- Joined
- Aug 12, 2005
- Messages
- 19,563
Hey PS fam. I could sure use some hugs and positive vibes and dust and prayers or whatever you’ve got to give right now.
My dad has been in the ICU for over a week now with complications stemming from his past cancers and subsequent health issues. He’s been on oxygen for a few years now, albeit sparingly for the most part. Last week he was really struggling to breathe at home, even with his oxygen, so he was admitted to the local hospital after waiting in the ER for 13 hours due to lack of ICU beds. (It’s not a big hospital, and idk of the lack of beds was related to covid, in case anyone is wondering. He, of course, is fully vaccinated.)
My mother called last Friday to let me know he wasn’t doing well but they were hoping he’d improve with rest and more oxygen, and told me to hold off on visiting. So I did. Then she texted early this morning to tell me there was a good chance he’d be intubated tonight or early tomorrow morning. She’s been to see their attorney and accountant this afternoon and has more appts with them tomorrow. We are all struggling with this as we, like many, had hoped he would fall asleep at home and not wake up. He’s been through so much.
If you don’t know the story behind my username it’s this: in 2003 I married for the first time. My dad has always loved monarch butterflies and was fascinated by their migration. As he walked me down the aisle outdoors, there were several monarchs floating around. It was a special moment as we have always shared nature together since I was old enough to remember, and there are many photos of us together when I was a baby of him holding me next to beautiful tropical flowers in Fort Lauderdale where my family lived in the late 70s. So when I joined PS in 2005, I used “monarch” and his age when he was first diagnosed with cancer as my username.
16 years later (18 years since his initial diagnosis of stage IV colon cancer) here I am, wondering again if he’ll survive this. And there have been so many touch-and-go points along the way. Multiple cancers, treatments, recoveries. He is surely made of cast iron. But this time feels different. He is 81. His body is failing inside even though he’s still sharp as a tack mentally. I hoped he’d have another 10 years…many of our relatives have lived well into their 90s. When I drove down to visit him tonight, it was the most perfect, most beautiful Midwest autumn scenery I’ve ever witnessed. Perfect golden hour lighting. The grass in the median and fields was still green. The giant trees along both sides of the highway (southern IN, where it’s hilly) looked like they’d been dipped in paint—yellow, orange, red, green, even purple in the understory. Bright blue sky with scattered, puffy white clouds. Beautiful vistas overlooking farmland and limestone cutouts and creeks. I was crying a lot of the way, somewhat due to grief, and somewhat due to the breathtaking beauty of that drive. And of course the fear that this might be the last time I’d see my dad conscious and speaking or even alive.
I got to his unit and my mother was there. They didn’t know I was coming—my SIL actually contacted me this afternoon and said I should probably get down there. She works at the hospital and has been keeping an eye on him the last week. She is a total gem. I was clear-headed and composed when I got in and managed to remain so for the half hour I was there and even walking back to my car. He couldn’t talk much although it was clear he was going to try but with the oxygen mask over his face the machine next to him showed his levels and beeped every time they dipped or raised to anything unacceptable. I just talked about my drive down, my daughter, and a little about my work today. When I left…that was HARD. I wanted to stay with him forever. But he needed to rest before my brother came in next. (Only 2 allowed in the room during visiting hours.) I pressed my face to his hand and kissed his forehead. He said as I was walking away something from my early childhood, a reference only he and I would know. It was such a sweet moment. My mom walked me out and we met my Bro and SIL outside. I held it together then, too.
I don’t know what I’m asking for here. Probably just support as this seems like it’s his time to transition. I don’t expect him to keep fighting and recover. I would very much for his sake like him to finally be at peace. 18 years of dealing with cancers and treatments and complications and recoveries/remissions and rinse repeats should be enough. It would take a miracle for him to pull out of this, much as I hate to admit that.
Thank you for reading, if you made it through all of that. I have always appreciated and loved everyone here; it’s been such a nice set of people to get to know and care about.
Best,
Monnie
My dad has been in the ICU for over a week now with complications stemming from his past cancers and subsequent health issues. He’s been on oxygen for a few years now, albeit sparingly for the most part. Last week he was really struggling to breathe at home, even with his oxygen, so he was admitted to the local hospital after waiting in the ER for 13 hours due to lack of ICU beds. (It’s not a big hospital, and idk of the lack of beds was related to covid, in case anyone is wondering. He, of course, is fully vaccinated.)
My mother called last Friday to let me know he wasn’t doing well but they were hoping he’d improve with rest and more oxygen, and told me to hold off on visiting. So I did. Then she texted early this morning to tell me there was a good chance he’d be intubated tonight or early tomorrow morning. She’s been to see their attorney and accountant this afternoon and has more appts with them tomorrow. We are all struggling with this as we, like many, had hoped he would fall asleep at home and not wake up. He’s been through so much.
If you don’t know the story behind my username it’s this: in 2003 I married for the first time. My dad has always loved monarch butterflies and was fascinated by their migration. As he walked me down the aisle outdoors, there were several monarchs floating around. It was a special moment as we have always shared nature together since I was old enough to remember, and there are many photos of us together when I was a baby of him holding me next to beautiful tropical flowers in Fort Lauderdale where my family lived in the late 70s. So when I joined PS in 2005, I used “monarch” and his age when he was first diagnosed with cancer as my username.
16 years later (18 years since his initial diagnosis of stage IV colon cancer) here I am, wondering again if he’ll survive this. And there have been so many touch-and-go points along the way. Multiple cancers, treatments, recoveries. He is surely made of cast iron. But this time feels different. He is 81. His body is failing inside even though he’s still sharp as a tack mentally. I hoped he’d have another 10 years…many of our relatives have lived well into their 90s. When I drove down to visit him tonight, it was the most perfect, most beautiful Midwest autumn scenery I’ve ever witnessed. Perfect golden hour lighting. The grass in the median and fields was still green. The giant trees along both sides of the highway (southern IN, where it’s hilly) looked like they’d been dipped in paint—yellow, orange, red, green, even purple in the understory. Bright blue sky with scattered, puffy white clouds. Beautiful vistas overlooking farmland and limestone cutouts and creeks. I was crying a lot of the way, somewhat due to grief, and somewhat due to the breathtaking beauty of that drive. And of course the fear that this might be the last time I’d see my dad conscious and speaking or even alive.
I got to his unit and my mother was there. They didn’t know I was coming—my SIL actually contacted me this afternoon and said I should probably get down there. She works at the hospital and has been keeping an eye on him the last week. She is a total gem. I was clear-headed and composed when I got in and managed to remain so for the half hour I was there and even walking back to my car. He couldn’t talk much although it was clear he was going to try but with the oxygen mask over his face the machine next to him showed his levels and beeped every time they dipped or raised to anything unacceptable. I just talked about my drive down, my daughter, and a little about my work today. When I left…that was HARD. I wanted to stay with him forever. But he needed to rest before my brother came in next. (Only 2 allowed in the room during visiting hours.) I pressed my face to his hand and kissed his forehead. He said as I was walking away something from my early childhood, a reference only he and I would know. It was such a sweet moment. My mom walked me out and we met my Bro and SIL outside. I held it together then, too.
I don’t know what I’m asking for here. Probably just support as this seems like it’s his time to transition. I don’t expect him to keep fighting and recover. I would very much for his sake like him to finally be at peace. 18 years of dealing with cancers and treatments and complications and recoveries/remissions and rinse repeats should be enough. It would take a miracle for him to pull out of this, much as I hate to admit that.
Thank you for reading, if you made it through all of that. I have always appreciated and loved everyone here; it’s been such a nice set of people to get to know and care about.
Best,
Monnie
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