As we sat in the surgical waiting room, time seemed to slow to a crawl. I was aware of every sound, smell, movement and person sitting around us. But, as aware as I was, I also had the feeling that I wasn't really there- I was in another's shoes, the saddened, swollen-eyed daughter of another man who was in the fight of his life.
This wasn't really happening.
This surely was not happening to me. To my father. To my family. To my life.
I hadn't slept last night, I kept having nightmares about my father laying in a morgue, grey, cold and dead, but somehow still able to open his eyes and look at me, expecting, waiting, hoping. This accident was already haunting me and haunting my dreams.
I thought back to the nightmares and shivered.
Looking around I could see my grandmother mindlessly knitting to keep her hands from shaking. Her small body engulfed by the round, plastic of the chair- her short legs stretched out in front of her on the end table littered with torn magazines and day old newspapers. My grandmother's boyfriend sat stretched out in the chair next to her, eyes on the television that hung on the wall. My mother sat next to me with her hands in her lap, looking forward, and every once and a while glancing over at me, checking on me, caring-like she always has. My uncles sat talking with my aunt, occasionally laughing or making a joke and then suddenly realizing what they were doing...laughing! At a time like this! Sometimes I wonder who invented those rules, those social-norms or codes of conduct we all grow to learn and know and follow, blindly.
It was this my mind toyed with instead of concentrating on the horrific circumstances at hand. Why can't we laugh in a surgical waiting room? Is laughing or making a joke about a deceased person really going to make a difference? Is laughing going to "jinx" the surgery or make the dead somehow more dead? No, those rules are there to make the living happy. To make the living feel that they are being respectful and appropriate. Well I always had a problem with being appropriate.
I looked at the clock, 9:15am. My father had been in surgery for two hours.
We had no idea how long he would be in surgery, or if he would even awake afterwards.
So much was uncertain.
I looked around the room, suddenly remembering how angry I was that my boyfriend was not with me. He worked late last night and just could not get up and be at the hospital for a 7am surgery. I knew maybe I was being too hard on him, I mean really we were only sitting here waiting, its not like there was anything he could really do. But still I felt like he should be here, to be with me, to support me.
John and I had been dating for over two years. We were high school sweethearts, meeting at the young ages of 15 and 16. We learned a lot while we were together- we taught each other what it was truly like to be in a relationship with another person. We took each other's virginity, we shared each other's secrets. We supported each other through the adolescent turmoil that every teenager experiences- but no matter how close we were, no matter how good our relationship seemed on the surface there was one major matter that separated us and would eventually tear us apart. I was growing up and John was not.
I loved him though, just the same, and still do. But there comes a time when you realize that love really is not enough. It is not enough to sustain a relationship, or undo horrible things. Love is not enough to see you through a financial hardship and love is certainly not enough to bring a loved one back from the brink. It would take me another 4 years before I realized this.
John was very much into being young and irresponsible. He worked a 30 hour work week, spent his money on luxuries like DVDs and Video Games and had little responsibility. He lived in his parents basement with his surround sound system and often smoked pot and played video games until the early morning hours. Despite all of this though, he treated me rather well. He lavished me in gifts and spent time making sure I was happy. He held my hand when we rode in the car and took me out to dinner at least twice a week. He was a good boy, or at least he tried to be what he thought was a good boyfriend. He really did. It is now, looking back on things, that I realize John was as good to me as he could be. But, alas, it was not enough.
"Oh, what the hell!" My uncle yelled, tearing my attention away from my own thoughts, "The damn lid..."
My eldest uncle lept from his seat wiping coffee down the front of his black, Calvin Klein t-shirt. The lid of his coffee cup had come off while he was taking a sip and spilled coffee down the front of his shirt.
My aunt caught my eye and we lost it.
We began giggling and as the pressure of the giggles rose we broke out into full laughter.
"Oh, that's nice," my uncle boomed, clearly embarrassed and angry at the same time.
This only made us laugh louder.
I glanced at my aunt once again who held her hand clamped over her mouth, her green eyes showing above her palm opening wide and shutting again as another laugh erupted, "Don't look at me!" She screamed and closed her eyes, her head shaking.
I titled my head back and laughed, looking at my grandmother, who herself had a smirk and was visibly trying to hold back a laugh, torn between upsetting her son, laughing with her daughter and granddaughter and being appropriate in the surgical lounge.
My mother threw me a dirty look and slapped my thigh, "Rachel!" she hissed.
"Oh, oh- sorry Uncle Ron," I said still laughing, "but that was funny."
"Yeah well, it better not stain," he said grouchily as he took his seat again and grabbed the nearest newspaper.
My aunt erupted again and doubled over in her seat, grabbing her stomach.
"OK, Alicia- enough, it wasn't that funny," Ron snapped.
My aunt looked at him in the eyes, and nearly crying from laughter said, "Bet ya wish ya didn't wear your Calvin Klein shirt today, huh?" she snorted, as laughter erupted again.
Ron ignored her.
After all of the laughter had escaped me I looked again at the clock: 10:05am...three hours. When was this going to be over?
My father's relationship with his family had been turbulant at best. His relationship with is brothers was one of a combined love, resentment, competition and incompatibility. My eldest uncle Ron, openly disagreed with my father on many issues. They openly argued and held deep resentments from their childhood. Ron always felt my father told him what he should do, but did not lead with example. He felt my father was a hypocrite, and my father felt he lacked conviction and gusto- both were right in one way or another. When it comes right down to it my father and Ron were far too much alike, and as they could not identify their own faults, they were quick to identify those faults in each other.
My father's relationship with his youngest brother Jerry was bit different. He felt compelled to protect Jerry, to be his savior- and he often was there for Jerry when he needed it. Of the three Jerry was the kindest, the most slow to anger and frankly the most lovable. Jerry was a tempered soul who made friends easy and kept a good relationship with most members of the family. Jerry was also plagued with a severe alcohol addiction and several medical issues. Jerry was simply sweet and it was hard to find a person who did not like him.
My father's relationship with his sister seemed a combination of his relationships with his brothers. As the oldest brother he felt the need to protect Alicia and give her advice. He would tell me countless times, "I carried her into the house when Mom brought her home from the hospital. I changed her diapers and still she won't listen to me!" My father often disagreed with my aunt's life decisions but had a way of "telling her what to do," instead of "offering her advice"- which did not booed well with my feisty, fiery Aunt's personality.
