This one's for my dad

It’s the constant waiting that’s the worst.

No, it’s the noises, the metronome of electronic monitors. Death is a talented artist, and he raps over a beat composed of the beeping of hospital machinery. His voice is a void, and it speaks volumes in the brief silences between each beat.

As I write this, I sit, watching my father sleep. His blood pressure is low, so he’s tired.

But it’s the first good sleep he’s gotten in months, so we’re hoping it stays low to let him rest.

But if it stays low, they put more fluids in his veins to take up room and increase his blood pressure.

More fluid means more work for his liver. More work for his liver means more fluid leaked into his abdominal cavity. And that means worse breathing.

That means they have to drain the fluid, which lowers his blood pressure. Hickory dickory dock.

I ask the nurses if my little brother should be here, to see his dad. They laugh.

“He’s not dying, he’s just a little sick. We’ll let you know if anything changes, though.”

It’s a relief, of course. But it doesn’t assuage my concerns.

You’d probably think it’s silly, but it’s raining out. When my grandma died, it was raining out. When my great-grandma died, it was raining out. When her brother died, it was raining out. And so on. For literally every family death I can remember, precipitation was involved.

I’m not very superstitious, but when push comes to shove, I’d prefer sunshine. I ask about transplants.

“I’m not sure. It’s a weekend, so the transplant team’s probably not here. I’ll make a note so everyone knows, but we’ll probably find out on Monday.”

Huh. I guess people stop dying on the weekends. My dad’s liver stops failing until the surgeon sinks that last putt.

That’s unfair, but so what? If you don’t deserve the right to be unfair when your dad is in the hospital, when do you?

Prologue: Why are you here, Mr. Morgan?

“Alcohol consumption?” Daily, until 1986. He owned a bar.

“Tobacco consumption?” Daily, until 1986. He owned a bar.

“Any drug use?” You can probably guess what year that stopped, too.

My dad is the epitome of a baby boomer — from counterculture to high-ranking corporate executive, playing golf with governors and working 60-hour weeks.

Some people got away with it; my dad didn’t quite. He still might, though.

Anyway, that’s what I’ve got for you this week. It was self-serving and just an exercise to make me feel better, but I didn’t feel like writing about anything else.
 
­— shlumorg@indiana.edu