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ryoushi
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Country: Canada
Birthday: 3/15/1982
Gender: Female
Interests: Pretty boys, witty men, archery, drinking and writing drunk
Expertise: Taking one step forward and two steps back.
Occupation: Student
Industry: Education/Research
Message: message meEmail: email me
Member Since:
7/8/2001
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| Sunday June 29th 2008
After another night of staying up all night, we called my dad's thoracic surgeon, who also happened to be a family friend. He swung by our house on his day off with his stethoscope ready and his kit for draining the fluid from my father's lung and pleural cavity, despite having just done it days earlier. After quickly examining my dad, he said slyly to my mom, "Do you have any soap I could wash my hands with?", pulling her upstairs and out of earshot of my dad. He told my mom honestly, "Tien only has days left to live. I think it would be best if we got him a bed on the palliative floor at the hospital. That way he'll get the care he needs." To my credit, my mom held herself together remarkably well. She told the surgeon she wouldn't force my dad to go but would talk to him about it. The doctor agreed but said he would need to start making phone calls now and asked to borrow the phone.
I was with my dad when my mom came downstairs to tell him. I could see something flit over his countenance, an understanding that he tried to hide from my mom. Not surprisingly, he didn't really want to go but my mom kept trying to reassure him, "...and if you get better, then you can come home!" My dad looked at me and said, a little hollowly, "Explain to your mother what palliative means..."
How do I tell her that that is where you go to die? I said as diplomatically as possible, "Mom, palliative is...uh...long term care. You don't just go in and out of palliative care."
My dad thought about it, quietly, while the doctor was upstairs making the phone calls. He asked us, "Is it already set up?" Are you forcing me to go?
"No! If you want to stay, you can stay and I'll take care of you. But the doctor thinks this is a good idea because the nurses have all the medication there and can help you better."
To this day, I don't think it was the fact that the medication would be handy or that he'd be surrounded by nurses which convinced him to go. I think he wanted to lessen the burden on my mom, who had quit her job and started caring for him full time for over a year. I know some people thought that my mom forced him into the hospital; trust me - I was there. It wasn't like that at all. He agreed of his own free will and I knew that he once he left the house, he would never step foot inside of it again.
After that, to say it was a flurry of activity was an understatement. The surgeon was back on the phone, trying to find a free bed. To my father's chagrin, he had also called an ambulance to pick up my dad, instead of letting us drive him - I could tell my dad was embarrassed. He had tried to maintain such a strong appearance for months now and a big fat ambulance at the end of our driveway was not something he wanted our neighbours to see. It must have been a quiet day, because the paramedics were there within 10 minutes and we had nothing ready yet. My mother was frantically trying to throw clothes and toiletries in an overnight bag, while making phone calls to family friends. Vu and Andrew Ha's mom showed up and she promptly burst into tears, which my mom shushed.
My dad asked me to get the Do Not Resuscitate form he had signed and give it to the paramedics. Then he stood and started walking towards the washroom, telling us all that he just needed to use the restroom and then he'd be ready to go. The paramedic, thinking to be helpful, jumped in with, "Oh we have a portable urinal you can use..." My father just glowered at him and then proceeded to the washroom anyway. He was fiercely independent until the end, making us all wait for him. It was a little awkward, with all of us hovering outside the washroom door trying to make casual small talk with each other. How do you make small talk with the people taking your father away to die?
My father laid down on the stretcher and they strapped him in. My mom was asking if she could ride in the ambulance with him; I wonder now, what my dad was thinking. Was he looking at the house he had worked so hard and for so long to buy? Our mortgage was even paid off through his work ethic. Was he worrying about what was going to happen to us? Was he worried about what was going to happen to him? Was he afraid?
Questions that will never have answers.
I drove with Vu and Andrew’s mom behind the ambulance to the hospital. It was still under construction so finding a place to park, and then finding our way to the floor was a challenge. In the end, we beat the paramedics there.
My dad was given a private room at the end of the hall. Their nursing staff on the palliative care floor at the Laurentian hospital site was amazing. When my mom indicated she wanted to stay overnight with my dad, they wheeled out the extra hospital bed and gave her a cot. We unfortunately couldn’t get the TV service up and running as it was a Sunday. They even had a faux leather lazy boy recliner for me. My sister showed up shortly thereafter and I left, running to the grocery store to buy water bottles and other supplies for what I assumed was going to be a long hunkering down at the hospital. My mother, my sister and I were pro’s at this: we had done the same a year ago when my dad was recovering from surgery. We knew the drill, we knew the shifts. My sister would take the evening shift after work, I would take the overnight and mornings and my mom would have the afternoons and evenings. I had books, my computer – I was prepared for a long stay.
