Loving Daddy

      Having left a balmy 80 degrees, I knew it would be chilly in Chicago, but that’s all I knew for sure.

      As I waited for the plane to take off, my thoughts turned once again to my dad.  I

couldn’t help but wonder what kind of shape I would find him in, once I got back to Indiana

and the hospital where he lay, fighting for his life.  For the hundredth time, I prayed that I

would not be too late.  The flight grew bumpy the closer we got to Chicago, and I found the weather to be as dismal as my mood.  The captain announced that it was raining and 50 degrees.  Lovely, I thought; welcome back.

      I hurried off the plane, and finding my sister and sister-in-law waiting for me, we headed out of Chicago.

     After dropping my sister-in-law off at her car, we went straight to the hospital.  My sister wanted to give me some time with dad, since I had not seen him yet.

      My mother was standing in the doorway of my dad’s room, and she didn’t seem happy to see me at all.  Then, with the usual venom in her voice, she asked me what “she” was doing here.  Meaning my sister.  The thing to understand is that my mom has made a career out of hating everyone in my dad’s family.  His siblings were no good, and his two biological children from his first marriage, were even worse, as far as she could tell.  She, of course, had done nothing wrong, and could never understand why my sister and brother and their families had had nothing at all to do with her and my dad for the past 10 years.  To say that this was quite a time for everyone was an understatement.

     Unbeknownst to my mom, I had called my brother and sister while I was still in Texas to relay the news about dad, and, to protect me, they told her that they had heard about it through someone else.  They were grateful that I had let them know, because my mother had made it very clear for quite some time, that she would never tell them if dad ever got sick, and I totally disagreed with that.  I felt that they had every right to know.

     Without skipping a beat, my mom started in on me, practically blocking the entrance to dad’s hospital room.  Frustration was quickly settling in, since all I wanted was to see my dad.  She made a point to tell me how selfish I was for taking my trip, and told me that this was all my fault.  I was used to being her scapegoat my entire life, so this came as no big surprise.

     I moved past my mom finally, and went over to dad’s bedside.  When I looked at him, shock seemed to reverberate throughout my entire body.  He seemed barely conscious.  I talked softly to him, laying my hand in his, and feeling the firm grip of his good hand squeeze my fingers.  I could feel the hot tears that I had tried to keep in check, unsuccessfully, as they coursed down my cheeks.  Looking at dad hooked up to a respirator, with all the other various tubes running in and out of him was more than I could stand.

     My mother however, was already feeling as if my dad were getting more attention than was necessary and demanded that we all head down to the cafeteria for lunch.  In short, SHE needed attention.

      I had barely finished eating, when my mom made me so angry that I slammed my chair back, got up, and left.  The effects of very little sleep, combined with her caustic comments were taking a toll, all because I had the audacity to ask questions about dad.  She told me that I was not allowed to do that, because SHE is his wife, not me.  It would be the first of many times, that I would have my patience tried by her in the weeks to come.

    At 9 p.m., the heart surgeon came in with the devastating results of the tests they had taken on dad.  There was nothing to soften this blow, as he bluntly began to discuss dad’s health.  He had suffered a thoracic aneurysm, which had started somewhere outside of the aorta. In short, he’d had a massive stroke.

     The heart surgeon gave us very little time at all to come up with a decision on what was to be done about dad’s condition.  Plainly put, dad either had a very lengthy and risky surgery, having about a 5% chance of even surviving it, or he does not have it, and dies for sure, from a possible cough, sneeze, etc....  We had a couple of minutes to make up our minds.&nb