And finally his relations with my grandmother were complicated and sporadic to say the least. They had a true love-hate relationship. My father relied on her for comfort and assistance, often financial assistance when he needed it; which lately was quite often. Yet, he continued to degrade her as a mother, criticize her and blame her for his medical conditions. She was often angry with him, yet could never turn him down when he needed her. She remained a loyal mother to him despite many years of blame and ridicule. My father blamed her for many problems in his life and particularly his health problems.
My father, and his three siblings, although none of them yet knew, had inherited a rare blood clotting disorder from their mother- Protein S, or in my uncle and aunt's cases C, Deficiency and Factor V Leiden.
Protein S deficiency is a genetic trait that predisposes one to the formation of venous clots. The protein S that is present functions normally, but the amount of protein S present is insufficient to control the coagulation cascade, or the way one's blood forms clots. This means my father does not have enough of this protein to allow his blood to clot normally, so it clots when clotting is not needed.
And to make his health worse he also inherited Factor V Leiden.
Factor V Leiden is characterized by a phenomenon called APCR where a genetic mutation in the factor V gene causes a change in the factor V protein making it resistant to inactivation by protein C. When someone like my father has factor V Leiden, the result is that factor V Leiden is inactivated by activated protein C in the blood at a much slower rate, basically the thing in his blood that says "no, wait- there is no need to clot here!" doesn't work, so his blood randomly forms clots-in his organs, in his arms and mostly in his legs at any given time for no apparent reason.
And although all four of the children inherited this horrible condition, my father was the only one to show symptoms. He had constant, recurrent DVT's, or deep vein blood clots as they are more commonly known- since the age of 10. And it was the treatment for this condition, Coumadin (Warfarin) anti-coagulant therapy which had caused his blood to be too thin to operate yesterday.
Because of his treatment for the clotting disorder, the surgeon was not able to operate immediately on his brain, which may cost him brain functioning and possibly his life.
10:30am- three and a half hours and counting.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Family
After the first doctor left the room I had little time to process the information he gave me. I was to act as my father's medical power and make medical decisions for him. I had never even done that for myself. My mind spun and I returned to my seat.
Soon I could hear my family in the hall.
I stood slowly and turned to my right as I saw a nurse open the door and my grandmother, two uncles, aunt and cousin entered the room. Immediately my aunt rushed towards me and folded me into her arms.
I lost it.
I began to sob hard, for the first time since hearing the news. I let it go into the soft cotton of my aunts t-shirt, half drenching her shoulder.
My aunt and I had always had a wonderful relationship, she was like my older sister. When I was born the day after my aunt's eleventh birthday she was elated to welcome the first girl, other than herself, into the family. I remember hearing stories of how excited she was to get a niece "for her birthday." And true to her intentions our relationship remained strong throughout my life. When my parents needed a babysitter I was often taken to my grandmothers where my aunt did a lot of the caregiving. I remember sitting on the toilet seat watching her apply make-up and begging for some lip gloss for my own tiny lips.
She often gave me pieces of advice that I remember to this day, "Boys don't like girls who wear too much make-up, Rachel" she would say, "so try to make it look natural."
And, "Never sit on a public toilet seat, there so dirty. Always rim the seat in toilet paper before you sit down."
She often took me with her when she spent time with her friends or her boyfriends as a teenager and I remember them always being kind to me and fond of me. We would go for bike-rides and she would take me to the park and the playground. I always had fun with her wherever we went, whatever we did. I often embarrassed her by asking her questions in front of her friends or boyfriends, like if she "rode a horse to school."
She once stuffed my t-shirt with two Nerf balls and I strut my small childish frame around my grandma's house overwhelmed with pride in my new, fake, Nerf-breasts. I remember my aunt and grandma laughing until they cried!
My aunt often took me, along with my grandmother, up north to her father's cottage and to the mall to play in the kid's area. She taught me all the greatest 80's songs and power ballads and we both still remember the dance we made up to, "I Think We're Alone Now," by Tiffany.
Some of my fondest memories of my childhood were spent with my aunt and to this day I look to her for support, love and guidance.
I cried into my aunts shoulder and could here the murmur of my mother telling the rest of my father's family what had happened. My grandmother and cousin made no sound, my uncles gently asked questions and nervously shifted around the room.
I heard my uncle telling my mother how a nurse had almost refused to let them back into the room, and my aunt, gently pulling back, added how my uncle almost "ripped the nurses head off."
As the family quietly murmured and took seats around the room, I sat back on the sofa and stared. My sixteen year old cousin sat across from me, visibly nervous, not making a sound and not meeting my eyes. My eldest uncle continued to complain to his younger brother (these are my dad's little brothers) about "that damn nurse." My grandmother sat rocking slightly back and forth and looking around, stunned, while my aunt and mother sat on either side of me, my aunt slowly stroking my back.
When the surgeon entered the room I looked up slowly, feeling as if I no longer belonged in my body somehow. It was like I was watching these horrific events happen to another family- I could hardly feel the plastic seat beneath me or hear the voices around me. I felt numb, almost floating- not quite in my body, yet trapped in my body all at the same time. Its like the feeling you get when you awake during the night to use the bathroom, your aware of what's going on but your reactions are slow, blurry and your not completely sure of what your doing or what your body is feeling.
I, following my mother and family, rose from my seat to greet the doctor.
The man looked to be in his late sixties, bald with short graying hair wrapping around the lower part of his head. He wore small, round glasses that sat low on his nose. He was a short man with a rather average build. He moved gracefully and his actions were stoic and deliberate.
"Linwood is very sick," the doctor began using the words I heard only a few hours before, "his blood is very thin because of his Coumadin therapy, his INR is 6.9 which is thinner than I have ever seen in a patient," he continued, "to do brain surgery on him at this point would be extremely dangerous and would surely cause him to bleed to death- so we are giving him vitamin K and fresh, frozen plasma to thicken his blood," the doctor said looking at my grandmother first and then myself, "I am hoping that in the morning we will be able to perform the craniotomy he needs," the doctor said as he held up two x-rays, "As you can see," the doctor said, pointing to three large white areas in my father's brain, "he has significant bleeding and clotting in his frontal lobe and right temporal lobe- and the bleeding will need to be stopped and the three clots removed," the doctor stated and stopped, looking around the room.
After a few seconds my uncle moved towards the doctor, "he'll be OK after the surgery?" my uncle asked-or pleaded.
We all looked from my uncle to the doctor, waiting, hoping for the answer we all wanted to hear.
