Reality Sets In

Dad arrived in the emergency room calm and present. I stood there while he listed every medication and dosage that he was currently taking and/or has ever taken in his life. It was impressive to say the least. The Dr. was also impressed. He didn't remember how he fell. He just remembered asking for help. The Dr. asked if he could examine his bottom. When he was done with the examination, the Dr. spoke to me and my husband privately. 

The Dr. told us that we need to have a conversation with my Dad about whether or not he wants life saving measures taken. He didn't think they would be necessary during this hospital stay, but they may be necessary during the next one or two. He then got tears in his eyes, and was clearly at a loss for words. He appeared as if he had seen something on my Dad that he had never seen before. He said the cancer had wreaked havoc on his anal region. There are no anal muscles left. He has zero control of his bowels. 

The Dr. said that what my Dad was experiencing and the pain he must be enduring is unimaginable. I had not seen his bottom. I just see the pain on his face every time he has to sit down or move. The Dr. was incredibly empathetic. He really put himself in my Dad's shoes, he imagined if it were his own Father, and he really felt for me. He was the best and most memorable Dr. we saw during Dad's last year. When we returned to the room, he asked my Dad if he wants life saving measures in an emergency situation. My Dad immediately responded with a firm "Yes."

We finally got the blood test results back. My Dad fell because his hemoglobin levels were so low. He was at a 6.0. We were told that anything in the 5 range is not compatible with life. He loses a lot of blood in his stool because of the location of the tumor. He leaks stool constantly so he leaks blood constantly. He will likely need blood transfusions from here on out. He will need to stop taking the blood thinner pills he's been taking ever since his heart attack. He's now more likely to die from the blood loss than a stroke. My Dad told me it was time for me to have my brother fly in from South Carolina.

My Dad was in the hospital for three nights. He received three blood transfusions and two large bags of iron in the hospital. He understood everything that was happening.  When he was first transferred to his hospital room, a team of CNAs cleaned him up and put a diaper on him. I could hear him from the hallway wailing in pain. I went in when they were done and he had tears in his eyes. I asked him what was wrong. He said "They really gave me the once over...it was embarrassing." He looked so childlike, vulnerable, and helpless. I watched his pride, ego, manhood, confidence, slip away right then. The pain, impossibility, fury I felt during that moment was unreal. 

I stayed each night until they made me go home. I was back in his room before sunrise. My Dad had many a hospital room in his life. They had always been nice rooms. I still don't understand how he ended up in this room. He not only shared a room with another patient, but the other patient got 2/3rds of the room. In order for me to sit next to my Dad's bed, my back was on the wall and my legs were pressed against his bed. I did develop a fondness for his roommate though. I still wonder how Glen is doing. 

They gave my Dad medicine for his anxiety while he was in the hospital. It made him confused. I had never seen my Dad confused a day in my life. It didn't help that the sliver of the room we were in did not have a window. He couldn't see if it was day or night, and time felt endless. He would send texts in our family group chat at night about not being able to find his way out of the hospital and needing help. It was awful. 

It was time to be released. His hemoglobin levels were stable. They did a physical therapy and occupational therapy assessment on him and he passed. He can walk with a walker. He can put pants on. The Dr. pulled me into the hallway and asked if we had discussed Hospice. I said no. He told me that it is appropriate to do so when there is a six month or less life expectancy, which is most likely the case with my Dad. At this point it was like I was just being brutally beat up ever corner I turned. I don't know how else to describe it. To have to stand there, breathe, take it in, process, and understand that this is my reality. This is my fucking Dad we're talking about. 

There was no way I was going to let my parents hear this news for the first time from the Doctor. So, I went in to prepare them ahead of time. I took both of their hands and somehow was able to force myself to tell them what the doctor said to me. To warn/prepare them for what he is going to say to them. The only way I could soften the news, was to keep repeating "But we can change our mind at any time. We can call 911 for help and choose to do all the life saving measures." 

When the Dr. came in to confirm what I had already told them, my Mom was holding my hand, but had her head on the bed and turned away. He asked her if she was OK. She said, that her and my Dad have discussed this but it's different hearing it from a Dr. My Dad was crying. Something that I thought I could never be comfortable with but at this point, it was a part of my daily experience with him. He told the doctor that he's scared of the end. He's scared of being in pain, not able to breathe and there not being anybody to help him. The Dr. told him that the Hospice team would make sure that he had everything he needed. He would have medicine that would help him relax and feel at ease. My Dad said he'd think about it. 

Dad left the hospital in my car. He was in a gown, a urine bag attached to him, and sanitary pads on my car seat. This was not a life that he knew or ever expected, but he was not ready to give up or leave his family.