We were so excited that he had been accepted into the rehabilitation program at Lourdes Hospital. We waited, less than patiently, all that day for his discharge and transfer to happen. We knew that the focused therapies they offered—occupational, physical, and speech—were exactly what he needed in order to come home as close to 100% himself as possible. I had seen him trying so hard in the days leading up this moment. He was determined to improve. Although I sometimes wondered if he didn’t quite understand the questions being asked of him, pretending he did anyway, just so that he could move on to the next phase of recovery.
Side note: I wish I could make him understand that no one is going to think he is ignorant, dumb, or stupid for not knowing the answers. But I would need someone to teach me that also. Maybe if I can get him to understand it I can be my own teacher.
We left my dad in a small room with a roommate who had just arrived post leg amputation. The room was small. I’m pretty convinced it was actually smaller than his private room at Baptist Hospital. There was only one chair for a visitor to sit in, and no other place except his bed for my dad to sit. This was disappointing as part of his recovery from the heart surgery involved sitting in a chair for several hours every day. He still had to focus on that recovery even if the stroke had taken precedence. His only chair option turned out to be his wheelchair.
The nurses seemed less than adequate and didn’t seem to care about the patients. My dad had such impressive care from most of his nurses at Baptist Hospital. But nothing about the care at Lourdes Hospital gave me hope. I felt this way the first day. So did my mom. We later learned he wasn’t being given the correct meds and that his information was entered into the system incorrectly on his first day. (Instead of heart surgery or stroke patient he was entered as a hip fracture patient.) His room often smelled. The floors were dirty. No one seemed to care. We missed Baptist so badly.
My mother couldn’t stop her tears as she leaned down and kissed my father goodbye on that first night. My heart ached for her. On our drive home I tried my best to be the emotional support that she needed all the while telling her she didn’t have to be strong for me. I couldn’t practice what I preached. I was scared and discouraged too. I told her so. Why do we find it necessary to be strong in times of stress and grief? Maybe we should all just show what we’re feeling and commiserate with one another in our tears and sadness, then get stronger together through that vulnerability. I’m not one who can speak with any confidence on vulnerability though as I find it so difficult to be vulnerable.
A couple of days later I found myself alone in my parents’ house listening to the cast album of Dear Evan Hansen, and my vulnerability reared it ugly tears. It was as if the knot in my stomach had decided to loosen its grip, move up to my heart, and squeeze it until I nearly burst. I broke down. I felt broken.
I felt guilty.
The day of my departure was quickly approaching. I knew that I shouldn’t feel guilty that I've built my life in New York City so far away from where my parents live. Yet the feeling of guilt persisted. I was getting ready to depart this place of corn fields and homemade ice cream and leave my mom and my sister there to carry the weight of my dad’s recovery…alone.
I looked around the living room in my parents’ house and read the sayings that decorate the walls: “Our family is filled with Love,” “Loved you yesterday, Love you still, Always have, Always will,” “Family is where life begins & Where love never ends.” These words seem to vibrate straight from my mother’s heart. I pondered the words as I focused on the pictures. I saw the framed photographs of my niece and nephew smiling back at me. I prayed to God that their papaw would be healed and returned home to them fully himself. They need him in their lives. I prayed that he would return home to my mom. She’s been his wife since she was 17-years old. They are each other’s world. I prayed for my sister who was in agony over her fear that our dad might not return home our dad. I walked back to the bedroom my parents still share 47 years later and stood on his side of the bed. I looked up to the ceiling, tears streaming down my cheeks. I begged to be heard. I begged for God to help my dad recover. I begged for God to bring him home to take his place back in that bed again.
I felt like such a hypocrite for praying. But isn’t that what we do? We pray when we’re scared. We pray when we feel the desperation that comes with the shock of events like heart attacks and strokes. We pray as we grasp for hope.
No matter the distance between our homes, no matter the distance between our hearts, I want to walk into my parents’ house the next time I’m visiting and feel my dad’s arms around me. I want to hear him laugh. I want to hear him say my name. I want to listen to him tell a story that may not really interest me but that I care about merely because he is still here to tell it…and that he can still remember it at all.
We won’t fish together. We won’t hunt…anything. We won’t really watch the Cardinals play baseball. But we can sit on the front porch and enjoy a cup of coffee while birds chirp and passersby honk. Hopefully my mom will join us with a cup of hot chocolate and take on the fly swatting duties.
