Who Is This Man I Just Met?
My dad just had one of these surgically implanted in his chest.
He woke up in the middle of the night a few weeks ago, gasping and choking. They took him to the hospital. He had an arrythmia -- his heart was beating too quickly to pump any blood. His heart was beating 240 times per second. His body was starved for oxygen. They gave him the paddles. They saved his life.
See, several years ago my dad had chemotherapy to treat a lymphoma in his stomach. They gave him the maximum recommended lifetime dose of a particular drug. Then, a few years later, the cancer returned, this time in his lymph nodes.
The oncologist, whether through error or indifference, administered more of the same chemotherapy drug that he'd already had the lifetime recommended dose of.
With the second dose, the risk of irreversible heart damage increased exponentially. My dad developed congestive heart failure -- he, who'd had a heart like an ox, working incessantly even into his 70s.
He became short of breath. He had to take pills. He lost his FAA medical certification and thus, his pilot's license. My parents sued and got a malpractice settlement from the oncologist. Money that didn't change the fact that a few weeks ago, my dad woke up in the night, gasping and choking.
Now, he's got the defibrillator implanted. If his heart rhythm goes haywire again, this device will sense it and deliver the shock to 'reset' the heartbeat. It's like having paramedics with paddles, just waiting on standby in one's chest cavity.
There's no telling if the defibrillator will ever be called into action. He's taking pills to treat the arrythmia -- pills whose side effects include possible thyroid, liver and lung damage -- to prevent ever needing a shock, hopefully. But there still exists significant risk.
What it means pragmatically is that he will have to have checkups every few months for the rest of his life. Currently, he can't drive for at least several months until the doctors determine that his condition is stable. He owns a garage, and he can't drive. He was repairing trucks for the British Army in Palestine during World War II, and he can't drive. He once leapt back and forth from a jeep to a tractor, driving them both across 100 miles of Syrian farmland, and now he can't drive.
They had to transfer him to a hospital in L.A. to do the implantation, so I was the family member closest to him. I showed up early at the hospital and found his room. They'd transferred him from the Fontana hospital the night before, taken him from his family to a place he'd never been in preparation for a procedure that he was very nervous about.
When I walked through the door, his sunken cheeks, drizzled with two weeks' worth of white beard, lifted in a smile. "There's my boy," he told the nurse. "This is my son David." And his voice cracked, and he reached for me, and I had never heard him cry before.
My mom had been very upset that the hospital hadn't taken his diabetes into consideration when providing meals. It had been a point of pride for him to control his blood sugar with diet and exercise. Lying in bed, day after day, had driven his blood sugar dangerously high. They gave him insulin for the first time. He listened to the nurse read off his blood sugar readings. "I've never had it this high," he said. "Unbelieveable."
He had some pretty severe mood swings. The doctor wanted to put him on antidepressants. I declined. I was determined to be his antidepressant, myself.
He wanted to know if I was going to church. I knew it would set him so at ease if I was. I didn't say anything. "You should find a church. Lots of good churches out there," he said.
We got to talking about family. "Like to see you settle down," Dad said. "Get a Master's, while you've got the chance. Have some security."
My only brother has no biological children, although he has one adopted son. My sisters have kids with different last names.
Dad got kind of quiet. "I'd like to see an [our last name] grandchild before I die."
He lay in that hospital bed, listening to doctor after doctor deliver their own brand of shackles: the appointments; the medicines, with possible side effects. At first he was hopeful that with the defibrillator installed, he'd be able to reapply for his pilot's license. Now, he can't even drive.
Watching his face fall with every succesive pronouncement, I felt as if my own heart was failing. I read all the forms and pamphlets. I pestered the nurses to remove the IVs, to allow him to dress, to give him the dignity of walking down the hall instead of being pushed in a wheelchair like an invalid. Hospital policy dictates that discharged patients must ride in wheelchairs, to protect the hospital from lawsuits if they fall on their way out. I refused this. My dad had been off his feet long enough.
I helped him dress. I pulled on his socks and tied his shoes. I helped him pull on his sweater. He can't move his left arm above his head for eight weeks, while the surgery heals. His hands were purple from bruising where they'd stuck IV needle after IV needle.
He walked slowly down the hall, face gently downed with beard, his glasses off, shuffling a bit, hands clasped, thin from the half-eaten meals. For once, without the ubiquitous baseball cap and toothpick. He looked so different. So ... beaten.
I drove him home to San Bernardino during rush hour. I called in sick to work. We took a shortcut that wasn't very short. I drove more carefully than I think I ever have.
The first sign that I knew he was going to be okay was when he began to complain about my driving. "Stay in this lane," he said. "Let them pass you, if they want to pass you. Don't go too fast. You don't want to get a ticket."
I called him the next day and his voice came through the phone vigorously, strong and quick. I smiled. I asked him how he was, although I could already tell.
"I'm fine, dad," he said. He has a strange, Arabic custom of calling me dad instead of son. "How are you? Doing good? How's that car? You checking water and oil? Come by sometime during the day, I'll have Juan change the oil for you."
Take an entire day, drive hours out of my way for an oil change I could get for $19.95 at Jiffy Lube?
