That afternoon, my Mom, brother and I go into the ICU to see him. Tubes are coming out of countless holes in his chest and inflated stomach. He’s asleep. A nurse behind him looks like she’s working backstage at a Broadway musical. She pushes vials of liquid into one tube and takes another vial from a different one. Beeping. The scratch of the ventilator as it breathes in and out for him. That’s it.
More after the jump.
We leave and go to our respective beds to get some sleep in. Getting up at 4 in the morning is great when you get a chemically aided nap, not so much when you rely on anti-anxiety drugs, Tylenol PM, and relaxation tapes.
Later on in the night we go back. Everything was going great in the afternoon. Said he would have the ventilator out by 11 or so. We get there, going in by twos. Breathing machine still in. Bloated stomach covered but it doesn’t matter. Even his fingers are puffy. His nails are long and cut irregularly leaving each nail like a knife’s blade. They shave his chest, you’d think they’d at least throw in a manicure or trim while they’ve got him.
This nurse isn’t as friendly. She’s the substitute teacher from your walking-into-school-naked nightmares. My Dad’s eyes open periodically. He continues to squirm. Squirming like a baby, his legs unable to make any great movement and arms loosely tied to the bed. The Substitute Nurse yells at him to relax which is relaxing in itself, right?
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