A poignant reflection on the sudden onset of a father's medical crisis. The author navigates the emotional turmoil, practical challenges, and intimate acts of care that accompany a loved one's illness. From the initial phone call to the hospital waiting room and beyond, the story explores themes of love, helplessness, and the delicate balance between hope and despair.
When power gathers under golden ceilings, real journalism stands outside, asking the questions that matter. Join HuffPost Membership and keep independent reporting strong for everyone. Nights are delicate and not to be trusted, like ice covering a pond in early November. When the phone rings in the middle of the night in your 20s, it’s likely a drunk friend needing a ride home. In your 30s, it could be a friend announcing the impending birth of a child.
In your 40s, the chances of it being good news drop sharply. More than likely, someone is ill or has been in an accident, is dying, or has already died. When I get the call at 2:30 a.m. from my dad’s nursing home, dread slaps me awake, and I answer in an almost whisper. They say, “Your father is having trouble breathing. We’ve sent him to Bridgeport Hospital.” My first thought is, “Not again.” I immediately curse my selfishness. Being called from a warm bed to tend to my father is a gift, one I’ve slowly been unwrapping for years. He needs me, and I can be there. That is the gift. I don’t bother getting out of my pajamas or washing my face or brushing my teeth. I ache for coffee, but this, too, seems selfish. I put on my glasses and a pair of ridiculous winter boots, even though it is May, and head to the hospital. In the emergency department, I am led into a waiting room. It is surprisingly full, and no one looks up when I sit down except for an older adult couple. The woman asks if I’d like to see a photo of her grandson, who is currently in one of the trauma bays after an injury during a wrestling match. I decide to witness this moment with them. I lean over, and the woman shows me photos on her phone. Her husband recounts his grandson’s accolades. They share their pride with me since they cannot share it with him. Meanwhile, my brain is still trying to figure out how I got here. A week ago, my dad was talking and asking about his 1099 tax forms. He is fastidious about things like this, although he isn’t fastidious about his filing system, which left me sitting cross-legged on the floor of the in-law apartment he no longer lives in, surrounded by papers, some dating back to 1998, trying to find a needle in a stack of needles. The situation is a stark contrast between the everyday concerns of life, like tax forms, and the sudden, urgent reality of a medical crisis. The shift in perspective is jarring, highlighting the fragility of life and the unpredictable nature of emergencies. The narrative quickly delves into the emotional turmoil and practical challenges faced during a medical emergency. The author's personal experience underscores the deep-seated love and helplessness one feels when a loved one is in distress. The writer is plunged into a world of anxiety, uncertainty, and grief, where every moment is filled with the weight of potential loss and the burden of difficult decisions. Now I look his body over for signs of what exactly is wrong so I can reach in and fix it. But it’s not that simple. If he needed a kidney, I’d give him one. Even a portion of my liver, if that’s a thing. But this is not something I can fix. I cannot provide him with air. I cannot pump his heart like it is a stress ball. He is transferred to the ICU, and again I am told to wait. There is a snack machine in the waiting room that works perfectly. I wish it didn’t, so I’d have an excuse to kick it, let out my rage in some kind of productive and acceptable way. When I am finally allowed to see him, family members in other rooms look up when I walk by. Some smile and nod. A knowing. I smile back. We’re all in this together in some weird way the universe has planned.The author confronts the limitations of their ability to provide help, highlighting the stark contrast between their desire to fix the problem and their inability to do so. The author conveys the overwhelming nature of the situation. The writer's feelings are expressed with a rawness that resonates with anyone who has faced a similar situation. The hospital waiting room becomes a crucible of shared experience. The writer encounters a spectrum of emotions and encounters other people in the same situation. The universality of the experience becomes clear. Someone is taken somewhere on a gurney, and her family follows behind, wiping tears with tattered shirt sleeves. They don’t make eye contact. I still remember their faces and wonder how the doctors and nurses do it. They have mastered the art of living among the dying. They have to. How else do you survive if you keep a chronology of people you’ve cared for? In a few weeks, they won’t remember my dad’s name. I won’t remember their names either, except maybe for Natalie, because she was extra kind. Everyone else is a face with a temporary name: a temporary face and a temporary name. The narrative transitions to an observation of the medical professionals. The writer is moved by their dedication and resilience. The author reflects on the ephemeral nature of their interactions. The writer finds herself caught in a whirlwind of practical tasks and emotional challenges. Once my dad is settled in a room, my sister and I — she has flown out on a red-eye from California — take turns catching his sputum in napkins, and I try not to gag, at least not when he’s looking. It must make him uncomfortable and embarrassed to have me do this; the least I can do is not throw up. The author describes the intimate acts of care that become necessary in the face of illness. The writer is faced with the reality of her father's physical decline. In the past year, I’ve become closer to him in all the ways I never wanted to. I wash his pee-soaked clothes from the nursing home, feed him diced pears, and wipe the dribble from his chin. This isn’t the father I’ve known all my life, but it’s the one I have. The doctor tells us to call him by his first name, Mark, which is kind, but makes me think things are really bad. Mark calls a family meeting, and I imagine the worst. I imagine him saying there is nothing else they can do for my kind-hearted, smart-alecky, handsome and hopeful father. I will tell them that it is unacceptable. Things can be done, and they should be. No other job just lets you give up. The author reflects on the changes in their relationship with their father. The writer discusses the practical and emotional adjustments. The author is consumed by a fear of loss, which is both intense and personal. I’ve done my job. I already had to pre-plan the funeral and pick out a burial plot; isn’t that enough to ask of a person? It was a required Medicaid Title 19 nightmare that had me looking at cake-box-sized replicas of coffins in different colors and sheens. There were so many choices and questions, and I answered mostly by guessing, assuming what my dad would want, because of all the things we’ve talked about with him — we didn’t talk about this
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