He's my dad. I'm there.
He woke up in the middle of the night a few weeks ago, gasping and choking. They took him to the hospital. He had an arrythmia -- his heart was beating too quickly to pump any blood. His heart was beating 240 times per second. His body was starved for oxygen. They gave him the paddles. They saved his life.
See, several years ago my dad had chemotherapy to treat a lymphoma in his stomach. They gave him the maximum recommended lifetime dose of a particular drug. Then, a few years later, the cancer returned, this time in his lymph nodes.
The oncologist, whether through error or indifference, administered more of the same chemotherapy drug that he'd already had the lifetime recommended dose of.
With the second dose, the risk of irreversible heart damage increased exponentially. My dad developed congestive heart failure -- he, who'd had a heart like an ox, working incessantly even into his 70s.
He became short of breath. He had to take pills. He lost his FAA medical certification and thus, his pilot's license. My parents sued and got a malpractice settlement from the oncologist. Money that didn't change the fact that a few weeks ago, my dad woke up in the night, gasping and choking.
Now, he's got the defibrillator implanted. If his heart rhythm goes haywire again, this device will sense it and deliver the shock to 'reset' the heartbeat. It's like having paramedics with paddles, just waiting on standby in one's chest cavity.
There's no telling if the defibrillator will ever be called into action. He's taking pills to treat the arrythmia -- pills whose side effects include possible thyroid, liver and lung damage -- to prevent ever needing a shock, hopefully. But there still exists significant risk.
What it means pragmatically is that he will have to have checkups every few months for the rest of his life. Currently, he can't drive for at least several months until the doctors determine that his condition is stable. He owns a garage, and he can't drive. He was repairing trucks for the British Army in Palestine during World War II, and he can't drive. He once leapt back and forth from a jeep to a tractor, driving them both across 100 miles of Syrian farmland, and now he can't drive.
They had to transfer him to a hospital in L.A. to do the implantation, so I was the family member closest to him. I showed up early at the hospital and found his room. They'd transferred him from the Fontana hospital the night before, taken him from his family to a place he'd never been in preparation for a procedure that he was very nervous about.
When I walked through the door, his sunken cheeks, drizzled with two weeks' worth of white beard, lifted in a smile. "There's my boy," he told the nurse. "This is my son David." And his voice cracked, and he reached for me, and I had never heard him cry before.
My mom had been very upset that the hospital hadn't taken his diabetes into consideration when providing meals. It had been a point of pride for him to control his blood sugar with diet and exercise. Lying in bed, day after day, had driven his blood sugar dangerously high. They gave him insulin for the first time. He listened to the nurse read off his blood sugar readings. "I've never had it this high," he said. "Unbelieveable."
He had some pretty severe mood swings. The doctor wanted to put him on antidepressants. I declined. I was determined to be his antidepressant, myself.
He wanted to know if I was going to church. I knew it would set him so at ease if I was. I didn't say anything. "You should find a church. Lots of good churches out there," he said.
We got to talking about family. "Like to see you settle down," Dad said. "Get a Master's, while you've got the chance. Have some security."
My only brother has no biological children, although he has one adopted son. My sisters have kids with different last names.
Dad got kind of quiet. "I'd like to see an [our last name] grandchild before I die."
He lay in that hospital bed, listening to doctor after doctor deliver their own brand of shackles: the appointments; the medicines, with possible side effects. At first he was hopeful that with the defibrillator installed, he'd be able to reapply for his pilot's license. Now, he can't even drive.
Watching his face fall with every succesive pronouncement, I felt as if my own heart was failing. I read all the forms and pamphlets. I pestered the nurses to remove the IVs, to allow him to dress, to give him the dignity of walking down the hall instead of being pushed in a wheelchair like an invalid. Hospital policy dictates that discharged patients must ride in wheelchairs, to protect the hospital from lawsuits if they fall on their way out. I refused this. My dad had been off his feet long enough.
I helped him dress. I pulled on his socks and tied his shoes. I helped him pull on his sweater. He can't move his left arm above his head for eight weeks, while the surgery heals. His hands were purple from bruising where they'd stuck IV needle after IV needle.
He walked slowly down the hall, face gently downed with beard, his glasses off, shuffling a bit, hands clasped, thin from the half-eaten meals. For once, without the ubiquitous baseball cap and toothpick. He looked so different. So ... beaten.
I drove him home to San Bernardino during rush hour. I called in sick to work. We took a shortcut that wasn't very short. I drove more carefully than I think I ever have.
The first sign that I knew he was going to be okay was when he began to complain about my driving. "Stay in this lane," he said. "Let them pass you, if they want to pass you. Don't go too fast. You don't want to get a ticket."
I called him the next day and his voice came through the phone vigorously, strong and quick. I smiled. I asked him how he was, although I could already tell.
"I'm fine, dad," he said. He has a strange, Arabic custom of calling me dad instead of son. "How are you? Doing good? How's that car? You checking water and oil? Come by sometime during the day, I'll have Juan change the oil for you."
Take an entire day, drive hours out of my way for an oil change I could get for $19.95 at Jiffy Lube?
He's my dad. I'm there.
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