The following was written on Friday. It seems like a year has come and gone in the last two days. I don't have words for the hurt of unknowing and despair. I'm working at just resting...
I'm sitting in the atrium at the big hospital, while two floors up my Dad lies in a hospital bed with a fever, pneumonia setting in, delusions and is in the process of being intubated. I pray that in a week, I will come back to this space and have good news...today I'm hoping he makes it until tomorrow.
That has been our week. Monday, after I posted about watching him twitch in bed, things changed rapidly. He started vomiting and then aspirated the vomit and things went down hill within 15 minutes. The Rapid Response Team was called and within the space of a half hour he was being moved to ICU and that is where he has been all week. He has a fever, an infection in his blood, pneumonia and today the decision was made that to insert a breathing tube, with the goal of getting him through the infection. We have no idea if the chemo worked because they can't take a bone marrow sample until he is cleared of the infection.
There are things that I anticipated, there is much I was not prepared for. Holding my Dad's hand and repeatedly telling him that he can't get out of bed, that we can't take him home, that he needs to just rest. Holding onto his leg so that he didn't just leap out of bed, listening to him struggle for breath, watching his hair fall out, and this morning getting a distressed phone call from him about his computer. He was in a delusional state, again and was certain the hospital had stolen his computer...that was sitting right next to him. I was given instructions to "Go, LEAVE", and then "Get the police". I left, that's what he needed me to do. I cried all the way out the door and down the three flights of stairs to the atrium. That's where Lupe found me.
Lupe was cleaning the floor. She came by once to clean the floor as I was sitting there crying and texting friends and checking to see who else my Dad had called in his delusional state (there were several people). She came by again when my Mom was there and stood and talked to us and said something that just struck my soul. Just rest in Jesus hands. We both got hugs and kisses, Lupe relayed her story but I heard what I needed. Rest in Jesus hands.
There are words of comfort and compassion that people have offered. I've found three phrases helpful, so far. "I'm praying." "I love you." and today from Lupe, "Rest in Jesus hands."
I don't know what the next hour will bring. I don't know if my Dad will leave the hospital alive. I'm not ready to say goodbye, but who is? All I know is that this sh*t is hard, and right now we're resting in Jesus hands...and the doctors at Stanford.