Monday Night in the ICU

Dad is in the Intensive Care Unit on the 2nd floor of Mountainside Hospital. Just yesterday, he went back to Van Dyk after the mild heart attack and hospitalization. H., Figgy and I visited him at Van Dyk on that rainy, rainy Sunday.

But at 1 A.M. this morning, Van Dyk staff called 911 to send him back to the hospital, his first night back in the nursing home. Apparently, he was cranky and yelling a lot for help, and that caused shortness of breath, wheezing and an oxygen dip.

I was determined to plow through my work today and then visit Dad. I've been panicked about meeting my deadlines. We have bills to pay. H. got to the ICU at about 6, and called me to say I better get over there, that Dad needed me.

H. went home soon after to Figgy, and I stayed till about 10:15 P.M. For all those hours, Dad was yelling often from under the oxygen mask. I held his hand, or touched his arm or shoulder or foot. He was in pain. They're pretty sure he had a second heart attack and has congestive heart failure. They're worried about his prognosis at age 87, almost 88--especially because he keeps shouting so much.

His arms are covered with purple bruises and marks. He has tubes and needles all over. His mouth is dry, and he's dying for a drink, but can't have one, because the fluid could aspirate in his lungs. His legs are like skinny branches on a once strong tree. He had some pretty serious tremors--his arms and hands jerked regularly.

The nurse, Dawn, showed me how to swab his mouth with the little green sponge cube on a stick, which I was happy to do.

He said some random things. It may have been because of the sedative that was still wearing off:

• Where's Anthony? Did Anthony eat? [Anthony is his oldest brother, who died in 2001.]
• Who burned the soup? You did! [No soup in sight]
• Willy left. He went home. But I'm still here. [regarding my brother Will, who was not there today]
• It's time to feed the pigs.
• Drive all the way across the country. Three thousand miles.
• Oh God Almighty.
• Vodka. Bring me some vodka.
• How's my oxygen? The O? The ozone, the ozone! [he wanted to know the number]
• Don't bring me any ice cream [last words as I left--I had brought him his favorite ice cream cone yesterday]

Dad, I wanted to be there for you tonight, just be there, so you would not be alone and you would feel a gentle hand. H. held your hand, too. "He's like my father, too," he said. I am so sorry to see you suffering like this. It's terrible. I called Sis a few times to confer while I was there. I pray that you can get some rest tonight. You were so restless, you could not settle down at all. I turned off the TV, and we dimmed the lights. I pray that you can sleep well. I know you hate having that oxygen mask over your face, the band around your ears and those needles in your veins. I know you wanted a drink of water. I know you are scared and anxious. I love you. I hope that message can float through the streets of Montclair, from my house to the hospital, and arrive in your heart to comfort you in these dark, difficult hours. Love always, Alice