"That is not certain," the doctor said looking down, "we have to do the surgery to save his life, but he will be in a medically-induced coma for some time afterwards to allow his brain to heal and swelling to go down. Depending on how that goes we are not positive he will wake up, let alone what he may be like if he does." The doctor stopped, looked at me, and finished, "this is a very risky, intense operation he will be having, the odds of him surviving are not great- but I can assure you, my team and myself are going to do the very best we can."
"We will need your consent, Miss West," the doctor said handing me a stack of release forms. I took the forms and looked at the words on the paper- I could hardly read them, the text blurred- became clearer and then blurred out again- without another thought I took the pen from the doctors hands and began signing the sheets of illegible paper.
"He has to have this surgery to save his life...save his life...save his life..." the words repeated themselves over and over again in my head like the echo of a long, empty hallway. I handed the forms back to the doctor.
"Two of you will be allowed to see him if you wish," the doctor said moving towards the door of the waiting room.
"You two should go," my uncle said gesturing to myself and my grandmother.
"OK, honey," my grandmother said sliding her small hand into mine.
My grandmother is a tiny woman, only standing about 4' 11" tall, she is soft and slightly plump, but not fat. She has large green eyes and youth-like blond hair that she keeps cut close. At that time she was in good shape for her age, mentally and physically but walked with a slow limp from years of blood clots that had ravaged the veins in her legs. She was always a bit of a "firecracker" and my father and her had a turbulent relationship, at best. It was because they were so much alike really, neither could admit when they were wrong or at fault. Both had very strong, often violent mood swings and neither could see, much less admit, how much alike they really were. But, as expected, my grandmother had a softer side than my father- she was a mother and often nurturing in the best way she could be, she loved my father and wanted the best for him.
We followed the doctor, hand in hand, to the intensive care area of the emergency rooms- this area, unlike most of the emergency room, was eerily quiet and still. My father's gurney was pushed to the back wall of the room and I could see his right hand and fingers dangling from the gurney.
My father's hands have always been a very distinctive feature, they are as wide as they are long. The palm is thick, fat-even, course and wide while the fingers are short, wide and strong- his hands were almost brick-like and could bend metal. These hands are such a noticeable feature because every male member of the family has them. Sure, some are more weather torn, older and scared than others- but the hands themselves pass from male to male in our family as the strongest physical feature, even I have a somewhat female version of these hands. I remember how my father's hands, as a child, could be both a source of comfort and terror for me. The strength of his hands would cause me to scream in fright when they would hold me, poised for a spanking when I misbehaved. And in other times, the strength of his grasp would make me feel safe, secure, like no one could hurt me.
I will never forget the feel of my father's hands.
As we approached I took at what was in front of me. A machine was next to the gurney with a hose running from a plug on the machine down into my father's mouth- the machine would fill will air and simultaneously my father's chest would rise- the machine was breathing for him.
My father's head was wrapped in a device to keep it from turning and the blood had been removed from his face. His body looked larger than I remember, almost swollen and his skin had taken on a graying look. It appeared that he was sweating, yet when I slid my hand into his, his skin was surprisingly cold.
"Hi, son- its Mom," I heard my grandmother say behind me as she walked to the other side of the gurney and slide her small hand up onto my father's chest, "I love you son," she said.
"Oh, Dad," I said squeezing his hand.
"Look what you got yourself into," I whispered shaking my head as a small tear escaped from my eyes and fell onto my father's hand.
I watched as the tear hit the top of his swollen hand and slide down onto the emergency room floor. I lifted my head and looked at my father's face- what I saw caused me to suck in a quick breath and then break down all over again.
The right side of my father's skull had been smashed and his head caved in.
Soon I could hear my family in the hall.
I stood slowly and turned to my right as I saw a nurse open the door and my grandmother, two uncles, aunt and cousin entered the room. Immediately my aunt rushed towards me and folded me into her arms.
I lost it.
I began to sob hard, for the first time since hearing the news. I let it go into the soft cotton of my aunts t-shirt, half drenching her shoulder.
My aunt and I had always had a wonderful relationship, she was like my older sister. When I was born the day after my aunt's eleventh birthday she was elated to welcome the first girl, other than herself, into the family. I remember hearing stories of how excited she was to get a niece "for her birthday." And true to her intentions our relationship remained strong throughout my life. When my parents needed a babysitter I was often taken to my grandmothers where my aunt did a lot of the caregiving. I remember sitting on the toilet seat watching her apply make-up and begging for some lip gloss for my own tiny lips.
She often gave me pieces of advice that I remember to this day, "Boys don't like girls who wear too much make-up, Rachel" she would say, "so try to make it look natural."
And, "Never sit on a public toilet seat, there so dirty. Always rim the seat in toilet paper before you sit down."
She often took me with her when she spent time with her friends or her boyfriends as a teenager and I remember them always being kind to me and fond of me. We would go for bike-rides and she would take me to the park and the playground. I always had fun with her wherever we went, whatever we did. I often embarrassed her by asking her questions in front of her friends or boyfriends, like if she "rode a horse to school."
She once stuffed my t-shirt with two Nerf balls and I strut my small childish frame around my grandma's house overwhelmed with pride in my new, fake, Nerf-breasts. I remember my aunt and grandma laughing until they cried!
My aunt often took me, along with my grandmother, up north to her father's cottage and to the mall to play in the kid's area. She taught me all the greatest 80's songs and power ballads and we both still remember the dance we made up to, "I Think We're Alone Now," by Tiffany.
Some of my fondest memories of my childhood were spent with my aunt and to this day I look to her for support, love and guidance.
I cried into my aunts shoulder and could here the murmur of my mother telling the rest of my father's family what had happened. My grandmother and cousin made no sound, my uncles gently asked questions and nervously shifted around the room.
I heard my uncle telling my mother how a nurse had almost refused to let them back into the room, and my aunt, gently pulling back, added how my uncle almost "ripped the nurses head off."
As the family quietly murmured and took seats around the room, I sat back on the sofa and stared. My sixteen year old cousin sat across from me, visibly nervous, not making a sound and not meeting my eyes. My eldest uncle continued to complain to his younger brother (these are my dad's little brothers) about "that damn nurse." My grandmother sat rocking slightly back and forth and looking around, stunned, while my aunt and mother sat on either side of me, my aunt slowly stroking my back.
When the surgeon entered the room I looked up slowly, feeling as if I no longer belonged in my body somehow. It was like I was watching these horrific events happen to another family- I could hardly feel the plastic seat beneath me or hear the voices around me. I felt numb, almost floating- not quite in my body, yet trapped in my body all at the same time. Its like the feeling you get when you awake during the night to use the bathroom, your aware of what's going on but your reactions are slow, blurry and your not completely sure of what your doing or what your body is feeling.
