in our hearts we are aging yet it is a process that happens subtly, day by day. The only way you can really appreciate it is to vanish from someones life for ten years and then return again. The memory is frozen on the last image seen and the update is always a bit of a surprise.
There is something completely different about seeing a strong and virile person suddenly weak and helpless. It is a surreal experience that forces a reconsideration of everything. Constants are no longer constant and the ice we walk through life on suddenly seems thin and brittle. Puddles of water form around our feet and we realize a step in the wrong direction can end it all.
I watched my father for four days as he recovered in the hospital. Bit by bit he gained a little strength. Still his beard had become more grey and his body seemed weaker. Nervous I set my energy upon cleaning and organizing his house. I knew in my heart it would never last but it didn't matter. It didn't matter because it would be my father who would mess it up once again and that was okay. It was okay because it meant he was still living, still breathing the air of the world that I live.
My father's house is an old house. It's Victorian gables have graced the street before it for over a hundred years and has witnessed the lives of so many walk through its doors. My mother passed away in a bedroom upstairs. So many stories were written and ended inside its rooms. Thankfully my father is still writing his story there. Still calling it home and caring for it as only he can.
It is hard to see my father age yet I know it is much harder for him. Harder because he has to make adjustments in life. Suddenly new limitations come about and things he could once do are no longer possible. Eerily prophetic when my father last visited he shared an article with me. He had found it in a magazine in a medical office. It was about a man who twenty years ago was told he had months to live. His heart was weak and time for him was short. The man set about a course of not limiting himself. Sure, he made adjustments but he set out to find the world and twenty years later is still engaged in discovery.
They say the President has to be ready for the three AM call telling them the world has blown up or melted down. In my own way, my three AM call is much the same. It might not be North Korea on the march or a disaster a world away yet in my life the situation when that phone rings is just as dire. It likely means I have lost someone dear or a life hangs in the balance. Thankfully this time all that was lost was a sleepless night.
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The news wasn't good, my father had suffered a heart attack. I tried to be calm yet at moments like those so many thoughts start racing through your mind. Fortunately my family seemed to take a cue and both my wife and son immediately began assembling things so that I could get on the road as soon as possible. I called the hospital desperate for information on my father's condition but was told that under the Health Information Privacy Act (HIPAA) all they could do was tell me he was alive. "But I am his son." I pleaded. "I am three states away and about to jump in my car, can't you give me any more information?" The nurse refused. I knew it wasn't her fault, it was the fault of a medical system designed not for patients or families but for liability and profit. Still my blood boiled. "So you mean if he was dead you could tell me what killed him but since he is alive you can't give me a clue?" I expected no response and hung up.
The fault was with my father. You see, apparently in the midst of a heart attack, calling an ambulance himself and wondering if he would live or die had unfortunately not addressed his wishes concerning patient confidentiality and the status of his son to know his condition. How could he have possibly overlooked that? At least that is what the hospital seemed to suggest.
Six and a half hours driving through the middle of the night toward an unknown situation is enough to make a person think and contemplate life. Lines and darkness merge into a seemingly endless ongoing rush of lights and sounds. Minutes, hours and miles slide by yet no amount of thinking seems to provide catharsis to the mind.
When I arrived in my father's home town I drove straight to the hospital and went to his room. The simple confirmation by a nurse at station that he was alive and sleeping seemed to make me relax a little. When I approached his bed he noticed me right away. Wires and tubes connected to him in an awkward and unnatural way. My father is only 20 years older than I am and for some reason seeing him in such a helpless state jolted my consciousness and the collection of all my memories. We all know in our hearts we are aging yet it is a process that happens subtly, day by day. The only way you can really appreciate it is to vanish from someones life for ten years and then return again. The memory is frozen on the last image seen and the update is always a bit of a surprise.
There is something completely different about seeing a strong and virile person suddenly weak and helpless. It is a surreal experience that forces a reconsideration of everything. Constants are no longer constant and the ice we walk through life on suddenly seems thin and brittle. Puddles of water form around our feet and we realize a step in the wrong direction can end it all.
I watched my father for four days as he recovered in the hospital. Bit by bit he gained a little strength. Still his beard had become more grey and his body seemed weaker. Nervous I set my energy upon cleaning and organizing his house. I knew in my heart it would never last but it didn't matter. It didn't matter because it would be my father who would mess it up once again and that was okay. It was okay because it meant he was still living, still breathing the air of the world that I live.
My father's house is an old house. It's Victorian gables have graced the street before it for over a hundred years and has witnessed the lives of so many walk through its doors. My mother passed away in a bedroom upstairs. So many stories were written and ended inside its rooms. Thankfully my father is still writing his story there. Still calling it home and caring for it as only he can.
It is hard to see my father age yet I know it is much harder for him. Harder because he has to make adjustments in life. Suddenly new limitations come about and things he could once do are no longer possible. Eerily prophetic when my father last visited he shared an article with me. He had found it in a magazine in a medical office. It was about a man who twenty years ago was told he had months to live. His heart was weak and time for him was short. The man set about a course of not limiting himself. Sure, he made adjustments but he set out to find the world and twenty years later is still engaged in discovery.
They say the President has to be ready for the three AM call telling them the world has blown up or melted down. In my own way, my three AM call is much the same. It might not be North Korea on the march or a disaster a world away yet in my life the situation when that phone rings is just as dire. It likely means I have lost someone dear or a life hangs in the balance. Thankfully this time all that was lost was a sleepless night.
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