Tag Archives: dad

Non-Fiction

Dad has a broken heart

Non-fiction Friday

A lot was going through my mind. As a former EMT and someone who had planned a medical career just five years prior, I understood the implications of an aortic aneurysm rupturing. My father was incredibly lucky to have this medical emergency while in the hospital, and at a VA hospital that specialized in cardiac care. The grim reality was he had an 80% chance of dying before leaving the operating room, even under the ideal conditions.

One of my favorite movie lines is, “work the problem,” and I like to add, “don’t let the problem work you.” When I’ve gotten into crisis mode, I have found this mantra has an immediate calming effect. Work the problem, no need to drive like an idiot and put me in the hospital. Houston traffic was a ball of suck back then, and a worse ball of suck today. I had a cellphone, but it was impossible to work a manual transmission and an old school Motorola Startac at the same time. Calls to the family would have to wait.

I arrive at the hospital and find my way to the ICU. I sign in and identify myself as a relation to my father. They page the attending. It could be a shock when I see my father, I am told; I tell them I understand. Work the problem, don’t let the problem work me.

Dad survived the surgery. It turns out that when I talked to dad the night before, and he sounded tired, the bleed was already starting. The pain got worse, and when they couldn’t identify why the VA ordered a CAT scan. While in the scanner I was told, dad’s aneurysm ruptured. In another complete stroke of good luck, an entire cardiac surgical team had just finished a major procedure and was still in the hospital. Not only did the rupture happen while in imaging, but the resources to do immediate surgery were in place.

Dad may have survived, but his prognosis was grim. He was in a coma and likely had a hypoxic injury due to the length of time his aorta was clamped off to repair. He was on a respirator, and I stopped counting at 18 tubes entering or exiting his body. The list of complications that could follow was extensive; brain injury, loss of toes, fingers, or limbs, lethal blood clots, infection, pneumonia from being on the vent longterm. There was a good chance dad would never wake up, the attending put dad’s odds at ever leaving the hospital at 100,000:1. I had a lot of phone calls and decisions to make.

In another stroke of good luck, however, I still had power of attorney on dad’s affairs from doing the closing on his home. At least for this aspect, the basic issues of maintaining his house and paying related basic bills would not be a problem. My sister in California would be able to come out within a day. Another sister in Pennsylvania would not be able to get out.

Hours turned to days, and dad continued to hold his ground. His toes swelled and turned black. A surgeon was called in for a consult with growing concerns of gangrene. A decision was made to make a wait and see approach, but the doctors felt it was likely dad would lose at least his right foot. His coma continued, and he wasn’t doing much fighting of the vent. Medications flowed, and days turned into weeks.

Dad did start to improve gradually. The skin fell off of his toes, but the black turned to the blues of deep bruises, and the swelling went down. By day 37 he was starting to stir, kept under heavy sedation for the respirator.  On day 38, he started to communicate, although he was very confused. Using a pencil, he scribbled on a pad of paper held up for him to ask basic questions.  Already suffering from Parkinson’s, his handwriting was shaky. The good sign was the hypoxic injury was mild to moderate. On day 39, dad was taken off of the respirator and spoke his first creaky words. His road to recovery was just beginning, and he was still fighting 100,000:1 odds he would ever leave the hospital.

Non-Fiction

Memories of the Blue Plate Lounge and dad

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I grew up during a different time, a time of transition. My earliest memories are from the 1970s, although I am a product of the 80s to the core. My earliest memory of the news is Richard Nixon saying, “I shall resign the Presidency effective at noon tomorrow,” and my father cheering upon hearing those words. I had no idea what resign meant, or why my father was so happy, but by Nixon’s solemn appearance on our TV I knew to resign wasn’t good, and from my father’s reaction I knew that in his view, resign was joyous.

To put things in perspective, I grew up in an era without car seats or mandated seatbelts. As a child, you begged to sit up front in the middle spot between mom and dad, and you ate a whole lot of dashboard. I was on the receiving end of more than one fat lip or bloody nose from flying forward in an unexpected hard stop or two different car accidents. Vinyl bench seats were not known for providing grip, although they were perfect for roasting the flesh off of your body on a hot summer day.