I, following my mother and family, rose from my seat to greet the doctor.
The man looked to be in his late sixties, bald with short graying hair wrapping around the lower part of his head. He wore small, round glasses that sat low on his nose. He was a short man with a rather average build. He moved gracefully and his actions were stoic and deliberate.
"Linwood is very sick," the doctor began using the words I heard only a few hours before, "his blood is very thin because of his Coumadin therapy, his INR is 6.9 which is thinner than I have ever seen in a patient," he continued, "to do brain surgery on him at this point would be extremely dangerous and would surely cause him to bleed to death- so we are giving him vitamin K and fresh, frozen plasma to thicken his blood," the doctor said looking at my grandmother first and then myself, "I am hoping that in the morning we will be able to perform the craniotomy he needs," the doctor said as he held up two x-rays, "As you can see," the doctor said, pointing to three large white areas in my father's brain, "he has significant bleeding and clotting in his frontal lobe and right temporal lobe- and the bleeding will need to be stopped and the three clots removed," the doctor stated and stopped, looking around the room.
After a few seconds my uncle moved towards the doctor, "he'll be OK after the surgery?" my uncle asked-or pleaded.
We all looked from my uncle to the doctor, waiting, hoping for the answer we all wanted to hear.
"That is not certain," the doctor said looking down, "we have to do the surgery to save his life, but he will be in a medically-induced coma for some time afterwards to allow his brain to heal and swelling to go down. Depending on how that goes we are not positive he will wake up, let alone what he may be like if he does." The doctor stopped, looked at me, and finished, "this is a very risky, intense operation he will be having, the odds of him surviving are not great- but I can assure you, my team and myself are going to do the very best we can."
"We will need your consent, Miss West," the doctor said handing me a stack of release forms. I took the forms and looked at the words on the paper- I could hardly read them, the text blurred- became clearer and then blurred out again- without another thought I took the pen from the doctors hands and began signing the sheets of illegible paper.
"He has to have this surgery to save his life...save his life...save his life..." the words repeated themselves over and over again in my head like the echo of a long, empty hallway. I handed the forms back to the doctor.
"Two of you will be allowed to see him if you wish," the doctor said moving towards the door of the waiting room.
"You two should go," my uncle said gesturing to myself and my grandmother.
"OK, honey," my grandmother said sliding her small hand into mine.
My grandmother is a tiny woman, only standing about 4' 11" tall, she is soft and slightly plump, but not fat. She has large green eyes and youth-like blond hair that she keeps cut close. At that time she was in good shape for her age, mentally and physically but walked with a slow limp from years of blood clots that had ravaged the veins in her legs. She was always a bit of a "firecracker" and my father and her had a turbulent relationship, at best. It was because they were so much alike really, neither could admit when they were wrong or at fault. Both had very strong, often violent mood swings and neither could see, much less admit, how much alike they really were. But, as expected, my grandmother had a softer side than my father- she was a mother and often nurturing in the best way she could be, she loved my father and wanted the best for him.
We followed the doctor, hand in hand, to the intensive care area of the emergency rooms- this area, unlike most of the emergency room, was eerily quiet and still. My father's gurney was pushed to the back wall of the room and I could see his right hand and fingers dangling from the gurney.
My father's hands have always been a very distinctive feature, they are as wide as they are long. The palm is thick, fat-even, course and wide while the fingers are short, wide and strong- his hands were almost brick-like and could bend metal. These hands are such a noticeable feature because every male member of the family has them. Sure, some are more weather torn, older and scared than others- but the hands themselves pass from male to male in our family as the strongest physical feature, even I have a somewhat female version of these hands. I remember how my father's hands, as a child, could be both a source of comfort and terror for me. The strength of his hands would cause me to scream in fright when they would hold me, poised for a spanking when I misbehaved. And in other times, the strength of his grasp would make me feel safe, secure, like no one could hurt me.
I will never forget the feel of my father's hands.
As we approached I took at what was in front of me. A machine was next to the gurney with a hose running from a plug on the machine down into my father's mouth- the machine would fill will air and simultaneously my father's chest would rise- the machine was breathing for him.
My father's head was wrapped in a device to keep it from turning and the blood had been removed from his face. His body looked larger than I remember, almost swollen and his skin had taken on a graying look. It appeared that he was sweating, yet when I slid my hand into his, his skin was surprisingly cold.
"Hi, son- its Mom," I heard my grandmother say behind me as she walked to the other side of the gurney and slide her small hand up onto my father's chest, "I love you son," she said.
"Oh, Dad," I said squeezing his hand.
"Look what you got yourself into," I whispered shaking my head as a small tear escaped from my eyes and fell onto my father's hand.
I watched as the tear hit the top of his swollen hand and slide down onto the emergency room floor. I lifted my head and looked at my father's face- what I saw caused me to suck in a quick breath and then break down all over again.
The right side of my father's skull had been smashed and his head caved in.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
An Adult
After hearing the doctors last words, "Your father is very sick, he may not survive, I am so sorry." I just needed to get out of the hospital !
My mother left me to make a few phone calls and I was gone. I dashed through the emergency room doors out into the parking lot, not sure what to do- all I knew was I needed to get out of that room.
I walked to the sidewalk about 50 yards from the entrance and saw a women there talking on her phone and smoking a cigarette.
I walked up to the woman and with my voice shaking I said, "Do you mind if I had one of those?" I asked gesturing to the lit cigarette dangling between her first and second fingers.
The woman looked at me and I could tell she knew how shaken I was, "Sure, honey," and she opened her pack of Cool Light 100s and held them towards me.
I went to pull a cigarette apart from the pack and noticed my shaking hands, I looked up at the woman who was waiting with a lighter already lit. I smiled gently, put the cigarette in my mouth and leaned into the flame.
I heard footsteps behind me and saw my mother approach. She looked from me to the cigarette and back again.
I felt horrible, "I'm sorry Mom," I said, "I just needed one."
"Oh, don't worry about that," She said waving her hand toward the cigarette in my left hand, "just meet me back in there when your done, OK?"
"Sure."
I had been trying to quit smoking since the spring when I had developed a bad case of Bronchitis. Eventhough I was only eighteen I had been smoking for five years already. I wasn't a heavy smoker, I took in maybe 10 to 15 a day, but it was still smoking, it was enough and I knew I needed to stop. But those thoughts were far from my mind, all I cared about was feeling better and calming down right then, right there.
Walking back into the Emergency Room waiting area I saw a different doctor talking to my mom, I slowly approached them and listened.
