I've commented before on my father's failing health. With each trip to the hospital, I tell myself that it's only temporary and that tomorrow he'll be runnin along beside me as I take my first trip on a new bike. And there comes a time when you have to realize, as an adult, that your parents may not come back from the hospital. That a parent may have to spend several weeks in the hospital getting better.
Dad will most likely be in the hospital for a while. He has a staph infection for sure, and won't know if he has the MRSA strain until tomorrow. The MRSA strain can be fatal - and that's scary. On top of that he'll need to be in an antibiotic knee brace for 6 weeks - in the hospital (well rehabish place). After which time, knee replacement surgery and then rehab. So it could be another 6 weeks. He can't go home until he can keep himself steady - or get up at all - on he own two feet.
Tonight, after receiving this news from my mom, I called dad in the hospital. He answered the phone in his normal chipper voice. I launched into my speech about how I had heard he was taking up vacation in a hospital bed. He asked who it was on the phone. My heart sank a little. I tried desperately to compose myself and answer him without letting him hear the pain in my voice. I kept telling myself, it's not the man - mentally - that you know. Once he knew who it was, I asked him what he was doing to occupy his time. His response was slurred and incoherent. When I asked him again, he told me it was Wednesday and on Wednesday the people were on the TV. My heart broke into a million little pieces. I had no idea what he was talking about and no idea how to respond.
I continued to ask him about his room in the hospital and he told me that he was in the trailer in the back north corner. I had to ask again, "A trailer, dad?" His response was as matter of fact as it could be, "Yes," he said, " the blue trailer." I gulped back the heart ache that had lodged in my throat.
He continued to tell me he read the paper today and was hoping to get one tomorrow. Then promptly switched to asking if I wanted to talk to "J". I could barely hold back the tears. I wanted to scream and yell, "BUT I'M J...." I wanted him to understand that he was already talking to J...but he moved on to another subject. Suddenly he asked if I had spoken to my mom and had heard about what was going on with him. He sounded like dad again. I missed him.
I told him I had to go, and I'd call him tomorrow. Then I said through bit back tears, "I love you dad." He responded with, "I love you too J."
I hung up and curled up in a little ball and cried.
Suddenly I felt very alone. I consoled myself by remembering all the good times we had and how so very lucky I was that he had come into my life. He may not have been my biological father, but he was, without a doubt, my dad. And even though the man I spoke with tonight only had a vague resemblance to my dad, I knew, without a doubt, that my dad was still in there somewhere. And all I could wonder was how on earth my mother dealt with this daily without curling up into a little weeping, mess. I think she may be my hero.
