I was drafting a post about how I felt a year after Melanie died, but work was keeping me really busy, so I never got it finished. Now, another loss occurred and I'm in a greater pain than I've ever felt before.
My father was rushed to the ICU last Monday, November 28th, suffering a cardiac arrest, followed by immediate CPR, along with another cardiac arrest in the ambulance. And more CPR. He was stabilized at the ICU, put in a respirator and hooked up to a bunch of machines. I got the call around 15pm, while at work, and dropped everything, got in a taxi to the train station and went 200km north to my hometown. It wasn't the first time my father was at the ICU. Actually, it was the 3rd time this year. He suffered from several respiratory illnesses, and his lung capacity was critically low. But something just felt different this time.
So, I arrived at the hospital, hugged my mom, was told my brother and sister were on their way as well. And there my 83-year-old father was, stabilized by many machines. I sat by his side, held his hand, though he wasn't awake. Having a tube from the respirator down your throat isn't a nice experience, so he was kept sedated. We all sat by his side, worried, just wanting to be with him. We stayed until the nurse assigned to him told us that we should go home and get some rest and that they would call us if anything happened. But he was stable for now.
The next day we went back, after I had called my doctor and went on a trip to the pharmacy. I was suffering withdrawal symptoms since I hadn't had my medicine. I only had my work stuff with me after all. But back we went. Continuing our guard duty so to speak. To be with him, should he wake up, or in case he somehow could sense that we were there. That he wasn't alone. We wanted to be in his presence and urge him to fight for his life. To not leave us. We stayed there all day and all evening until yet again, the nurse told us that we should get some rest. We spoke to a doctor before we left to get a status. He said it didn't look good. That even if my dad survived, he might not have long left. His lungs were just too weak. It was a tough reality to hear. My mom cried again, so did my sister. I felt shell-shocked. Sure, we knew he wasn't doing well. That he didn't have a decade left. Probably just a handful of years. But the doctor gave him months to live in. If he survived.
The next day, when we arrived at the ICU, they were trying to get my father out of the respirator. It was breathing for him and the longer you stay in a respirator, the worse your chances of getting out of it gets. So, they wanted to get him off it. It was a gradual process. They slowly let him do more of the work himself until they felt like he might be able to breathe on his own. They told us to leave for a little as they pulled him off the respirator. We went to the roof of the hospital. It was the highest building in the town I grew up in for a long time and the view from up there is great. I remember once I was in the hospital, my parents and I, went up there. I was around 10 at the time. Somehow it felt nostalgic to be there again.
When we returned, it was to bad news. My father was breathing on his own, but only with a big oxygen mask on. It would give him some resistance to breathe against which somehow was better for him. They had tried to use the little tube you get, with oxygen into your nose, but it wasn't enough. Throughout the day, they tried to make the transition, but it was in vain each time. In the end, a doctor pulled us into an office and gave us the hard reality. My father wouldn't be able to breathe on his own. At the moment he was working really hard, and I had noted that it basically looked like he was running a marathon. Deep labored breaths, sweating. My father was really fighting. And the thought that, what happens when he runs out of energy. Nobody can keep running like that. And that was what the doctor was addressing. It was time to go from lifesaving treatment to comfort in his last time. They had done everything they could. There was no chance he would ever get off the machines. His lungs were done.
They gave him morphine and once we were all gathered, they took the mask off of him. He was doing best. He was fighting. We had beside him. My mom, my sister, my brother and me. My siblings' families had left to leave us alone in this intensely private time. I held his hand; my mom held the other hand. My brother and sister his arms and we talked to my father. Trying to soothe him. Telling him it was okay to stop fighting. That it was okay to rest. That we were there, and we loved him dearly. He fought. Him fought for his life, but slowly he lost the battle. He couldn't keep fighting. His deep breaths just didn't give him enough oxygen. He wasn't awake. Not really. But we were there for him. When he took his final breath, and his pulse slowed and stopped. And we broke down. We had been crying while we sat with him, but now that he was gone, we just broke down.
As I write this, I'm sitting in his bed. In his room, surrounded by his things. I can't sleep. I have tears in my eyes. It's almost 8am. And I have to get up soon, but I can't sleep. His funeral is tomorrow. I miss him more than words can describe.