Unrelated to this post: my blog seems to have half-disappeared. I don’t know if any of you are seeing it but from where I am, the sidebars are completely blank – no links, no pictures, etc. I am My brother is looking into it. COME BACK, BLOG. COME BACK!

After his initial hip surgery, my father was walking the very next day. He was up on two legs and with the help of a walker, was moving around the hospital corridors. He felt like a million dollars and everyone was impressed with his progress. By the time his staph infection showed up at the six week mark, dad was in outpatient physical therapy, walking around the house without a cane and driving his car.

After this recent Cement Block Surgery, my father is laying in his bed trying not to move because moving hurts his wound and the pain shoots down the left side of his body. His face scrunches up tightly or he yells out or he grabs my mother’s hand and squeezes. This time around is vastly different. And everyone knows it.

He was telling me about this round of physical therapy.

The goal of his first appointment?

Scoot to the edge of his bed.

That’s it.

Just scoot.

AND I DID IT, my dad told me proudly.

Oh yeah? I ask because I wasn’t there when it happened.

YUP! I GOT MY PAIN SHOT 20 MINUTES BEFORE. THEN THE PT GUY CAME IN. I SCOOTED TO THE EDGE OF THE BED. I GRABBED THE WALKER AND STOOD FOR A FEW SECONDS ON MY RIGHT LEG.

Wow, dad! That is truly awesome!

YEAH. AND THEN I SAT BACK DOWN ON THE BED AND THEN, LAWRA, I SCREAMED.

Oh…dad…

…

 

My father’s pain is unbelievable and even under heavy doses of medication, he still feels it. Every time they move him, he yells. To change the bedding, they roll him to one side. To get his body moving, they attempt to stand him up. He is afraid of falling, he is afraid of someone touching his left side, he is afraid of the pain, the blinding searing pain that shoots down the left side of his body.

It’s amusing to me, if one can call it that, that my father’s true nature of tact still shines through while he is at his worst. You see, he apologizes every time he yells out in pain. So, while waiting in the hall for the nurses to move him and change his bedding, I heard something like this:

NURSE: Okay, Paul, we’re going to roll you a little to the right. Take a deep breath okay? 1…2…3…

Dad: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

NURSE: Okay, okay you’re doing great.

DAD: I AM SO SORRY! I WAS NOT YELLIN’ AT YOU.

NURSE: I know, that’s okay, you can let it out.

DAD: IT JUST HURTS. I AM SO SORRY FOR YELLIN’.

NURSE: That’s okay. We’re going to move you back now, okay? Take a breath. 1…2…3…

DAD: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! I AM SORRY FOR YELLIN’ I AM SORRY FOR YELLIN’…

We obviously wish he wasn’t screaming but all of us smile when we hear the subsequent apologies. It’s so…my dad.

Naturally, it sucks the most to be the one IN the pain as opposed to the people in the hospital hallway listening to it. But oh, I am so bad at hiding my emotions and being strong for him.

God knows I try but you would never want me in the hospital with you while you go through something like this. I am completely useless. I can’t bite back tears, I can’t stay strong, I’m simply unable. And the fact that this is my FATHER we’re talking about? Oh, I am just a waste of space.

Yesterday, the nurses attempted to move him from a recliner chair back to his bed. Earlier in the day, the physical therapists thought it would be good for him to shift around and try a new position, to get out of bed. They were wrong. My father was so uncomfortable, asking pleeeease get him out of this ridiculous recliner. The problem was that he knew how bad it was going to hurt when he had to get up.

With the help of two female nurses, one male nurse, and me and my sister there to cheerlead him, my father scooted and stood and scooted back into bed. Screaming all the while. Apologizing all the while. I rubbed his shoulder, told him he was doing great as tears flowed openly down my cheeks. This of course set my sister off and the nurse was all, LADIES! IT’S OKAY!! And we sputtered, WE KNOW! WE KNOW!

My sister pointed to me sniffling, “I CAN’T STOP CRYING ONCE SHE STARTS!”

It’s true. I was a mess.

My dad spoke up, while standing, clutching the walker in front of him, knuckles white, “LAWRA YOU CAN GO OUT IN DA HALL IF YOU WANT.”

“No way, dad. I’m just a wuss.”

“LAWRA…”

He faltered.

“I feel so useless…”

“Oh, dad, so do I,” I said. “So do I.”

The nurses were wonderful at getting him to take some breaths. At pausing in between activities. At letting him regroup and settle down before taking the next step. The pain is so intense and his fear of it is so strong that he tends to work his normally calm self up into a panic before having to move or shift his body. It’s like someone else has taken over my super strong invincible dad. Words come out of his mouth that I have never heard him say before.

“I AM GOING TO FALL…”

“SOMEBODY HELP ME…”

“IT HURTS SO MUCH, I CAN’T DO IT…”

And I stand there and bite my lip while I cry, eyes burning.

I tell him YOU CAN DO IT, DAD!

I tell him he’s amazing, that it just takes baby steps, that it is temporary, that he is doing great!

And I believe it. My heart aches with how firmly I believe it.

Finally back in the bed, my father is completely still. He is panting from the effort of getting out of that damn recliner. His right leg, having supported his entire weight, is shaking uncontrollably which makes the blankets shiver. I hold his hand and rub his skin with my thumb. His eyes are open, staring at the ceiling and if he wasn’t breathing so heavily, I would wonder if he was even breathing at all.

I realize that he doesn’t even have energy to speak. His body, completely traumatized from three surgeries in six weeks, is maxed out at having to hold him upright for even a few minutes. The pain seems to zap any strength he may have had. And knowing that he has to push through it, has to get up and move, has to learn to be mobile again so he can come home…it’s overwhelming for him.

Later, after he was settled, we talked a little bit about his fall, his surgery, his infection. Why did it happen? And to him of all people?

I’VE BEEN THINKIN’ A LITTLE BIT ABOUT THAT AND I DON’T HAVE ANY ANSWER, he says.

I don’t either.

Slowly, I tell him, “I don’t think it matters so much why or how it happened. I think what matters is how you deal with it when it happens.”

LAWRA, he says to me. I THINK YOU ARE RIGHT. DAT IS WHAT IT’S ALL ABOUT.

“You are handling it wonderfully,” I tell him even though he’s scared and discouraged. I know this is just a bad day. I know that more often than not, he is upbeat and determined. That it will only get easier from here.

THANK YOU, he says, eyelids fluttering, drowsy with sleep.

He dozes soon after but not before saying, YOU DON’T MIND IF I SLEEP, DO YOU?

My sister and I assure him that we don’t mind at all.

DON’T GET OFFENDED.

I promise him we won’t.

His eyes shut permanently then and his breath wheezes out of his nose gently, his body completely still, thankful to be at rest. I quietly move his glasses off his chest and put them in their case, adjust the blankets around his stomach. My sister pours him a fresh glass of water for when he wakes up, organizes the items on his tray — his Bible, his newspaper, his journal.

The sun is setting, sending slices of light onto the hospital bed. I pull the curtain all the way across the window so it won’t wake him up, allow the room to darken. My sister and I collect our things and sneak out, leaving him to sleep. My mother will be by later, my brothers too, all of us rotating, sometimes one by one, sometimes all at once.

We are the caretakers, there to distract him for a little while, to tell him stories, bring him an ice cream, remind him he is loved. We, the caretakers. We who tuck him in, who wash his face, who hold his hand, we are grateful to be there. We are grateful he is here to be taken care of.