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."