Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Dadders

Gee WHIZ a lot has happened since my last post. The three people who read this already know all this, but what the hell--might as well put it here for posterity.
FIRST (and, realistically, the only thing I'll write about today): My dad had a heart attack. That was a crazy time, people. I recognize there is a lot I don't know about a lot of things; but I was completely CLUELESS about heart attacks. It seemed to me that everyone knows someone who knows someone who has had a heart attack, survived and is pretty much fine, right? (Okay, I might have been the only one who felt this way.) I had no idea that it takes about 4 minutes for the brain to start dying (medical professionals, please correct all my bullshit science), and it was very, VERY likely that if my dad survived the heart attack he would have severe brain damage that would result in him spending the rest of his days in a nursing home. WHAT?! If you'd asked me 3 months ago about possible long-term effects of a heart attack, that wouldn't have crossed my mind. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Before I knew my dad had a heart attack, I watched him collapse in the last 100 yards of a half marathon we were completing together. He was a couple hundred feet ahead of me, and I could barely see because of the monsoon-like conditions (seriously, streets flooded and officials shut down the race before some people could finish). I saw someone ahead of me collapse, and my thought process went like this: Oh no, someone fell. I bet they were dehydrated. . .Huh, they're not getting up. . .Um, I guess it COULD be Dad. . .Holyfuckingshit, is it Dad?!
By that point I had reached him, and the first thing I saw were his shorts and jacket. Somehow that was what shocked me most--more than seeing his ashen face and his lifeless body. How could this possibly be my Dad? My Dad who had trained so hard and who is so freakishly, annoyingly diligent about what he eats! He was seizing and his face was gray. Such a bizarre and surreal experience. People say to me, "You must have been so scared!" and I was. But really it was one of those experiences I've heard people in the therapy biz refer to as "schizing" or "splitting". It was like my mind split into several compartments. The first was very matter-of-fact: Very calmly I thought, "Dad is dying. I'm watching him die. I'm going to have to call Mom and tell her Dad is dead." I cried quietly as I watched the paramedics, but in an unexplainable way I felt very calm. Another part of my brain (which for some reason wasn't openly displaying itself) was incredibly sad, helpless and panicked.
Thank God (or the universe, or serendipity, or whatever it was) we were at a place in the race in which people were around us. Unbelievably, my dad was getting amazing care right there in the middle of the street. I later learned that a spectator (who happened to be a nurse practitioner) was just a feet from my dad when he fell and was the first to begin CPR. An ambulance was a dozen feet away. The EMT crew had an ER physician on board that day who was training them to begin hypothermia treatment during transport to the hospital.
Our luck (or, again, whatever it was) is simply unbelievable to me. It gives me chills. Literally five minutes earlier we were jogging in a neighborhood, and no one was around. We actually considered the possibility that we had gotten turned around and were no longer on course. But, no, the ridiculously awful weather kept potential participants and spectators indoors. We didn't have our cell phones (they would have weighed us down, people!), so I couldn't have called anyone. If his heart had stopped ten minutes later, we would have been driving home; and as you can tell by this post's first paragraph, I certainly wouldn't have known what to do.
A few excruciating days followed as we waited to see if my Dad would come out okay from his treatment-induced coma. Our family and friends were absolutely amazing during this time--right there by our sides (and on the phone, and over the Internet), helping out with everything. And then early the morning of April 18th, we got a call from his nurse that he was awake. We zoomed to the hospital and there he was--groggy and weak, but talking, and smiling and recognizing us. This was absolutely one of the happiest days of my life.
It's been just over two months, and my Dad is back home, working full time, just started jogging again as part of his cardiac rehab. Simply amazing. We are so, SO lucky.
But this blog is about bitching, people, not gratitude. So here comes the complaining. During this whole experience I developed a fantasy of how my dad would turn out: He would make a full physical and mental recovery (of course), but he would also awaken with a new philosophy on life. Dad would decide that since life is so unpredictable and precious he now wanted to spend as much time as possible with his friends and family, so he would retire and he and my mom would move closer to me. He would let go of all grudges and judgments and just love and accept everyone for who they are and what they can offer. He would be peaceful, and content, and happy, and joyous, and wise, but not dogmatic. Sort of like a living, breathing "Life is Good" shirt.
But that didn't happen. Instead my Dad is. . .well, my Dad. He's exactly the way he was 1 minute before his heart attack. Judgmental, rigid, stubborn, a touch homophobic and a bit self-centered. (He's also funny, kind, generous and hilariously absent-minded). But I'm starting to realize (slowly, begrudgingly and thanks entirely to Tripp) that this is okay. Not only IS it okay, but it needs to be okay because I don't have a choice in the matter. Such a cliche, but I can't control anyone else--a lesson I apparently need to learn over and over. My Dad is my Dad, and I am eternally, immeasurably, overwhelmingly thankful to everyone and everything that contributed to his recovery and to the fact that I can call him on the phone today and tell him what a turd he's being. And as for all that guru, mountain top, peace and love shit? Well, I guess that will have to be what I aspire to. I love you, Dad.