But my father wasn’t. | | |
| Friday June 27th 2008 - overnight to Saturday June 29th 2008
My father's breathing was becoming more and more labored. My mom stayed up all night with him while he sat in the upright rocking chair, hunched over the hospital bed table. It seemed as though the only way he could pull air into his lungs was nearly doubled over. Unfortunately, this also meant that he couldn't elevate his foot - so they'd switch from him leaning back with his foot up and him leaning forward so he could breathe. I could tell my dad was exhausted; he hadn't had any sleep and there was no position that was comfortable for him.
I knew the fact that the edema was so severe likely indicated a blood cloth. My father had been on Innohep, a potent blood thinner, for over a year for pulmonary embolism; the drug was losing its efficacy. There were other problems that were arising which were alarming, though I kept it close to me. He was having problems hearing - at first we attributed it to wax build up in his ear, or maybe a side of effect of one of the dozens of pills he was taking a day. I had a deep seated fear that the cancer has spread to his brain and that terrified me. I couldn't bear the thought of my father, my brilliant hard-nosed father, losing his mind slowly to an invading disease.
My dad had always pulled through rough spots before. Little do people know, that on the Tuesday before my wedding, my father nearly died. He went to see his thoracic surgeon for a regular check-up. The usual, "Hi how are you? Let's look at the X-Rays, oh the tumor is still there..." sort of deal that we had been accustomed to going to. I was with my maid of honour, at a cute little cafe eating lunch, oblivious to anything that was happening just a few miles away. My dad had gone with a family friend, who, ironies of irony, was also a newly retired respiratory technician. During the routine visit, suddenly my father couldn't breathe and he collapsed. His heart stopped. The surgeon told me after that as he was frantically wheeling my dad towards a treatment room that he kept thinking about my upcoming wedding and how he had to bring my dad back for that. The wedding could have been a funeral; I often thought about what I would have done, if that had happened. It's a 'what if' I'm glad didn't become a reality.
I had no clue. My dad only told me and Paul weeks after the wedding, one night while we were watching TV together. I was a little surprised but many people didn't even know he was sick, at the wedding. He managed to walk me down the aisle, he managed to have the first dance with me. He said he was so thrilled and proud to have been strong enough to stay for the entire ceremony, dinner and dance afterwards, outlasting even the healthiest of people.
I'm not normally a hyperemotional person, but I did cry a lot at my wedding. I know some people found it odd or even off-putting so I want to explain myself now. So many people had helped to cobble my wedding together. I was married within five months of getting engaged - I literally threw my wedding together and prayed it would all work out. Miraculously it did, but not without dozens and dozens of people helping me at every twist and turn of events - my thank yous were excessive but heartfelt. There was so much I had sacrificed in terms of getting 'the perfect wedding' cause I knew I was running out of time. What was more important, having the perfect floral arrangements or having my dad give me away? Some part of me deep down knew that this was going to be one of the last times I would have my dad, my family and all my friends all together.
At least for a joyous occasion; I knew too well the next time I saw many of these faces would be at his funeral. | | |
| Thursday, June 26, 2008
My father's right foot was completely swollen with an unhealthy grey pallor. The skin was cold, clammy and unnaturally smooth. My mother and aunt were in a panic, asking me what they should do - looking to me. But I'm no doctor; the most I had done was write the MCAT, apply half-heartedly to a few medical schools and attempt a Master's degree in Biology. I told them to elevate his leg or maybe try getting him to walk (remembering vaguely from second year Anatomy that veins rely upon the skeletal muscles to help the blood flow back to the heart...). They tucked some folded towels under his foot, draped a damp cloth over top and then my mom proceeded to massage the foot and calf, trying to coax the fluid away. I called the fre 1-800 health hotline that the government of Ontario has set up. The nurse could do no more than tell me to take my dad to the Emergency Room.
He didn't want to go - he didn't want the hassle of having to change clothing, sit in the car, and go to the ER. Towards the end of my father's life, even walking 10 feet became exceedingly difficult for him. I learned the art of patience that year. Escorting him to the doctor often took hours just because he was too proud to use the wheelchair and would rather walk. We would walk a bit, stop for him to catch his breath, then walk a few feet further. It's amazing how much had changed in such a short period of time: he used to be the most active one of us all, running for half an hour every day after work while I sat in front of the computer like a sedentary rock.
