This summer I took a creative writing class. One of the assignments was to write a paper on a significant "turning point" in our lives. The idea for my "turning point" came in an instant. This is what I wrote:
“Are
You Ready?”
Words hold powerful
meanings. Words connected in various ways can make a person feel empowered or
powerless, they can inspire or discourage, and they can even alter the course
of someone’s life. My life is filled with memories associated with words that I
have heard or read, each phrase holding a specific meaning and promoting a
change in my character. No matter how these words were offered or who they came
from, these phrases have offered opportunities for transformation. As I look
back, all of these experiences play a role in the woman that I am today, but as
I crossed that empty street in the early hours of the morning, three simple
words would impact my life in a way that I will never forget. “Are you ready?”
Sunday, October 20, 2013 is a day that has been seared
into my memory. To explain why, I need to address the point that five days
previous, my father entered the ICU at the Utah Valley Regional Medical Center.
Dad had been ill for a couple of months with a sinus infection, which
progressively got worse, even causing some stroke-like symptoms. Unexpectedly,
on Tuesday October 15, 2013, I was pulled out of my astronomy class by my
brother. He told me that our father had been admitted to the ICU with organ
failure, respiratory failure, and heart failure. We needed to rush to the
hospital to say goodbye. In a split second, reality became surreal. I began to
live in my own personal twilight zone where every day seemed to melt into the
next. I had no sense of time, and the outside world ceased to exist. During the
days that followed, Dad had “episodes” where he would stop breathing and he
would go into cardiac arrest. It was usually once a day, and each episode was
never more than a matter of seconds. I remember every one of those seconds.
During this time, my mom, my brother Devin, and I were
all staying across the street at a guest house provided by the hospital for
family members of patients in the ICU. We would take shifts being with Dad so
that he would never be alone, and so that each of us could get a little sleep.
I usually took the late shift, from 11pm until 5:00am when my mother replaced
me. Saturday evening, I sat with dad, singing him songs, reading him books, and
talking to him. I share my deepest thoughts, and fears. I told him how much I
loved him. My Dad was on life-support and in a self-induced coma. He rarely
responded, but when he did it was by squeezing my hand three times, which is a
way our family says “I love you”. It was about 4:30 in the morning when my
Mother came to replace me. I walked back across the street to the guest house,
and without getting into my pajamas, I hopped straight into bed. No sooner had
I drifted off to sleep, my brother’s phone rang. It was Mom, her words muffled
by the thick silence that filled the room. I knew by my brother’s tender tone
that we were needed back at the hospital. After he hung up, we laced up our
Nikes, grabbed our BYU sweatshirts, and dashed out the door. When we got
outside, the world was peaceful. The sky was a deep blue, there were no cars,
and a gentle wind blew a few strands of hair across my face. This serenity was
in stark contrast to the angry boil of thoughts in the melting pot of my mind.
I had just left Dad, and he was okay. What happened? This is my fault. I never
should have left. What will happen? How is Mom? Who do we call? Is he awake? Is
he talking? All of these thoughts were hurtling through my brain at the speed
of light when my brother says, “Are you ready?”
Silence. All of the commotion in my mind came to a
screeching halt. I didn’t need to ask what he meant, I knew perfectly well. Was
I ready to face what we were about to see? Was I ready to be strong? Was I
ready to accept whatever happened? Was I ready to move forward regardless of
the outcome? All of my fears challenged by a simple question, “Are you ready?”
An elevator ride had never felt so long. It felt like we
were confined to an inescapable metal box for dozens of years. We finally made
it to the third floor, and we couldn’t get into the neuroshock unit fast
enough. After watching my brother’s trembling fingers punch in the code, the
double doors swung open and an empty hallway loomed in front of us. We walked
steadily to Dad’s room where Mom and a medical entourage waited for us. No one
spoke when we entered, and we didn’t feel the need to announce our presence.
All of us just stood there, surrounding my unmoving father, keenly watching him
and his monitors. I don’t know how long we went on like that, but it felt like
hours. After a while of watching Dad’s heart rate plummet and skyrocket, his
doctor pulled us out into the hallway. We were presented with the lesser of two
“worsts”. The greater “worst” would be that Dad had died. The lesser was the
doctors telling us that Dad had suffered a massive episode, and was not
expected to make it through the day. We were told to call family and prepare
for his passing.
It has been over 7 months since my Dad first entered the
ICU. I have seen and heard much during this time, but that simple question will
forever stand out in my mind as a turning point. In that moment, I needed to
decide what my outcome would be regardless of what my Dad’s was. I never did
respond to my brother. I think my sprinting across the street and up to my
Dad’s room might have been answer enough. Perhaps his question wasn’t so much a
question at all. He knew that whatever was going to happen was going to happen.
It didn’t matter how hard we wished something else, Dad would either die or he
wouldn’t. We needed to be ready for both, and by saying “Are you ready?” might
have been his charge for me to get ready.
My Dad did not die. Through many miracles, he defied the diagnosis,
and survived numerous massive strokes, endocarditis, meningitis, and sepsis. My
Dad isn’t the same physically or mentally, but he did live. My Dad was in the
hospital for three and a half months, and each day I had to ask myself “Am I ready?” This question took on a
different meaning at different stages. Am I ready to keep going? Am I ready to
accept another doctor telling me that my Dad will never walk? Am I ready to see
him walk despite what that doctor said? Am I ready to start living my life
again, despite all that has happened? Am I ready to keep going? Am I ready to
not have “Dad” anymore? Am I ready to take care of my Dad in a way that I
haven’t before? Am I ready to take care of my Mom like I haven’t taken care of
her before?
I
decided that I was ready. I was ready to feel elated for my Dad’s successes,
and to cheer him on as he strived for more. I was ready to cheer him on in
spite of small setbacks, and when frustration got the best of him. Life has
been so drastically altered, that conventional family relationships no longer
exist in my home. My father’s personality is different now, and as a recovering
stroke victim he is dealing with the problems associated with brain trauma. Even today, as I visit home once a week to help
out, I have to ask myself the same question. Am I ready to bite my tongue when
he isn't himself? Am I ready to accept that this isn’t him, but an effect of
the stroke? Am I ready to see my Mom be a nurse and caregiver as opposed to
being a wife? Am I ready?
Sometimes, I can’t answer this question. Sometimes, I
just need to sprint across the street and head towards the unknown. At least in
doing so, I know that I will be ready.
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