A very ABNORMAL day
Although as reported earlier, the day had begun routinely, all normalcy ended with that cellphone call. When I ended the call, my first problem was simple: How did I get to the hospital? My car was in the shop and my fiance had given me a ride that morning.
Did I tell you yet that I work with the greatest people in the world? Well, I do. Our receptionist also had car trouble that day and wasn't able to make it in. Normally when she is out, I cover the phones. But my boss didn't blink an eye when I told her I had to go. Matter of fact, before I could call Phillip to ask if he could come take me to the hospital, Deedee had arranged for a coworker to take me.
When I got to the emergency room, Dad had already been seen by a doctor and was waiting for test results to come back. We spent a couple of hours waiting, then Dad was released. Diagnosis: Vertigo. Treatment: Some pills to reduce the dizziness, and time for the inner ear imbalance to heal itself. Dad was told to stay home the rest of the week, and he should be fine to go back to his school crossing on Monday.
Only he wasn't. By the weekend, he was complaining that his head was stopped up, and he was using a walker to move around the house. I thought he looked like he'd lost some weight, too, and I asked him what he'd been eating. "Nothing much, I haven't had any appetite." "Dad, you've got to eat something!" I knew that Dad didn't cook much and normally ate out, and I suggested that my cousin Mike, who'd been living with Dad, could go pick him up something. Dad promised to try to eat more.
On Monday, he did go to his school crossing that morning. None of us realized it yet, but that would be the last time Dad worked. That afternoon, he called in sick. When I talked to him that evening, he complained of shortness of breath - so we went back to the emergency room. Although this time they did keep him overnight, they weren't able to make a diagnosis and sent him home the next day. At their suggestion, I called his cardiologist (Dad had had a heart attack and a quadruple bypass about 12 years ago) and made an appointment.
By the following weekend, Dad couldn't get around at all without his walker, and really wasn't doing very well with it. He'd obviously lost a lot of weight - within just two weeks, his clothes looked as if they were hanging on clothes-hangers instead of on him! We bought him some Ensure as he still wasn't eating well, but he insisted that he was feeling better. I was worried, though, and called his internist for an appointment. I was concerned that if we didn't quickly find out what was wrong, Dad would not survive. I thought, though, that it was probably something serious but curable, like pneumonia.
I was wrong. The internist took me aside and told me, "As best as I can guess, your Dad's dying." DYING? Dad? NOooooooo! He continued, "I believe it's probably some kind of abdominal cancer - I thought I felt a mass in his abdomen. Just based on how fast he's deteriorated, my guess is that it's too advanced for treatment. But just to be sure, I'd like to put him in the hospital." Dad had just seen the internist in February. I remember he'd growled because the doctor had sent him to a hospital for some sort of test for anemia and wanted Dad to go to a gastroenterologist, and Dad told me that evening, "You know, he's not half the doctor he used to be. Now all he wants to do is send you to some other doctor." I'd suggested that Dad should go, but I hadn't pushed the point.
We discussed the choice of hospitals. Although DeKalb Medical isn't as close to me as a couple of others, I felt that Dad might be more comfortable there because it was more familiar to him; also, it was closer to family and friends. The doctor told me he'd make arrangements; since he doesn't practice at DeKalb, he would be turning Dad's care over to a "hospitalist" - the first of many new words I'd be adding to my vocabulary. For anyone who's never heard of "hospitalists," that's a general doctor who doesn't see patients outside of a hospital, but treats hospitalized patients who either do not have a doctor or, like Dad, see a doctor who doesn't practice in that particular hospital.
The doctor explained to Dad that he was very sick and he was concerned that he may have a serious illness, possibly cancer. Dad agreed to be admitted, and I was very careful not to meet his eyes - I didn't want him to know that I'd been told he was dying but wasn't sure I could keep that knowledge out of my eyes. It was a long trip back to Dad's house!
When we got to Dad's house, my cousin was there. Of course he wanted to know everything, but at that point Dad didn't know as much as I did, and I wasn't going to tell. I helped Dad get his things together and took him to the hospital. I called my fiance to let him know where I was. Phillip was frantic - the doctor's appointment had been at 1:00, and it was 5:00 when I called. I'd silenced my cellphone when we got to the doctor's office and quietly ignored it since then - I had to be strong for a while, which meant that I couldn't share my knowledge. When Phillip joined me at the hospital, he took me out in the hallway and asked me if I could tell him anything. I looked straight ahead - if I saw any sign of sympathy, I'd have come unglued - and told him, "Dad's dying." His reaction mirrored my own shock.
Finally they took Dad upstairs for a CAT scan. They told me I could go too, but I had this overwhelming urge to get out of there - I couldn't stand not to talk about it any longer. I also knew I needed to call my brother. So we left.
