My Father had a stroke when I was about twelve, and was in and out of intensive care for the next six years. I did not know it at the time, but this first day in the intensive care waiting room, was only one of many days. They seemed never ending, going on forever.
It is 8:03 Saturday morning, waiting in the Intensive Care waiting room begins at 8:00. We are a little late. Visitation with patients is five minutes twice a day. Once in the late morning and once in the late afternoon. That works out to three three minutes for my Mother and two minutes for me. Twice a day.
Two minutes was plenty for me, my Father was in a coma so conversation was not happening. During his last time in coma, I finally man'd up, opened one of his eyes, and told him, "It is okay, you can leave if you want." It was the only "in coma" conversation we ever had, the one way conversation that it was. It was perhaps the longest conversation we had that year.
This was pre-personal electronics time. The hospital waiting room had a television that could barely be heard, which didn't matter as there was only one channel. There were about a dozen chairs for waiting, usually there were less than four people total in the area.
When go in the actual room on Saturday and Sunday, or every day if he's slipping, I see my Father is one of four patients in the room. Calling them patients is generous. Four haggard bodies laying in beds with monitors calling out their pulse, recording their blood pressure. Covered in one sheet, and one thin blanket.
IV's for everyone. If you are an intensive care patient, you get an IV. Besides the saline drip, additional shots are given through the IV. Occasionally the saline solution is changed out for something else. The saline solution becomes a plastic bag of chemical cocktail.
Hanging on the left side of each bed, are catheter bags filling with urine, drop by drop. Urine which is very yellow to tinted red with blood depending on how close the patient is to dying. Every day the bags are weighed to measure fluid flow. I don't know about the bags with blood in them. Maybe they don't bother weighing them.
Beeping machines and ragged breathing are the only noises in the room. All four patients are unconscious. There are no flowers or get well cards. Only one visitor in the room at a time. Just as I can identify the bodies in the bed as actual people, one body is replaced by another body.
I start to think of them as mute, frigid actors playing a role, and not humans living out their last days in a coma, induced or natural. Generally, they will not leave the room to continue their recovery elsewhere. They go feet first to the hospital morgue, and then on to their final viewing.
Every Saturday, every Sunday, and every day when he takes a turn for the worse I am sitting in that waiting room. Ten hours a day of sitting. My day is broken up by rushed tasteless cafeteria meals that no one ever remembers eating. A few bathroom breaks. No wandering. Riding home with my Mother after six to eat a TV dinner, usually fried chicken, sit around for a while looking at more mundane TV, and off to bed.
During the week days when I am actually in school, I clean house, do my laundry and make dinner. Summer time means cutting the grass. Winter means shoveling snow three days a week or more. Generally we eat frozen TV dinners, but sometimes something simple. What passes for spaghetti, or leftovers from the last time my Mother cooked.
Mornings are pretty routine, I wake to an alarm and get ready for school, my Mother does the same except she goes to work. Usually I eat oatmeal or a couple of raw eggs. Eggs were not a favorite of mine, and raw was better than cooked, gross as that may sound. Conversation is limited. Other than my Father, what is there to talk about?
I missed around fifty days of school my junior year and around fifty days my senior year. I slipped through the schools 'tracking system' until it came time for graduation. My School was not sure I had enough attendance days to graduate. It mattered little that credit wise I was way ahead of the curve. They said they had no idea of my home situation. Eight hundred people from K-12 and I, 'slipped through the cracks'.
Sitting now in a little side room, is my Mother, myself and a nameless Doctor. The Doctor is telling us, this time he has been in a coma thirty days, and as far as they can tell, he will never come out of the coma. With my Mother's permission they want to end life support - pull the plug. How many times can you hear this and make a silent decision you hope you will never be asked about? Rinse and repeat over the previous few years.
On the thirty-third day of coma, he opens his eyes. Rinse and repeat. This time however his stay is short. After three days of being awake, he closes his eyes for the last time. I am mostly emotionless about his death and funeral. It's over - or I checked out.
In his six years in and out of the hospital, he had anger issues. Stroke patients with hair trigger tempers was and maybe is still quite common. His vocabulary never grew to more than perhaps thirty words. "Newspaper" (cigarette) and "Son of a Bitch" being the most common of his vocabulary choices.
Life between hospitalizations was never normal, I was one of two caregivers from about twelve to seventeen when there was no school. What I did for fun was limited in the day time. Those years have become a six year blur with periods of checking or blacking out when the stress became too great, which I did not know of until a few years later.
I spent my teen years onward with white coat syndrome, imagine that. I can't stand the smell of doctor's offices, let alone hospitals. When I need to visit nursing homes, I am filled with a mix of emotions. I know where they are going, and I know how lucky they are not to be there already.
Then I hope they never make it to the hospital for that final visit, for their sake. Then I pray that I may be a fortunate one. I prefer to miss both stays. However with modern medicine, we generally are not that lucky.
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