So we acquiesced and my mom spent hours with my dad, rubbing his foot. She'd proudly show me any progress she made in lessening the edema. I would remain chipper and upbeat, saying things like "That's great mom! Looks good!" I'd talk trash over the Euro-Cup 08 with my dad, laughing at the Dutch win over Italy, hoping that Spain would win (I think Fernando Torres is a cutie!). We'd spent many hours that month watching the games together. We'd watch the hockey playoffs, the basketball playoffs and now it seemed we'd get to watch the soccer playoffs together.
I was totally wrong.
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| I've just gone through a month of law school, living in a brand new city with my brand new husband in my brand new apartment. I have moments where I panic because everything has changed so quickly and this seems all a dream from which I will wake up. It feels odd to go to bed at night and have my husband join me and fight me for the blankets. (I always win.) It feels odd to have the key to my own place, a place which requires I pay rent and vacuum on a regular basis. It feels odd to sit in class with unfamiliar faces and learn something totally different from what I was doing before. There was no adjustment period: I fell into routine as easily as a trout slips into the stream.
My life in my hometown seems so distant and far removed now. It strange for me to think I spent 26 years there and now it's all gone in a blink of an eye. My father is gone and I miss him terribly. My mother is selling the house that is steeped in memories of him. My younger sister is done with her schooling and is now looking for work as an adult, starting her career. Those 26 years are very slowly coming to a close and for once in my life, I'm not missing the past. I'm not even looking to the future anymore. I have an every day existence where I go to class, come home, and order Chinese Food on weekend when I'm too lazy to cook.
This feels surreal.
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I wanted to thank everybody for their kind words in the last post. I received so much support that any lingering guilt I had for writing it completely dissipated. The weeks since my father passed away has been interesting to say the least. I know I've changed as a person. I feel it: perhaps some of the changes are good and perhaps some I could have done without but what's done is done. If life experiences don't affect you, then what does?
I decided I quite desperately needed a real holiday before school started so my best friend and I decided to go to New Orleans. She needed a vacation too since she was finishing up her training with the air force in Biloxi. I flew to Biloxi and got a peek of what life on a US military base was like at Keesler AFB.
It's no surprise that I find war stories and the military very fascinating - it's a life so far removed of anything I've ever experienced or would ever do. My parents lived through the Vietnam War and Canada is involved in the conflicts in Afghanistan. A high school friend of mine is part of the Canadian Navy. And of course - Iraq. You hear the stories in documentaries of great war heroes, you hear the politics and debates on the news but the kind of stories I was thirsting for wasn't available in mass media. I wanted to know about the daily things. Did you know that female Marines were not allowed cheese or cake as part of their meals during boot camp and they were only given a razor once a week to shave? Did you know that newly recruited airmen have to march everywhere on base, even if it's just them and a friend? It was fascinating to see the synchronized steps as they moved from square beige building to square beige building. Did you know the bases keep track of drinking and driving?
26 days, woo!
On my way down to Mississippi, my flight was delayed so I ended up spending a few hours speaking to two army medics, one of whom was a desert storm vet and was about to go on his 2nd tour in Iraq. Because my friend herself is a former Marine and an Iraq veteran and I had heard her stories, it was awesome to hear more stories from somebody who had been over 'in the sandbox' for a different job and with a different branch of the military. I got to hear about their shenanigans in the barracks, stuff they did to make the toil more bearable, people they liked, people they found irritating. Each story had a personal twist that brought the war from this far removed battle on the other side of the world to something that average men and women were doing. Many of the airmen and soldiers I met while here were just normal folk: the girls wore makeup and curled their hair, the boys argued over sports.
You have to understand that the military presence is very subdued in Canada
- most high school graduates go onto college and we don't need to
enlist to help pay for tuition. I have a whole new appreciation for the opportunities in Canada that have allowed me to pay for my undergraduate and graduate degrees easily without ever having to put my life on the line. It's sobering to hear about how my friend was in Fallujah, driving in convoys, working security checkpoints in the desert and being shot at just so she would have the same chance to go to school as me. She signed her life over for 8 years. (Most military contracts are eight years, contrary to the popular belief that it is four.) Post-secondary school was something I took for granted and in a way, it makes me want to give a good shake to those students I've taught who don't take their education seriously.
This isn't meant to be a political blog, to condemn or condone any war. I know after the Vietnam War, many veterans came back to a hostile environment and no support after all they had gone through. Perhaps some would argue that it is impossible for me to support the troops without supporting the war, but perhaps these people don't know the soldiers as I do - as friends. To me, their motives for joining are irrelevant - in the end, I just want them to come home alive.
PS: Currently in Biloxi, waiting to be evacuated and flown to Atlanta. Gustav SUCKS
PPS: Home safe!
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