Deja F You

Every time I have sat down to write this, to clear my head of all of this, I suddenly lose my words.  I have a lot to say, but I’m not entirely sure how to say it all.

My Dad has been in the hospital for two weeks today; today being what would have been my parents’ 61^st wedding anniversary.  He has had a toe amputated, his foot debrided twice, and one surgery to perform angioplasty on the arteries in his leg.  He was doing well, they were planning on discharging him to an inpatient rehab facility tomorrow – Friday.  I was manically trying to help the social worker find a suitable facility that had inpatient dialysis; without that, we would have to pay out over $300/week in transportation fees to get him to dialysis.  I was also working on trying to get together some transportation options for when he got home. But that all came to a screeching halt yesterday when, after the second debridement surgery, the doctor said that the area didn’t bleed as much as she thought it would and she called his vascular surgeon. I called that surgeon who said my Dad’s arteries are calcified.  He will reassess him today and most likely go back into his leg, this time through his ankle, to try and open up the circulation more.  My Dad also has what’s called skin break-down, which basically is damaged skin which would open up and turn into an ulcer if it is not treated and improves.  So – if the circulation doesn’t improve, if the skin breakdown doesn’t improve or gets worse, he could lose his lower leg.  Hearing those words were worse than what I imagine an actual kick to the stomach would be like; I’ve never been kicked in the stomach, except from the inside out (and man that kid was a strong kicker) but I can imagine that it sucks as much as that did.  I had heard that he might lose his foot, but that was prior to the toe amputation and circulation surgery last week. As far as I was concerned, he was on a smooth ride out the hospital door and into rehab, which meant one step closer to home.

Suddenly, everything just stopped.  And since that call I have spent more time reading up about amputations in dialysis/diabetic patients than I care to mention.  I have seen pictures that no one should see – it is AMAZING what comes up in Google; certain things really should be left for medical professionals to view.  Once I avoided or at least averted my eyes to the graphic images, I read medical studies – I’m not sure how many – that all basically had the same message.  Amputation at his age, and with all of the medical conditions he has, will inevitably shorten his life-span to that of dandelion that’s been picked by my toddler.  If he were to survive surgery, he may not live more than 30 days after the procedure. If he were to make it past the 30 day mark, chances are he wouldn’t live another two years.  And what would those two years be like?  I’ve tried to envision it but it is not a pretty picture, no matter what I try to toss in there to make it a more manageable image. He is wheelchair bound because he can’t lift himself up to use crutches. He is depressed because his independence has been taken away.  He is alone, in a wheelchair. If he makes it out of the hospital, out of rehab, maybe he lives with us – we would have to buy a home in his area that is accessible to him. His sense of humor is gone; not that it’s in the best of shape now but he is able to still laugh and joke, which is a good sign.  I want him to be here long enough to make memories that will last the rest of my life-time and that of my daughter, but it is not often that the universe grants us what we want.  My Dad has been through so much in this life and for this to happen now, which will be the end of his life if this is the path we have to take, it is heart-breaking and makes me feel like I have been robbed of yet another parent. I watched my Mom slowly die and I feel like I will be forced to relive that with my Dad.  He has always been the stable one, the reliable one, the supportive one; he’s the one left that knows what we were all like as children, he’s the one left that remembers what it was like as we grew older and crazier. I realize that I am lucky he is still here; he should have died in 1999.  But regardless of how lucky I should be, today, I don’t feel very lucky at all.  I feel sad, shocked, scared, alone, exhausted, numb……but certainly not lucky.