"We'll be sending him to St. John Main in a few minutes, just as soon as we get an ambulance to transport him, he'll be monitored the whole way and the ER at St. John is waiting for him with a trauma room all ready. They told us their top neuro-surgeon has been notified. You guys can follow the ambulance, I'm sure you want to stay near him."
"Thank you," my mother said.
I just stared at the doctor. I find it amazing in those circumstances how we thank the doctors for telling us such horrible news, granted they save lives and most deserve respect, but I couldn't muster a "thank you" at that moment, all I could think about was throwing up.
I glance behind me to see the lacerated head guy speaking to a nurse.
"Thank God he's going to be OK," the guy said, "I was so worried, I'm still in shock I think, I just felt so bad for hitting him," He said pulling his girlfriend under his chin and closing his eyes.
I hung on his first sentence, "Thank God he's going to be OK," "Thank God, he's going to be OK."
He's not talking about my father, I thought.
I wished he was.
The ride to St. John hospital seemed like the longest of my life. My mother drove behind the ambulance staying within a car length.
"I called your Grandma, and your Dad's family is going to meet us there," She said.
I nodded. We rode the rest of the way in silence.
Upon arriving at the hospital my mother and I parked in the structure adjacent to the West Deck of the hospital near the Emergency Room and made our way through the Emergency Room doors for the second time that afternoon.
Time seemed to stand still somehow. Every step I took seemed like it took hours, every noise was magnified, every smell stronger somehow. Even my mothers words seemed slow and intentional like a record being slowed to a crawl. I had to concentrate more on everything I did, opening the car door, fastening my seat belt, even walking took the greatest of concentration.
When we walked through the doors my mother told the attendant who we were and we were immediately escorted into a small private room.
The room held a small round table with four plastic chairs. Against opposing walls were two blue, plastic-like sofas and a TV stood on a stand in the corner of the room. The room was void of any decorations, magazines or hospital signs.
This is the room they tell people they're family member died in, I thought, this is the room where hearts are broken and lives destroyed.
To this day I can not see a room that reminds me of that room without feeling nauseous.
I took a deep breath and sat at the end of one of the sofas and stared, shocked, scared, sick but mostly re-playing the past two hours over and over again in my head, trying desperately to wrap my brain around the whole thing.
If it wasn't a car accident, I thought, what the hell had happened?
A doctor entered the room ten minutes after we were escorted inside, "Miss West?" he said looking directly at me.
"Yes," I said jumping to my feet.
"We are still waiting for the neuro-surgical team," He said, composed and calm, "they will be here very shortly, once they arrive they will be able to tell you what we plan to do and give you more information on your father's condition."
"Thank you," I said oddly reminding myself of my mother an hour before.
"Um, I don't mean to be harsh," the doctor began, "but you are his ex-wife, am I correct?" he asked my mother.
"Um, yes," my mother said, looking to me, slightly confused.
"And your his only child?" The doctor asked looking back to me, "And your eighteen?"
"Yeah," I said, instantly scared.
"Since your father has become incapacitated and you are his next of kin, we are going to need you to sign for all medical procedures," the doctor stated, "and when you leave the hospital we are going to need all of your contact information to call you in case anything happens."
I looked at my mother and I could see her face drop a little.
That was it. That was the second my life changed forever. I would come to know exactly how much those words changed my life in the years to come. In that instant I became responsible for my father's life, when for the last eighteen years my parents were responsible for me, in an instant, the roles were reversed.
I felt the responsibility like a weight barring down on my chest.
Your eighteen now, I thought to myself, this is what its like to be an adult
My mother left me to make a few phone calls and I was gone. I dashed through the emergency room doors out into the parking lot, not sure what to do- all I knew was I needed to get out of that room.
I walked to the sidewalk about 50 yards from the entrance and saw a women there talking on her phone and smoking a cigarette.
I walked up to the woman and with my voice shaking I said, "Do you mind if I had one of those?" I asked gesturing to the lit cigarette dangling between her first and second fingers.
The woman looked at me and I could tell she knew how shaken I was, "Sure, honey," and she opened her pack of Cool Light 100s and held them towards me.
I went to pull a cigarette apart from the pack and noticed my shaking hands, I looked up at the woman who was waiting with a lighter already lit. I smiled gently, put the cigarette in my mouth and leaned into the flame.
I heard footsteps behind me and saw my mother approach. She looked from me to the cigarette and back again.
I felt horrible, "I'm sorry Mom," I said, "I just needed one."
"Oh, don't worry about that," She said waving her hand toward the cigarette in my left hand, "just meet me back in there when your done, OK?"
"Sure."
I had been trying to quit smoking since the spring when I had developed a bad case of Bronchitis. Eventhough I was only eighteen I had been smoking for five years already. I wasn't a heavy smoker, I took in maybe 10 to 15 a day, but it was still smoking, it was enough and I knew I needed to stop. But those thoughts were far from my mind, all I cared about was feeling better and calming down right then, right there.
Walking back into the Emergency Room waiting area I saw a different doctor talking to my mom, I slowly approached them and listened.
"We'll be sending him to St. John Main in a few minutes, just as soon as we get an ambulance to transport him, he'll be monitored the whole way and the ER at St. John is waiting for him with a trauma room all ready. They told us their top neuro-surgeon has been notified. You guys can follow the ambulance, I'm sure you want to stay near him."
"Thank you," my mother said.
I just stared at the doctor. I find it amazing in those circumstances how we thank the doctors for telling us such horrible news, granted they save lives and most deserve respect, but I couldn't muster a "thank you" at that moment, all I could think about was throwing up.
I glance behind me to see the lacerated head guy speaking to a nurse.
"Thank God he's going to be OK," the guy said, "I was so worried, I'm still in shock I think, I just felt so bad for hitting him," He said pulling his girlfriend under his chin and closing his eyes.
I hung on his first sentence, "Thank God he's going to be OK," "Thank God, he's going to be OK."
He's not talking about my father, I thought.
I wished he was.
The ride to St. John hospital seemed like the longest of my life. My mother drove behind the ambulance staying within a car length.
"I called your Grandma, and your Dad's family is going to meet us there," She said.
I nodded. We rode the rest of the way in silence.
Upon arriving at the hospital my mother and I parked in the structure adjacent to the West Deck of the hospital near the Emergency Room and made our way through the Emergency Room doors for the second time that afternoon.
Time seemed to stand still somehow. Every step I took seemed like it took hours, every noise was magnified, every smell stronger somehow. Even my mothers words seemed slow and intentional like a record being slowed to a crawl. I had to concentrate more on everything I did, opening the car door, fastening my seat belt, even walking took the greatest of concentration.