Dad’s code word for going out to drink my problems away was, “I’m going out for cigarettes.” Occasionally I would get to go with dad for one of his cigarette runs. I have one vivid memory of one of these trips, but I can’t in my brain figure out if it was in 1975 or 1977. I know dad had a station wagon, and I want to say this was 1975, right before dad bought a 1975 Chrysler Newport, apparently, so says mom, drunk as a skunk when he did it. He also bought my sister a 1975 Plymouth Gold Duster in dark brown, with a tan interior and a Slant 6. My sister got a vastly better car.

Sidebar. I hated the Chrysler Newport. Even as a small child I hated that car with every fiber of my being. I have never owned a Chrysler product in my life, and I can’t say that any Chrysler product has held any appeal to me. The memories of that horror of a car burned in my brain. It was a hideous green on the exterior, with an even more hideous green interior, six-passenger seating with vinyl that would likely survive a nuclear war. The Newport had one of the worst electronic ignition systems ever created by man, and the car would be dead if it rained, snowed, was foggy, or sometimes even post carwash.

Growing up in an era where children were allowed in a bar (as is the case still in several states) I always felt special when dad would go to the Blue Plate Lounge and take me. I’m with the men. Manly men who sit quietly, grumble about the world, chain smoke, glance up at the TV to watch the Red Sox, or the Celtics, or the Bruins, or the Patriots, and drink.

At the time the bar was owned by a man named Paul Stacy. Paul was known as Tiny, and you already know the name is ironic. Tiny was 6’4” tall and weighed 300 pounds, and he was beloved. At my age, Tiny was like facing The Mountain in the Game of Thrones, but I remember him being very much like Hagrid of the Harry Potter novels. Affable, approachable, wise, and kind-hearted. I would sit at the bar with dad, my legs dangling from the stool, a candy cigarette in one hand and a rootbeer in the other. I am a man, a manly man pondering worldly problems. As dad would start to go numb and I would start to get bored, Tiny, ever welcoming, would entertain me or give me a snack so there I would sit, kicking my legs and swiveling the bar stool. I remember the smells, the sweetness of the root beer, the chalky gum flavor of the candy cigarettes, and that it was a cloudy day.

Once dad had medicated himself enough we climbed into the station wagon, dad driving home drunk with me in the car sans car seat or seatbelt, and we would always get home. I can even remember where my dad parked to this day and that he drove straight home. Come to think of it; I don’t know if he bought any cigarettes. I still can’t remember as much as I strain if dad had the 1972 Chevrolet or the 1977 Chevrolet station wagon, which would give me a better idea of the when. Dad somehow never got pulled over, never got in an accident while hammered as best as I know, and was always patient during these trips. I told you, this was a different time. These days I wouldn’t be allowed in the bar, dad would be locked up for child endangerment and drunk driving, mom would be under investigation for even letting me be with dad, and I would likely be in foster care while the mess was cleaned up. For that matter dad wouldn’t be able to get a couple of hours off the grid without a cell phone blowing up with, “where are you,” and, “on your way home can you stop at the Sentry Super and pick up a gallon of milk.”

I returned to the Blue Plate Lounge a couple of times through the years and found it almost completely unchanged. The last time I was there was almost five years ago with my wife, as I took her through my hometown to show her bits of my childhood. The same stools, the same bar, the same shelves, the same stage for bands. The TVs had become more numerous and were now flat panels; there was Keno run by the state of Massachusetts and more promotional materials from various beers and liquor brands. The drinks were still cheap, rootbeer was no longer my choice, and of course, smoking inside is no longer permitted. It enabled me to feel a remaining connection to dad to sit in those same stools, staring up in the same direction, and pondering life.

Photo Credit: Debby Osipov from Facebook. The Blue Plate Lounge is torn down on May 1, 2019

The Blue Plate Lounge was sold to new owners about a year ago, and last week the building, built in 1933, was torn down. The new owners will be building a new restaurant and bar in the same location, but it won’t be the same. Another physical piece of my past gone. A place where I will stand and say, “I remember when,” and almost no one will understand. I need to get back to my hometown and have one more tuna fish grinder from Orbit Pizza before that place too disappears into the past. However, that is another story.

Non-Fiction

Dad, Oreos, and emergency rooms

Six weeks. Due to logistics and closing requirements, dad would close on his house in Houston in six weeks. There was already tension in the house between him and my wife at the time, but we would try to make the best of it. My son was happy to have “Papa Joe” there, and like most grandparents, dad was far more patient with his grandson than he ever was with me.

