Shock

Life seemed to march at a slow, steady beat. The days dragged on and as each day passed and my father lay motionless, my hopes began to dwindle.

I had no reason to believe today would be any different from the last few days, no more hopeful, no more enlightening. There had been nothing since my father's stunt a week ago. No more signs of improvement...no pulling of IVs, just a constant, depressing- nothing.
His blood pressure had come down, slightly- but this was nothing promising.

I awoke to my 6am alarm and sat up slowly in bed. I was beginning to feel the effect of the long, stressful days. I, usually a very healthy eater, had been hardly able to hold much down. My stomach was upset so easily. The dark bluish, purple rings under my eyes had become a permanent fixture and another heavy strain looming ahead...I was beginning my freshman year of college in two weeks!

I swung my short legs to one side of the bed and slowly stood.

My body ached.

I had a headache already.

And quite honestly I dreaded seeing my grandmother at the hospital.

I had gotten to know a lot more about my grandmother through this whole ordeal and was a bit ashamed of the fact that the more I came to know her, the less I liked her.
I still loved her and would do anything for her. But I realized, as a grandchild should never have to, that my grandmother was somewhat delusional, intolerant and extremely controlling.
She knew my father's care was in my hands and this seemed to torment her- she questioned every move or decision I made and challenged me about simple, easy decisions. When a decision I made turned out to be wrong, she blamed me. And when I was right, she was silent.
In hindsight I see how it might be difficult to leave your son's life in the hands of an 18 year old girl, but then again, that 18 year old girl was his daughter, his next of kin, and quite honestly the best and most reliable thing in his life.

My grandmother insisted we should have taken my father to the University of Michigan, because if he had been there he would surely be better cared for. She insisted we do everything possible to hold onto my father's home (so he can give it to me one day).
She didn't seem to realize that I, unlike herself, only cared if my father lived, not if he had an inheritance to leave behind.
She insisted upon financial aspects of his care that left me reeling- I had never known how materialistic she was. Apparently a side effect from living poor most of her life...or from placing far too much importance on money, I wasn't sure which.

This day was no different from any other, I awoke at 6 am and began my routine.
I was particularly cranky today, preparing to hear the words from my grandmother again, "Now you know what you should do..." or "Here's something for you to take care of..."
I was so sick of taking care of everything, of being the one in charge. As my friends packed their things and headed to college I was stuck in the ICU being a parent to a 50 year old man in a coma.
I was beginning to get pissed- life was so unfair.

And I realized that 18 year old friends are not so good of friends at these times...only one friend, a friend I had known since childhood, came to the hospital to visit.
The others called and offered to take me out (you know so I could forget about things for awhile, as if that was possible), but only one sat with me and watched me cry as my father lie helpless.
Brit.

"Hey, you" my mother said as she entered my bedroom and watched me pull on my sweatpants and pull my hair into a ponytail, "why don't you take the day off- you look terrible," she said.
"I can't Mom," I said, "what if something happens?"
"Then they'll call you," she said wrapping her arms around me, "you can't keep going on like this forever.
She was right
She was always right.
She knew me.
Better than anyone.
I began to softly cry and shake against my mother's thin frame. I looked up into her face, a face filled with love, concern and mostly sadness.
"I am so angry Punkin," she said stroking my hair, "I am so angry this had to happen to your father and to you. You deserve to be out being a kid, having fun."
"Yeah," I said wiping the tears onto the back of my hand, "apparently life had other plans."

I didn't take the day off.
I went, faithfully to the hospital- just like every other day.
Today I brought the nurses donuts. A tip for anyone with a loved on in very serious condition. Keep the nurses happy.
They will be the ones that save or take that persons life.
Trust me.

I had no idea what was in store for me at the hospital today.
No idea that today, 13 days after my father's brain surgery I would be given a gift unlike any other I had received before. I would be amazed, shocked, touched and sad all at once...it would be like no other experience.

I rounded the corner and headed into the West Deck of St. John Main in Detroit. I parked on the roof of the parking garage in my usual spot. It was so sad that I had a usual spot...
I took the stairs down and walked across the drive into the West Entrance and followed the long winding hallway to the ICU elevators. Stepping into the elevators I noticed an older couple carrying flowers and a "Its a girl!" balloon.
The couple smiled and discussed how their new baby granddaughter looked so much like her father. They seemed so peaceful, so happy, so content.
Wow, I thought, people can actually come the hospital for something beautiful, instead of something tragic.
I know its true, but lately that thought seemed an utter impossibility.

I pushed the button and felt the car take us to the 2nd floor ICU and as I was stepping off the elevator I looked back at the couple and smiled. The couple smiled back and as the doors to the elevator shut I saw their smiles slowly fade.
They knew.
No one got off on this floor unless someone they were visiting someone very sick, someone dying.
Go welcome that new baby into the world, I thought as I headed through the ICU doors, the nurse, knowing me by name, nodded as I passed, someone in this world should be happy.

I followed the ICU wing around to my father's room. After his stint a week back he had been moved to a room directly in from on the nurses station, so that at all times he could be viewed from any seat.

I carried my orientation packet for the community college I would be attending in 10 short days and some text books I had already bought. I thought it wouldn't be a bad idea to have read the first few chapters before class starts. Its not like there was anything else to do in the hospital room anyway.

When I walked through the door with my head down I heard a strange noise.
Silence.
No hiss.
No ventilator.
No ventilator?
I looked up.
I dropped my books.
I gasped.

My father's bed had been propped up into a semi-seated position and the tube that had been running out of his neck and into the ventilator was gone. In its place was a small white hole secured around his neck firmly with a blue fabric band.
My father's arms were tied down and he had a sheet tied around his middle, holding him tightly to the bed.

But this is not what shocked me.

My father's right index finger slowly tapped the bed rail.


Tap.


Tap.


Tap.

As if counting the beats to some inaudible song.
And there he sat.

Awake.

...and smiling.