When we walked through the doors my mother told the attendant who we were and we were immediately escorted into a small private room.
The room held a small round table with four plastic chairs. Against opposing walls were two blue, plastic-like sofas and a TV stood on a stand in the corner of the room. The room was void of any decorations, magazines or hospital signs.
This is the room they tell people they're family member died in, I thought, this is the room where hearts are broken and lives destroyed.
To this day I can not see a room that reminds me of that room without feeling nauseous.
I took a deep breath and sat at the end of one of the sofas and stared, shocked, scared, sick but mostly re-playing the past two hours over and over again in my head, trying desperately to wrap my brain around the whole thing.
If it wasn't a car accident, I thought, what the hell had happened?
A doctor entered the room ten minutes after we were escorted inside, "Miss West?" he said looking directly at me.
"Yes," I said jumping to my feet.
"We are still waiting for the neuro-surgical team," He said, composed and calm, "they will be here very shortly, once they arrive they will be able to tell you what we plan to do and give you more information on your father's condition."
"Thank you," I said oddly reminding myself of my mother an hour before.
"Um, I don't mean to be harsh," the doctor began, "but you are his ex-wife, am I correct?" he asked my mother.
"Um, yes," my mother said, looking to me, slightly confused.
"And your his only child?" The doctor asked looking back to me, "And your eighteen?"
"Yeah," I said, instantly scared.
"Since your father has become incapacitated and you are his next of kin, we are going to need you to sign for all medical procedures," the doctor stated, "and when you leave the hospital we are going to need all of your contact information to call you in case anything happens."
I looked at my mother and I could see her face drop a little.
That was it. That was the second my life changed forever. I would come to know exactly how much those words changed my life in the years to come. In that instant I became responsible for my father's life, when for the last eighteen years my parents were responsible for me, in an instant, the roles were reversed.
I felt the responsibility like a weight barring down on my chest.
Your eighteen now, I thought to myself, this is what its like to be an adult
Sunday, January 4, 2009
So much blood
As I shuffle through the automatic emergency room doors my eyes darted around. I looked for anyone, anyone with a sign or who looked like they could tell me where my father was, what was wrong and what the hell had happened. My mind raced back to the phone-call I received twenty minutes earlier,
"Rachel, your dad's been in an accident, the police dropped his car off at our house- they took him to Mt. Clemens General," Mrs Miller, the elderly woman living next to my father had told me.
The moment she said, accident- I thought, car accident.
The moment she said the police dropped his car off at her place, I thought- if it was a car accident, and the car was could be driven, he must not be hurt that badly...
Then I realized if it was not that bad, my father would be calling me, not Mrs. Miller....
Oh God!
I rushed down the stairs two at a time and scanned the condo for my mother and step-father. I couldn't find them, I ran downstairs- they were not there.
Finally I heard laughter on the back patio, I ran to the glass door and threw it open.
"Mom, that was Mrs. Miller- she said Dad's been in an accident and he's at Mt. Clemens General."
My mother shot my step-father a knowing look and rose. My father had been nothing but trouble to their relationship from its inception, from the late-night drunken calls where my father threatened to "kick my step-dad's ass" to the lack of child support or involvement in my life, he was by far not their favorite person.
But, my mother, being amazing as she is, always encouraged me to keep a relationship with my father, despite his alcoholism and drug addiction and despite the way he treated her.
"I'll follow you to the hospital, Rach." She said, glancing back to my step-father, "And when I know its nothing serious I'll come right back."
My mother and step-father had plans that night to go out and their plans have been interrupted many times through-out the years by my father. I remember packing my things and apprehensively waiting to be dropped off at my father's for our typical every-other-weekend visits. My mother would drive me to his house only to find he wasn't there. And, as usual, any plans my mother had for the weekend were abruptly changed.
This was a regular occurrence until I was about sixteen and obtained my license and my car, now I could chose to see him when I wanted and could come and go as I pleased. This amounted to me seeing him about once a month. It wasn't that I didn't enjoy spending time with my father, I did...when he was sober...which was usually only until about 5pm everyday. After that point he would become loud, angry, hostile and belligerent. I would either run away, hide from him, or get into a fight with him. Most of the time we yelled and screamed, on rare occasions we'd get physical with each other, that's how it was...that's how our relationship was, explosive.
I finally spotted the Triage receptionist and anxiously approached, "My father, Linwood West, he's been brought here by ambulance- I'm his daughter, can someone tells me what's happening?"
My mind shot back to the last conversation I had with my father, a rarely pleasant conversation that I will never forget. We were discussing my new car and how happy I was with it running. I had to leave to meet some friends for a movie so I told my dad I would call him that Friday before 7:00pm when I know he goes to bed since he works the 3am to noon shift.
I remember he said, "Schootchy, you can call me anytime you want."
One of his warm touching moment, he called me Schootchy- his nickname for me since I was a little girl.
I remember hanging up the phone and knew I would not keep that promise, I would not call him.
I was your typical eighteen year old girl, caught up in my own life, my friends, my boyfriend, clothes, thoughts of college and doing my own thing. I never thought that conversation, or any conversation, might be my last with my father.
I just did not think that way, yet.
"Your Dad's back there with the doctors now," The triage attendant stated, "Do you happen to know his insurance carrier?"
I looked at my mother as she quickly sucked in a breath, "He works for Home Depot, we don't know the type of insurance he carries, " My mother explained, vi sable trying to keep her cool, "Can't you just tell us what his condition is?"
I could tell my mother was starting to get worried herself, and she was visibly agitated by the woman's demeanor.
The woman looked from me to my mother and back again, "Your just gonna have to have-a seat, we'll let you know when the doctors tell us something."
At this point my mind began to race, what could be going on? Do they usually give people the run-around like this in the emergency room? Why cant they just let me back to see him? Whats going on?
My mother and I find our way to the waiting room and sat down. Three seats away from us a young man in his 20s held a stack of bloodied gauze bandages to his head. He was dressed casually in blue jeans with a whole wearing out in one knee and an old black t-shirt. He had a three inch long laceration at his hairline. A young woman, also in her 20s and wearing a blue and white flowered sundress was seated next to him, stroking his back, comforting him.
"I just didn't see the car," the man said over and over, "I just didn't see it, I didn't see it..."
Immediately my mind tried to put the puzzle pieces together, my father was no doubt hit by this stupid guy and now we have no idea whats wrong with him. No doubt it was this immature, probably drunken ass who plowed into my father's car, broadside no doubt, and landed himself and my father in the hospital.
