What Happened...

It is hard to believe that my dad's fall happened almost two weeks ago.

I have invented a new word for the daze I am in...hog. I am in a hog. It is a cross between haze and fog. I am on a sort of auto pilot and have lost two weeks...get words all scrambled up, frequently stare out into space, have crying jags, and am just plain annoyed at some of the developments. Yet try to refocus on the present and love the people I am with.

But through this time there have been so many gifts. And I think of one of my very favorite Scriptures: "This is what God asks of you, only this...To act justly, to love tenderly, and to walk humbly with your God" (Micah 6:8). I usually think of this verse in connection with the poor or marginalized, but find myself contemplating it as it relates to the events of the past two weeks.

There is a huge justice issue at hand...and I have peace that truth will prevail. I have had the opportunity to love tenderly; my dad, my mom, my sons, and many of my dad's friends. And even those I don't know...and most of all God. I continue to love God.

And to walk humbly. I wish I could answer my mother when she asks "why?" But I can't. And I don't want to minimize her pain. But yet I see God's fingerprints everywhere.

OK. So first I will tell the story of what happened, as best I can tell, having had almost two weeks to piece it together. Then will come all the stories...

Thursday, February 12th my dad fell. I didn't get a phone call right away. The person helping with my dad's work was the person who finally reached me.

Apparently my dad had been at an art gallery on East 74th street off of Madison Avenue to discuss the possibility of a show at the Lotus Club, the club where we had such a wonderful evening just a couple of weeks ago...how grateful I am that I went. And the weather conspired against me, but that is a story for another day.

The gallery is in a beautiful old brownstone; a stately old building with steps up to a double glass front door. Apparently when my dad went to leave he glanced back over his shoulder to talk (that's where I get it from...) and lost his balance and fell. He wasn't able to right himself and took the brunt of the fall against his head. I saw the gallery assistant yesterday when I finally went to the building to look at the stairs...she can't shake the image of my dad tumbling. I can only imagine how awful that is. When Matt was about twelve, he almost got hit by a car in Mexico and that image stayed with me for a long time...

My dad didn't lose consciousness immediately; in fact when he arrived in the ER he was still lucid. There was a physician next door who knew what to do immediately while they called 911. My dad was taken to NY Presbytyrian Hospital (Cornell Medical School affiliate) where he identified himself and provided emergency contact information. Apparently they did reach my mom but she went to Columbia Presbyterian Hospital instead. Very confusing. Columbia at 168th street, Cornell Presbyterian at 68th street. She didn't call me right away, and ultimately they reached the alternate emergency contact who eventually contacted me.

Apparently my dad lost consciousness in the ER, was intubated, taken to CT scan and then to the OR for a large subdural hematoma. They accomplished all of this inside of an hour, which is almost unprecedented. He had an incredibly compassionate and gifted neurosurgeon, and there is not one iota of speculation as to the level of care that was provided. It couldn't have gone better for such a terrible situation.

I needed to get my POA out of the safe deposit box and didn't drive to NYC until the next day. I suggested my mom wait until I arrived to go to see him. Surgical Intensive Care Units are very formidable places. My dad was on a ventilator, although he was breathing above it.

Information was sketchy the first night, although I was optimistic. But that didn't last long. He was in a coma, which I had erroneously thought was drug induced, but was not. He had only very basic brain stem reflexes and was in a deep coma.

The next five days were a blur of tears, denial, anger, disbelief and visitors in and out to share their love. People responded very differently, but the basic story was the same over and over again. My dad loved life, and the stories were wonderful. An encouraging word, a challenging statement, a memory shared.

There were many people who visited, but they made up his inner circle. Family; Werner, a friend of 55 years; the Charmian of the illustration department at FIT where my dad had taught for 25 years; other faculty; and students, special students who he had encouraged and supported, sharing enthusiasm for their love of art and intention to create. Dr. Orloff, his opthmologist and confidante, and his very special student Roman with whom he had gallivanted around in Rome with just this past summer. I got to know my dad better through these special people.

And Tuesday we were finally prepared to say goodbye. We knew we would honor his wishes to remove him from the respirator, but that also is a time consuming and complicated matter, complete with notaries, patient advocates and seals of approval. You just don't unplug the machine. But the timing was as it was meant to be with me, my mom, Chris and Roman at his side holding his hand, rubbing his feet, kissing his cheek and acknowledging his fatigue of life. The only difficulty in this process was a phone call about an hour before my dad died in which the person calling shared their opinion about who they thought should be at my dad's side, despite not being family. I told her it was as it should be. The people who were with him were who were supposed to be there and perfect. Period. It was not a phone call I needed to have.

The hospital staff were wonderful, except for one of the neurosurgery residents, but that is also another story. And I gave him some kind advice to become a better physician. They let us break every rule...we had ten people in the room at one point, and I won't say what else...

I know my dad received wonderful care.

The days were long. We didn't eat much. The thought of food made me sick. (I lost ten pounds...)And the nights were long too, aided only by Ambien.

I am strong; and being carried. My mom is a mess. She repeats frequently that she wants to die. I have begged her not to say that, that I need her. I am having an opportunity to love her tenderly. My parents were married for almost 55 years, and despite their differences loved each other very much.

And now the aftermath begins: an apartment to clean out...don't know how long we will keep it. There is the accumulation of life since 1961 in that apartment...and my mom to support. I keep her by my side. And the whole will/probate/death certificate/funeral home/service thing...

One day and one step at a time.

Stories and recollections to follow.

Peace. Go tell the people that you love that you love them. Don't lose that opportunity.