The days went by surprisingly quick during the hottest months of summer. I always called August in Houston “reverse winter.” Instead of running from heating source to heating source, you ran from air conditioning to air conditioning. On a summer Friday afternoon, the movers confirmed they would arrive on Tuesday, the same day my father was closing on the house. Having made peace with who he was just a few weeks earlier, I was looking forward to having my dad close enough to visit but far enough away to take him in carefully measured doses.

I have terrible eyesight, was born that way, and as I type these words my middle-aged eyes betray me more with each passing year. Without my glasses or contact lenses, I’m blind, in the legal sense of the word. Work had been intense, and I was at one of several high points in my career. Business travel had continued during those weeks, and I was home for a quiet weekend and a lull in travel.

Sunday morning, it happened. The bedroom door flew open with tremendous force. My wife at the time could sleep through the explosion of a nuclear weapon, and if she did wake up, you were better off being repeatedly raped by a rabid polar bear than deal with her wrath. The door opened with such force I thought for sure it was my dad, and I was instantly awake – flashes of my dysfunctional childhood running through my head. I strained to see who was in the door while grasping for my glasses. Then I heard a small voice.

“Daddy. Papa Joe is very sick, and you need to come – right NOW.”

I then heard the sound of running footsteps back to the other side of the house. My four-year-old son was direct and forceful in his words. I got out of bed and crossed the living room to find my father splayed out on the tile floor of the hallway. He was in shock and ashen; he looked at me and said, “I think I’m dying.” Dad may have put the fun in dysfunctional, but he was not one for dramatics – not when he was sick.

I immediately called 911.

Within just a couple of minutes, an advanced unit arrived. All I could do was go through ABC protocol as a former EMT. His pulse was thready and fast, his breathing shallow. The immediate suspicion was my father had a heart attack. They started monitoring and stabilization and requested a paramedic unit. My father was transported to the VA Hospital in Houston because he was a veteran. We hurriedly got ready and drove to the medical district.

We waited for hours as they ran tests while my son slowly went stir crazy in the waiting area. The hospital decided to admit him. His blood sugar was 378, and he had gone into diabetic shock. They weren’t sure why and they wanted to observe him overnight and do some more testing in the morning. His hospitalization caused a wave of legal panic as his house closing was less than two days away now. We would need to get him stabilized so he could sign a power of attorney. I would need access to escrow and close as his proxy and deal with the movers.

The hospital had a notary, and the social worker deemed him of sound mind. In the morning, we worked out escrow, and I was prepared to do the closing. All went well, except I couldn’t tell the movers where to put my father’s belongings. He had paid for them to unpack, but that would have to be a wash. I talked to him that night over the phone, too exhausted to visit the hospital. I let him know the utilities were turned on or transferred, insurance on the house, and completed the closing. My father sounded off. “You sound tired,” I said. He waved it off, saying he was poked and prodded all day and didn’t get much sleep. The plan was he would be released the next day.

At 2 PM on Wednesday, my cell phone rang from a random Houston number. It was a doctor from the VA. He wanted to know if anyone had talked to me about my father’s condition. I told him, “yes,” and I knew about his diabetes and explained how we hid a package of Oreo cookies in the freezer wrapped in foil and how we discovered he found it, ate a pound of cookies in a binge, and drank two quarts of milk. I started to apologize for the oversight and how we would make sure this would never happen again…

“Has anyone talked to you – today,” he asked.

His tone was methodical and serious.

“No, is there something wrong.”

“I think you need to come to the hospital. Can someone drive you?”

As someone who had spent eight years on a search and rescue team and was a former EMT, no good comes from, “can someone drive you to the hospital?” I caught my breath.

“Are you telling me my father is dead,” I asked in a steady voice.

“I think you need to get to the hospital so we can talk, does your father have other family, wife or kids,” the doctor asked.

“Yes, but they are across the country.”

“You should tell them to get here as soon as they can. Your father had an aortic aneurysm rupture this morning.”

I sat in stunned silence, and then I asked again, “are you telling me my father is dead?”

“No. But he is in a very serious condition and I don’t think he has 48 hours.”