I thought this what happened, I thought I had it figured out.
Thirty-five minutes later I heard a loud bang and crash as the Emergency Room doors swung open, "Get him in for an MRI with contrast right away, we have to find out how bad the bleeding is," The doctor ordered pushing the head of a gurney toward the opposite set of swinging doors across the lobby.
The instant we saw a gurney coming through the doors my mother and I jumped up and ran towards it.
As the hospital staff rushed the gurney through the other set of swinging doors, I saw it was my father. He was unconscious, his face was covered in blood and a machine was breathing for him. He was covered, absolutely covered in red blood. It ran down his face, out of both nostrils, into his mouth and around his eyes, I could hardly make out his distinctive facial features.
So much red, so much blood.
In that instant I felt my legs give out and my mother grabbed my arms to brace me.
"Whats wrong with my dad!" I half screamed, half begged of the doctor who remained in the hall as my father disappeared behind the white doors.
"Mrs. West?" The doctor asked looking at my mother and then to me, and back again.
"Yes," My mother said, "Um, I'm his ex-wife- this is his daughter," She stated guiding me slightly in front of her.
The doctor looked at me with a look I have never, and may never see again. It was a look of sadness, regret, anger, depression and duty all fighting each other to push through.
He straightened his shoulders and began.
"Your father has suffered a severe traumatic brain injury. He has bleeding in two different areas of his right temporal lobe and a bleed in his frontal lobe as well. Because of your father's blood clotting condition and Coumadin therapy, his blood is very thin- dangerously thin, so it is almost impossible for us to stop the bleeding at this point..." the doctor stopped, looked down and began again, "...we do not have the neurosurgical capacity here that they have at St. John hospital in Detroit, so we will transfer him there for proper care. We're doing all we can to thicken his blood to allow for brain surgery, but at this point we have no idea when it will be safe to take him to surgery."
The doctor looked down once again and then looked up at me, glancing at my mother and back. I could tell the next words out of his mouth he didn't want to say, he has rarely had to say and never wanted to become comfortable with saying.
"Your father is very sick, he may not survive, I'm so sorry."
"Rachel, your dad's been in an accident, the police dropped his car off at our house- they took him to Mt. Clemens General," Mrs Miller, the elderly woman living next to my father had told me.
The moment she said, accident- I thought, car accident.
The moment she said the police dropped his car off at her place, I thought- if it was a car accident, and the car was could be driven, he must not be hurt that badly...
Then I realized if it was not that bad, my father would be calling me, not Mrs. Miller....
Oh God!
I rushed down the stairs two at a time and scanned the condo for my mother and step-father. I couldn't find them, I ran downstairs- they were not there.
Finally I heard laughter on the back patio, I ran to the glass door and threw it open.
"Mom, that was Mrs. Miller- she said Dad's been in an accident and he's at Mt. Clemens General."
My mother shot my step-father a knowing look and rose. My father had been nothing but trouble to their relationship from its inception, from the late-night drunken calls where my father threatened to "kick my step-dad's ass" to the lack of child support or involvement in my life, he was by far not their favorite person.
But, my mother, being amazing as she is, always encouraged me to keep a relationship with my father, despite his alcoholism and drug addiction and despite the way he treated her.
"I'll follow you to the hospital, Rach." She said, glancing back to my step-father, "And when I know its nothing serious I'll come right back."
My mother and step-father had plans that night to go out and their plans have been interrupted many times through-out the years by my father. I remember packing my things and apprehensively waiting to be dropped off at my father's for our typical every-other-weekend visits. My mother would drive me to his house only to find he wasn't there. And, as usual, any plans my mother had for the weekend were abruptly changed.
This was a regular occurrence until I was about sixteen and obtained my license and my car, now I could chose to see him when I wanted and could come and go as I pleased. This amounted to me seeing him about once a month. It wasn't that I didn't enjoy spending time with my father, I did...when he was sober...which was usually only until about 5pm everyday. After that point he would become loud, angry, hostile and belligerent. I would either run away, hide from him, or get into a fight with him. Most of the time we yelled and screamed, on rare occasions we'd get physical with each other, that's how it was...that's how our relationship was, explosive.
I finally spotted the Triage receptionist and anxiously approached, "My father, Linwood West, he's been brought here by ambulance- I'm his daughter, can someone tells me what's happening?"
My mind shot back to the last conversation I had with my father, a rarely pleasant conversation that I will never forget. We were discussing my new car and how happy I was with it running. I had to leave to meet some friends for a movie so I told my dad I would call him that Friday before 7:00pm when I know he goes to bed since he works the 3am to noon shift.
I remember he said, "Schootchy, you can call me anytime you want."
One of his warm touching moment, he called me Schootchy- his nickname for me since I was a little girl.
I remember hanging up the phone and knew I would not keep that promise, I would not call him.
I was your typical eighteen year old girl, caught up in my own life, my friends, my boyfriend, clothes, thoughts of college and doing my own thing. I never thought that conversation, or any conversation, might be my last with my father.
I just did not think that way, yet.
"Your Dad's back there with the doctors now," The triage attendant stated, "Do you happen to know his insurance carrier?"
I looked at my mother as she quickly sucked in a breath, "He works for Home Depot, we don't know the type of insurance he carries, " My mother explained, vi sable trying to keep her cool, "Can't you just tell us what his condition is?"
I could tell my mother was starting to get worried herself, and she was visibly agitated by the woman's demeanor.
The woman looked from me to my mother and back again, "Your just gonna have to have-a seat, we'll let you know when the doctors tell us something."
At this point my mind began to race, what could be going on? Do they usually give people the run-around like this in the emergency room? Why cant they just let me back to see him? Whats going on?
My mother and I find our way to the waiting room and sat down. Three seats away from us a young man in his 20s held a stack of bloodied gauze bandages to his head. He was dressed casually in blue jeans with a whole wearing out in one knee and an old black t-shirt. He had a three inch long laceration at his hairline. A young woman, also in her 20s and wearing a blue and white flowered sundress was seated next to him, stroking his back, comforting him.
"I just didn't see the car," the man said over and over, "I just didn't see it, I didn't see it..."
Immediately my mind tried to put the puzzle pieces together, my father was no doubt hit by this stupid guy and now we have no idea whats wrong with him. No doubt it was this immature, probably drunken ass who plowed into my father's car, broadside no doubt, and landed himself and my father in the hospital.
I thought this what happened, I thought I had it figured out.