The night before, I hadn't slept well. I had several bad dreams, one of which involved me calling my brother to tell him, "You better come home." That is exactly the call I had to make.
Did I tell you yet that I work with the greatest people in the world? Well, I do. Our receptionist also had car trouble that day and wasn't able to make it in. Normally when she is out, I cover the phones. But my boss didn't blink an eye when I told her I had to go. Matter of fact, before I could call Phillip to ask if he could come take me to the hospital, Deedee had arranged for a coworker to take me.
When I got to the emergency room, Dad had already been seen by a doctor and was waiting for test results to come back. We spent a couple of hours waiting, then Dad was released. Diagnosis: Vertigo. Treatment: Some pills to reduce the dizziness, and time for the inner ear imbalance to heal itself. Dad was told to stay home the rest of the week, and he should be fine to go back to his school crossing on Monday.
Only he wasn't. By the weekend, he was complaining that his head was stopped up, and he was using a walker to move around the house. I thought he looked like he'd lost some weight, too, and I asked him what he'd been eating. "Nothing much, I haven't had any appetite." "Dad, you've got to eat something!" I knew that Dad didn't cook much and normally ate out, and I suggested that my cousin Mike, who'd been living with Dad, could go pick him up something. Dad promised to try to eat more.
On Monday, he did go to his school crossing that morning. None of us realized it yet, but that would be the last time Dad worked. That afternoon, he called in sick. When I talked to him that evening, he complained of shortness of breath - so we went back to the emergency room. Although this time they did keep him overnight, they weren't able to make a diagnosis and sent him home the next day. At their suggestion, I called his cardiologist (Dad had had a heart attack and a quadruple bypass about 12 years ago) and made an appointment.
By the following weekend, Dad couldn't get around at all without his walker, and really wasn't doing very well with it. He'd obviously lost a lot of weight - within just two weeks, his clothes looked as if they were hanging on clothes-hangers instead of on him! We bought him some Ensure as he still wasn't eating well, but he insisted that he was feeling better. I was worried, though, and called his internist for an appointment. I was concerned that if we didn't quickly find out what was wrong, Dad would not survive. I thought, though, that it was probably something serious but curable, like pneumonia.
I was wrong. The internist took me aside and told me, "As best as I can guess, your Dad's dying." DYING? Dad? NOooooooo! He continued, "I believe it's probably some kind of abdominal cancer - I thought I felt a mass in his abdomen. Just based on how fast he's deteriorated, my guess is that it's too advanced for treatment. But just to be sure, I'd like to put him in the hospital." Dad had just seen the internist in February. I remember he'd growled because the doctor had sent him to a hospital for some sort of test for anemia and wanted Dad to go to a gastroenterologist, and Dad told me that evening, "You know, he's not half the doctor he used to be. Now all he wants to do is send you to some other doctor." I'd suggested that Dad should go, but I hadn't pushed the point.
We discussed the choice of hospitals. Although DeKalb Medical isn't as close to me as a couple of others, I felt that Dad might be more comfortable there because it was more familiar to him; also, it was closer to family and friends. The doctor told me he'd make arrangements; since he doesn't practice at DeKalb, he would be turning Dad's care over to a "hospitalist" - the first of many new words I'd be adding to my vocabulary. For anyone who's never heard of "hospitalists," that's a general doctor who doesn't see patients outside of a hospital, but treats hospitalized patients who either do not have a doctor or, like Dad, see a doctor who doesn't practice in that particular hospital.
The doctor explained to Dad that he was very sick and he was concerned that he may have a serious illness, possibly cancer. Dad agreed to be admitted, and I was very careful not to meet his eyes - I didn't want him to know that I'd been told he was dying but wasn't sure I could keep that knowledge out of my eyes. It was a long trip back to Dad's house!
When we got to Dad's house, my cousin was there. Of course he wanted to know everything, but at that point Dad didn't know as much as I did, and I wasn't going to tell. I helped Dad get his things together and took him to the hospital. I called my fiance to let him know where I was. Phillip was frantic - the doctor's appointment had been at 1:00, and it was 5:00 when I called. I'd silenced my cellphone when we got to the doctor's office and quietly ignored it since then - I had to be strong for a while, which meant that I couldn't share my knowledge. When Phillip joined me at the hospital, he took me out in the hallway and asked me if I could tell him anything. I looked straight ahead - if I saw any sign of sympathy, I'd have come unglued - and told him, "Dad's dying." His reaction mirrored my own shock.
Finally they took Dad upstairs for a CAT scan. They told me I could go too, but I had this overwhelming urge to get out of there - I couldn't stand not to talk about it any longer. I also knew I needed to call my brother. So we left.
The night before, I hadn't slept well. I had several bad dreams, one of which involved me calling my brother to tell him, "You better come home." That is exactly the call I had to make.
posted by Brenda King | 5:52 PM
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