Facebook reminded me today—as if I could forget, as if I were the kind of person who doesn't carry these things in my bones, a sort of person who doesn't viscerally remember each moment and hour of every terror, every poignancy, every moment where life changed, could have changed, every pacing manic moment—Facebook reminded me this morning, that a year ago, three and a half hours north of here, in a room I never saw, in a hospital by the water, a surgeon held my father's heart in his hands. A year ago I paced and babbled and waited. An old woman in a green vest—a vest that reminded me of Girl Scouts, thin and cotton, clearly intended to signify something—played Disney theme songs on the piano. It was a fancy hospital and the waiting room I sat in was just for cardiac surgery. There was a large fish tank and a tv screen with a color coded system and a scrolling list of patients represented by private identification numbers to keep us informed of their position in surgery: Who is being prepped, who is in active surgery, who is in recovery, etcetera. We were given laminated cards and a little buzzer that buzzed and flashed when we were to go to the phone at the information desk where the attending nurse called you to update you on the progress. She said things like, he's on bypass now... And they're just about to close. Her voice was cheerful and matter of fact. Or that's how I imagine it. The details are foggy.
The day is a blur, a blur punctuated by crystal clear flashes.
I remember waking up early in the dark in my father's house. I remember the palpable fear in the car on the drive to the hospital. I remember the quiet as we checked in. I remember the circuitous winding hallways. I remember the waiting. I remember the hand holding mine. I remember the puzzle in the waiting room. I remember drinking coffee. I remember not eating. I remember the dizzy spin and the buzzing in my head. I remember the delirious rush of joy of seeing my father awake after surgery. I remember the banks of machines, the countless tubes, the greyness of his skin, the washes of pain unlike any pain I'd ever witnessed, how he would blanch and shudder, how his eyes would widen and his pupils contract. I remember the clench of his jaw, the smallness of his voice, when he repeated over and over again, it really hurts. I remember my surprise at my intense gratitude for drugs, my gratitude when the nurses told me he likely wouldn't remember these hours. I remember the weight of my exhaustion, my feeling of helplessness in the face of his pain. I remember the way I literally shook with exhaustion and relief, trembling as the shock wore off, the cascading rushes of gratitude as it slowly sunk in that he'd survived, that it had gone well, the realization that I still had my papa.
I talked to him on the phone this afternoon, heard his voice bright and cheery. He has climbed mountains this last year; he has floated down rivers. He has has swam in lakes, and gone out for coffee, and made dinners, and done dishes, and napped in the sunshine, and all of the glorious and lovely mundanity of a life. He is here and he is strong, and I get to hear his voice. It does not escape me how lucky we are. It does not escape me how much I have to be grateful for.
Yes. I remember.
The ramblings and ruminations of an artist/thinker/maker/teacher/writer/feeler, and your fellow human.
