The Lounge That Wasn't At All Lounge-y

On the beam the divides the room "Emergency Waiting Lounge" was spelled out in dingy gold letters.  I laughed to myself, thought about taking a picture to poke fun at it then quickly decided my dad would have erupted at me for being insensitive.  So I passed on the photo-op and just sat there and stared at the false advertisement, thinking about how they really should make it more lounge-like. A little booze would have lightened my mood, that's for sure.  A little music, a smoking section...sigh. (Side note... I think it was on Dr. Drew, but I don't know so don't quote me...not that you should ever quote me...seriously, what the eff do I know?... that I heard that people who laugh at inappropriate times and make jokes at inappropriate times, often suffered trauma in the there preteen years and they are stunted emotional at the age when that traumatic event happened to them. I'm not really sure how I feel about that. I make a lot of jokes when I'm uncomfortable, when things are tense, when shit is going down so to speak...to some the emotionally stunted comment would make complete sense. I am, after all, broken. But to me it doesn't ring true. I'm quite aware of the emotion and look at humor more as my own form of self preservation. Plus I know a lot of people who do the same thing so who is he comparing to? If we're all stunted then are we really stunted? I think not.)

Friday my dad went to get some fluid drained off his abdomen. His liver isn't functioning well. Cirrhosis, hep C and cancer will do that to a liver. It gets overworked and dumps the excess waste into his abdominal cavity. The first drain was 13 liters, the one over Thanksgiving ended up being 11 liters and carried with it a mean case of peritonitis that required a 4 day hospital stay,but on Friday it seemed minor with 3 liters. Perspective is weird, right? He's having fluid drained because his liver is sick but what we all noted was the decrease in amount. He got home about 2pm and went right downstairs. About 5pm I was on hold with my student loan dons and I hear him call up the stairs to me. 

"I need to go to the ER!"

I jumped off the bed and ran to the hall.

"What's up?!"

"I think the peritonitis is back. I need to go. Now."

So I put on some pants, I had on shorts but it's negative digits here and I haven't shaved recently and no one needs to see that, gathered up my keys and coat. I threw a hat on because I was planning on going to the gym and hadn't showered yet so my hair was doing it's best Medusa impersonation, and we headed off. My mind thinking "Holy shit, these pants are tight!".

He sighed and moaned and wiggled in his seat and every time I hit a bump he would exclaim "oh!", "Christ!", "Jesus!", "sonofabitch!"...I don't think he was praying.

Before I forced myself forward to tie my shoes, I noted how tight my pants were. Feck. They'll stretch out, just go. They didn't. They distracted me, which was probably good.  Inappropriate distractions. Shrug. What can I say? We all cope our own way. My belly has grown so much that it would push the waist down and I spent a large amout of time in a tug of war with my pants and my belly while mentally beating myself over getting out of control. I think I may have given up a little. Squirrel! Whatever.

As we sat there, me finding humor at an inappropriate time which caused me to rotisserie chicken the implications of my faulty humor in a separate part of my brain, I realized just how much my dad has changed in the past year. There is no muscle on his arms.  The biceps he used to bounce oranges off to flirt with my mom and impress his young daughter, are gone.  His tattoos are anorexic and I wondered what mine might become someday.  I wondered distantly, behind the cooking chicken, if those faded bluish black markings of his youth would somehow impact his treatment here the land of magic panties*. There is no meat on his legs. The legs that would carry him over mountain ridges to chase elk with my brother.  His fingers, that show the marks of hard work, are boney.  He has withered away. The only thing of substance on his body right now is abdomen and it is a stark reminder of how sick he is. A pregnant belly on a stick figure of a man.

My oldest, now 13, called me while we waited. He was worried but did not want to just come out and ask me if my dad was dying. If this was grandpa's time. He is good at asking questions without words, I wish my Hubbs could hear them better.  I told him that they couldn't figure out for sure what it was that was causing the pain but that he was ok.  It must be hard for him to be at an age when you are trying to seem so manly and yet have no really measurable amount of control over your emotions. What will he decide is his definition of a man? His only other experience with death thus far, has been when our friend Rob committed suicide.  He doesn't not like Bath and Body Works Orange and Ginger lotion because that was the lotion I was using in our hotel when we were called and notified of his death. It reminds him of sadness and of being afraid. He is my son.

My dad spent 2 days in the hospital and has no real answers.  I sometimes wonder if they look at his insurance, the insurance he has to pay for out of what little he gets so he can get treatment for his cancer because my dad is not quite old enough to qualify for assistance, and milk it.  There was no sign of the peritonitis and they aren't sure if the pain is from the hernia caused by the fluid retention. They can't fix the hernia until they get the fluid issue under control because you can't re-repair it.

There isn't much I can do for him.  He is 60. He will hear what he wants to hear and choose how he will respond to the information. All I can do is try to extend him some grace when I have become the outlet for his complaints. To be kinder to his nurses than he is because I know. I know he's crabby, he's vocal, even without words.  He is dying. I can't imagine facing your mortality is easy, especially when the lounge you have to wait in is a dry one.

*The Hubbs' grandfather was LDS, he married a feisty non-LDS who would refer to the LDS garments as magic panties and/or passports to heaven.  Maybe I find that slightly funny and I shouldn't. When you are not part of the fold, you notice there is a difference for those who are part of the fold. Also, the ER doc was great. He treated me during one of my hemorrhages with The Sprout, I would have him as my regular doctor if I could.  My dad and the nurse? That's another post.