Our family has a four-generation whistle. My grandfather taught it to my dad, and my dad to me, and at least one of my girls does it. Today I went into the corridor when he needed some privacy, and instead of calling "It's OK to come back" he gave me the whistle. It reminded me how we have this special bond. I love my dad so much. We are so close and grow even closer after each trauma. He's such a good guy--kind, compassionate, funny and smart. I'm thankful that I get to be there for him, but I'm just sad that he has to keep going through all this.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Hopefully the Last Shoe Dropped: ER Visit # 9
I woke up to what looked like the scene of a murder: blood everywhere. I called 911 for the ninth time in five months. My dad has some kind of internal bleeding. After the ambulance left I was crying so hard it wouldn't have been safe for me to follow it as I usually do. A friend wrote me (before she knew about this): "I keep thinking when another shoe drops that there should only be two!" Yes, I feel like Imelda Marcos: the other shoe keeps dropping. He's in ICU tonight, still bleeding, but getting excellent care. The nurses and doctors at SJRMC are amazing, and treat him as if he were their father. They know him well there, which is sort of scary. The doctor who stapled his head three days age was thrilled to get to see his work. "I never get to see how it turns out!" he said.