Kathleen McCall:
Occasional�� Muse�

2002-08-14 - 8:28 a.m.

Emergency Room

"I am meeting my father, he is coming in by ambulance from the Alzheimer's facility."

"Oh. Okay. Well, I'll let you know when he can have visitors."

Visitors. Shit. I love these people.

My FATHER is the visitor here, in this ER and in this world; he's made that clear for years. "This is a nice place, but I would like to go home now." His facility loads him into the ambulance, slaps a set of papers on his chest, and off he goes. That's their job - they haven't got extra staff to send with him. And so he arrives at the hospital - with a PeeChee folder that no one ever looks at - and gets asked questions like, "How are you feeling?" (Fine, thank you, and you?) or "What brings you here today?" (The big car?)

If they want to know why he's there, or when the problem started or what he's been given for it or if he ever had it before, then they better get visitor back there to answer a few questions. Dad was in a fine mood, actually, so he would've gone on being as pleasant and cooperative as he could be, greeting each person who stepped into his cubicle, asking them why he had no shoes. But information is just not his strong suit, these days.

"I'm Irish!" he announces, conversationally, as they fit him with a support stocking for his swollen leg. I like to think he is not completely random; there are certainly flashes of humor and connection still. Irish? Do Irish men wear stockings? If they're leprechauns, I suppose. I supp-hose. See? If I were deprived of most of my vocabulary, I would sound just as random as he does. We wait together, and wait and wait and wait. "This is a very very very long time," he says clearly to me. Yes, it is. It always is. Bloody traumas and scuzzy drunks and loud upset foreign families go by; Dad is never a priority, which is a good thing, really. "It's going to be dark." "Yes, but not for a long time yet."

The curtains in this ER are becoming very familiar - a blue-purple color, with a pattern of spirochetes. Spirochetes. I swear.

They bring in a paper, the hospital standard handout on the problem Dad has. They hand it to him to read. Ridiculous. He CAN read still; he likes signs, particularly. He reads them out loud, hearing how the words sound, waiting to see if they fall into some kind of sense. It's a kind of reading. "Do not enter," he tells me, on the way home. "Well, to hell with them then, I WON'T!" I tell him, and he laughs. Another time he said, "Senior Residence." Then he thought about it, and said, "I don't feel like that." I know, Dad.

He has on red underpants today. Red. My God, he would be horrified. My father is a tighty whitey man, a military guy who tucked his t-shirt into his jockeys. Red? I try not to think about the fact that I buy his underwear, and I have not ever bought him any red pants. There will be someone else's name in the back of the waistband. He doesn't care, so I won't either. But did they have to be red?

The man in the next cubicle is in trouble. He speaks reasonable English, and he and the doctor are fairly loud. No, he says. I think I just eat too much last night. I think I go home two three days, and see. There is not so much pain now.

The doctor is loud and clear. "Sir, if we operate today, we stand a good chance of saving your life. If you wait, we may not be able to save your life. You may die."

Dad brow furrows. Is this for him? Where are his shoes? I tell him no, that is not for you. You are fine and you will be going home as soon as they get your leg wrapped up. It won't be too long now, Dad.

"No," the doctor says. "It is not safe for you to go home. Your family does not want you to go home. If you go home, you may die."

Dad looks at me. He is not talking to you, Dad. He is not talking about you. That is for someone else. You are fine, and you can go home very soon.

"Will you let us do the surgery then, to save your life?"

Yes, Dad says. He wants his life saved.

We get his special stocking and his prescription. He thanks everyone who helps him. He thanks me, too, although I never quite know for what. He's moving well enough now to travel by car, and I will have him back in time for dinner. He won't remember where he's been - he remembers some places, some times, but not the hospital, until he's there again.

"It's going to be dark."

"Yes, it will, Dad, but not for a long time yet."

�

previous - next

