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Watching the numbers - Sing With Me If It's Just For Today... — LiveJournal
If I should fall behind, Guyster, wait for me.
Watching the numbers
Every four seconds, the little clown car horn beeps. I think it’s the respirator, but I’m not sure. There are seven bags of intravenous medicines going into his right side. On his left, there’s a drip of insulin and a bag of type O negative plasma pumping into him. Two large blue tubes bottleneck into a single small white one that’s filtering the air into his mouth. His hands and feet are white; white like the last time I saw that white—white like Billy was when I found him.

It doesn’t even remotely resemble my dad. His body is so bloated from accumulated fluids that his face is balloon round, his eyes swollen shut. His beard has grown, something I’ve never seen on my dad, and a thick scar sutured with metal starts at the top of his abdomen and goes below the sheet.

The doctors must’ve seen me when I first wandered into his room. They came over immediately, three of them circling me. The elder one explained that they’d had to perform emergency surgery on Tuesday night because his bowels were blocked. He went into a long explanation, but I wasn’t really listening. I’d just seen my dad, or someone they claimed was my dad.

I flew back into what they were saying. His kidneys had stopped functioning; his lungs thick with fluid, all of the antibiotics they’re pumping into him cannot target their infections because the flow of his blood has virtually stopped.

“I’m afraid I can’t offer you hope.”

That’s what the eldest doctor said. The young intern at his side looked attentive, but sad. I started to cry. I looked back at my dad. It really was him. They talked some more. I took it in. I looked at my dad.

Sudha, his nurse, is in constant motion around him, tending each monitor and bag in a complex tango. I constantly ask her questions, each answer highlighting another question. She’s kind. Soft brown eyes, kind eyes, and she gently explains that the red numbers are his blood pressure, which is too high for them to kick in the dialysis.

I stare at the red numbers, waiting, and I am thrilled when I see them go into the one-thirties, but they go right back up into the one fifties, and I keep staring them down.

I’ve sat with my hand on my dad’s arm, my hand fusing to his arm, and I talk to him, whether Sudha is there or not. I’ve brought a National Geographic, its cover story on the Civil War, his second favorite war, and I read it aloud. I start to read each paragraph twice.

Since I arrived, he has shown no signs of consciousness. They’re unable to test his brain waves, but they tell me he’s not responding to touch. I ask my dad questions like he’d be able to answer, like he was able to a few days ago, but I don’t expect a response now. Not now.

Earlier, after the doctors gave me no hope, I called his brother and sister. My dad is the eleventh out of twelve kids, evenly divided in gender. There are five left, including my dad. “We can’t lose another one,” his eighty-five year old sister cried.

I watch the numbers. His foot, his white foot, is sticking out of the sheet, and I can’t bear to look at it. Billy. I cover it with the thin sheet.

It’s half past one in the morning. The shift changes and I lose Sudha. Kay, her replacement, told me that she’d taken care of my dad before his emergency surgery, and that he was a real joker. It made me smile. He can make friends of anyone. I pepper her with questions, many of the same ones I’d fired at Sudha. The answers are the same, just in a different accent.

I ask her if it would be okay for me to go back to the hotel to sleep for a little while. “There’s no way I can answer that question.”

“I know,” I say, and let her off the hook. I pray that he’ll make it through the night, somehow, and that I won’t be sleeping when the second most important man in my life decides to go to the land of colors we cannot see.
11 comments or Leave a comment
ubermunkey From: ubermunkey Date: April 2nd, 2005 08:46 pm (UTC) (Link)
a hug and a supportive thought
spigotmd From: spigotmd Date: April 2nd, 2005 10:29 pm (UTC) (Link)
your in m heart Terry
From: (Anonymous) Date: April 2nd, 2005 11:07 pm (UTC) (Link)
Sweetie, I'm so sorry. I've been right where you are and it's so very hard. Please take care of yourself. My thoughts are with you.

terrilynn (http://seaandsky.typepad.com)
jawnbc From: jawnbc Date: April 2nd, 2005 11:50 pm (UTC) (Link)
Keep doing what you're doing: keep reading, touching, talking. He's there. Make sure he knows how much you love him.

You're a good son.
creactivity From: creactivity Date: April 3rd, 2005 12:48 am (UTC) (Link)
I am so very very sorry.
gotu From: gotu Date: April 3rd, 2005 01:33 am (UTC) (Link)
We're thinking of you.
ruralrob From: ruralrob Date: April 3rd, 2005 02:22 am (UTC) (Link)
***major hugs, td, from all of us here***
twillhead From: twillhead Date: April 3rd, 2005 03:51 am (UTC) (Link)
Terry, I am so sorry you're going through this. I'm with you, Bud. Lots and lots of hugs.
tedwords From: tedwords Date: April 3rd, 2005 05:14 am (UTC) (Link)
"the land of colors we cannot see..."

That's a great way to think about it. Even if he goes to that land of colors before you return tomorrow, I'm certain he's aware of the love you have for him, which will make that passage easier. You're a brilliant color, my friend.
renniekins From: renniekins Date: April 3rd, 2005 05:18 am (UTC) (Link)
Thinking of you.
spleenless From: spleenless Date: April 3rd, 2005 12:36 pm (UTC) (Link)
I'm here. If you need an ear at some point, know this. I hope there will be some peace for him and for you.
11 comments or Leave a comment