For the past week,
I’ve been fighting a cold. I hate colds, partly because I don’t
understand how it is that scientists have discovered how to make the
perfect French fry (beef aroma apparently has something to do with it)
but they still haven’t figured out a cure for the common cold and partly
because colds are so mundane. I like what my favorite character on Gilmore Girls, Loralei, says: “Having a cold is so boring. Just once I’d like to say, ‘I’m sorry I can’t make it, but my leg is haunted.’”
Having a
haunted leg is far more interesting than having a head cold. At least
then I could have a ritualistic exorcism rather than recurrent visits to
the local Safeway for Nyquil and tissues.
I think
mostly I just hate feeling like I’m a slave to my body. My lungs shudder
up a cough, my throat swells in protest, my sinuses expel excess mucus,
and I just have to let it happen. Add a dinner with beans, and I am my
own wind instrument of disgusting noises, smells, and fluids.
But I put
my minor cold into perspective when I received a call that my dad was
in the hospital after having suffered a mild heart attack. He was hiking
on the Appalachian Trail when it hit, and
because he didn’t realize he was having a heart attack and was simply
enjoying the view, my brother took a picture of both our dad (having a
heart attack) and the view. It’s a pretty good picture, actually.
Because
of the rapid appearance of his chest pain, doctors admitted him to the
hospital and believed the problem to be a clot. The clot, they said,
could be cleared up with the placement of a stint in one of his
arteries. The angiogram would tell the whole story, they said.
But the
angiogram said something altogether different. Instead of a simple
splint, my father would require quadruple bypass surgery.
So I
hopped on a plane and headed home. I didn’t make it in time for Dad’s
surgery, but I was there to visit the evening after his surgery. There
were lots of tubes, IVs, and monitors, and there was a teddy bear. Huh?
We’re not a stuffed animal kind of family, so I wondered about bear my
dad was hugging so tightly.
I found
out the bear’s name was Cough Buddy (though I renamed him Myron T.
Coughman). Cough Buddy is actually a soft surgical splint, designed to
help bypass patients cough and deep breathe with minimal pain.
Cough
Buddy’s ear tag told us the correct usage for him; Dad was supposed to
hold Myron T. flush against the incision running the length of his
breast bone. Patients having had thoracic surgery were to hold Cough
Buddy sideways across their chests, and abdominal surgery patients were
to hold Cough Buddy tightly across their bellies.
But Cough
Buddy’s ear tag also indicated that he was to be used “to ease the
discomfort of abdominal, thoracic, or open head surgery.” Open head
surgery? Does that mean patients could wear Cough Buddy on their heads
like hats?
This
typographical error aside, Cough Buddy served my dad well, keeping him
warm after cold walks in the hospitals corridors and helping him cough
up all the fluids that landed in his lungs while he was on the bypass
machine.
The rest
of the time in the hospital was marked by respiratory therapy, incision
care, and enough pills to make a junkie jealous. After a lot of bad
cable TV, my brother bought Dad a Nintendo DS lite and loaded it with
games like Flash Focus and Brain Age.
I’d never
played Brain Age before. It’s one of those games that tests the
player’s ability to memorize and problem solve with words and numbers.
It’s also one of those games that tells you exactly how stupid you are
when you suck at these games. Apparently, I have the brain age of a 49
year old. I am not 49.
But the
way my dad has powered through this surgery (less than a week after his
surgery he’s puttering around the house telling me how to make his
oatmeal and coffee), lets me know that my brain isn’t as important as my
heart.
My dad’s
heart, always open to his family, is even stronger now after surgery. He
lets us know how much he appreciates us (even when he’s bossing me
around the kitchen), and with his cockatiel Cindy firmly planted on his
shoulder, he models for us what’s really important: love, tenderness,
and an amazing tolerance for bird crap.
Though he may have no pulse in his left arm (that artery has been “repurposed”), my dad still has a lot of heart.
No comments:
Post a Comment