Thirty-five minutes later I heard a loud bang and crash as the Emergency Room doors swung open, "Get him in for an MRI with contrast right away, we have to find out how bad the bleeding is," The doctor ordered pushing the head of a gurney toward the opposite set of swinging doors across the lobby.
The instant we saw a gurney coming through the doors my mother and I jumped up and ran towards it.
As the hospital staff rushed the gurney through the other set of swinging doors, I saw it was my father. He was unconscious, his face was covered in blood and a machine was breathing for him. He was covered, absolutely covered in red blood. It ran down his face, out of both nostrils, into his mouth and around his eyes, I could hardly make out his distinctive facial features.
So much red, so much blood.
In that instant I felt my legs give out and my mother grabbed my arms to brace me.
"Whats wrong with my dad!" I half screamed, half begged of the doctor who remained in the hall as my father disappeared behind the white doors.
"Mrs. West?" The doctor asked looking at my mother and then to me, and back again.
"Yes," My mother said, "Um, I'm his ex-wife- this is his daughter," She stated guiding me slightly in front of her.
The doctor looked at me with a look I have never, and may never see again. It was a look of sadness, regret, anger, depression and duty all fighting each other to push through.
He straightened his shoulders and began.
"Your father has suffered a severe traumatic brain injury. He has bleeding in two different areas of his right temporal lobe and a bleed in his frontal lobe as well. Because of your father's blood clotting condition and Coumadin therapy, his blood is very thin- dangerously thin, so it is almost impossible for us to stop the bleeding at this point..." the doctor stopped, looked down and began again, "...we do not have the neurosurgical capacity here that they have at St. John hospital in Detroit, so we will transfer him there for proper care. We're doing all we can to thicken his blood to allow for brain surgery, but at this point we have no idea when it will be safe to take him to surgery."
The doctor looked down once again and then looked up at me, glancing at my mother and back. I could tell the next words out of his mouth he didn't want to say, he has rarely had to say and never wanted to become comfortable with saying.
"Your father is very sick, he may not survive, I'm so sorry."
Prologue
Love is fire. But whether it's gonna warm your heart or burn your house down you can never tell.
~ Jason Jordon
Few people can pinpoint the exact moment when their life changed forever. That exact instant when you realize nothing would ever be the same again, you would never be the same again.
I can.
July 30th 2001 at 5:26pm.
That's when I got the phone call that would take everything I'd known, everything I'd thought and everything I'd ever imagined and turn it upside down. Reality would freeze and the sound of my own breath would become magnified. I would learn everything and nothing about the world, about fairness, about truth, all in one instant.
People are not who we think they are.
Everybody lies.
The world is not fair, and is not just, the world just...is.
The body can defy reason and change medical fact.
The heart is capable of actually breaking, splitting in two...and healing again.
We can love far beyond what we ever imagine possible.
We are all capable of taking and saving a life.
We are not all created equal.
We do not get to chose who we love.
This last fact would be tested time and time again, but always, like a stone wall, would prove to stand tall and true and against all reason and show that some of us...few of us...are actually capable of unconditional love.
Unconditional love is defined by our good-ole boy Weber as, "a term that means to love someone regardless of his actions or beliefs."
But, what does that actually mean?
I've learned that means they can hit you, throw you out, swear at you, spit at you, tell you to go to hell, tell you that you mean nothing to them, tell you they hate you, stress your marriage, steal your freedom, break your heart, lie to you...and still you will love them, care for them, sacrifice for them and be there for them.
Most people identify this kind of love as the one a parent has for their child. A love for your child is one that can not be explained, defined or even expressed in words- it is far too great, far too powerful. Love for one's child is the kind of love where you know, without second thought, that you would do anything to protect them, to keep them from hurting, to be sure they are happy.
But what about when the laws of the generations, the rules of parent and child are turned around? Can you honestly say that your child would do the same for you? After all a child is only intellectually capable of experiencing unconditional love once they've reached age 7, when they reach the concrete operations stage of development. For some this development comes even later at age 11 when they move into the formal operational stage of development- the stage where we all learn we are not the only ones that matter, our actions carry consequences and those consequences affect others.
Well, if Piaget is correct that would mean my father is about 10 years old, just shy of the formal operational stage...and if the definition of unconditional love is correct, and if this definition can be demonstrated most profoundly in the love one has for their child, then I have been a mother since I was eighteen years old.
~ Jason Jordon
Few people can pinpoint the exact moment when their life changed forever. That exact instant when you realize nothing would ever be the same again, you would never be the same again.
I can.
July 30th 2001 at 5:26pm.
That's when I got the phone call that would take everything I'd known, everything I'd thought and everything I'd ever imagined and turn it upside down. Reality would freeze and the sound of my own breath would become magnified. I would learn everything and nothing about the world, about fairness, about truth, all in one instant.
People are not who we think they are.
Everybody lies.
The world is not fair, and is not just, the world just...is.
The body can defy reason and change medical fact.
The heart is capable of actually breaking, splitting in two...and healing again.
We can love far beyond what we ever imagine possible.
We are all capable of taking and saving a life.
We are not all created equal.
We do not get to chose who we love.
This last fact would be tested time and time again, but always, like a stone wall, would prove to stand tall and true and against all reason and show that some of us...few of us...are actually capable of unconditional love.
Unconditional love is defined by our good-ole boy Weber as, "a term that means to love someone regardless of his actions or beliefs."
But, what does that actually mean?
I've learned that means they can hit you, throw you out, swear at you, spit at you, tell you to go to hell, tell you that you mean nothing to them, tell you they hate you, stress your marriage, steal your freedom, break your heart, lie to you...and still you will love them, care for them, sacrifice for them and be there for them.
Most people identify this kind of love as the one a parent has for their child. A love for your child is one that can not be explained, defined or even expressed in words- it is far too great, far too powerful. Love for one's child is the kind of love where you know, without second thought, that you would do anything to protect them, to keep them from hurting, to be sure they are happy.
But what about when the laws of the generations, the rules of parent and child are turned around? Can you honestly say that your child would do the same for you? After all a child is only intellectually capable of experiencing unconditional love once they've reached age 7, when they reach the concrete operations stage of development. For some this development comes even later at age 11 when they move into the formal operational stage of development- the stage where we all learn we are not the only ones that matter, our actions carry consequences and those consequences affect others.
Well, if Piaget is correct that would mean my father is about 10 years old, just shy of the formal operational stage...and if the definition of unconditional love is correct, and if this definition can be demonstrated most profoundly in the love one has for their child, then I have been a mother since I was eighteen years old.
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