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.