Yesterday was a tough day. I got a phone call from my son at 8:30 a.m. "First, you need to know he's okay, but Grandpa had an accident."
My father fell out of bed sometime during the night on Monday. Luckily, he was visiting with a family member. My mother passed away this Spring, and Monday would have been their wedding anniversary. We didn't want Dad home alone for that painful time. About 7:00 a.m., someone heard his cries for help and called an ambulance.
Dad got to the emergency room about 8:00 a.m. He stayed there until about 3:30 p.m., when a bed finally opened up to admit him. We are fortunate, the knot and bruise on his head will heal. The tooth that was knocked out when he hit the nightstand, well, later a dentist can help with that. The femur fracture will be surgically repaired this afternoon by placing a rod in his thigh.
It took me a couple of hours to drive up there when I got the phone call about Dad. My heart almost broke when I walked in and saw him. He's so frail, 85 years old, grieving deeply still for my mother, with heart problems, asbestosis of the lungs, epilepsy, and severe osteoporosis from decades of Dilantin. He was lying there, pale as a ghost, repeatedly vomiting and shaking from the pain, with that huge knot on his forehead, bruised and bloody. He tried weakly to smile and that's when I noticed the tooth was knocked out.
At 6 p.m., the surgeon finally came up to introduce himself and explain to us what needs to be done, as well as the risks involved. He also told us Dad needs transfusions and asked if we'd donate blood. He tells us that without a rod being placed in the leg, Dad will never walk again. Of course, we all made clear that Dad is a DNR; he was fitted with the appropriate warning band and the paperwork was faxed to the hospital alerting them to that fact.
Finally, it was getting late and Dad was exhausted. I said my goodbyes to drive the two hours home and promised I'd be back today to see him before he goes into surgery. I looked at the tense faces of my siblings and realized I wasn't the only one having a few flashbacks to Mom's last days, not so very long ago; how raw we all still are from seeing her suffering and then losing her gentle spirit.
Mom died a hard death from ALS, Lou Gehrig's Disease. Though my parents had insurance, there was so very, very much it didn't cover. My parents had been hard workers all their lives and saved every cent they could. Mom had been an executive secretary and bookkeeper; Dad was a heavy equipment operator until he became disabled. They weren't wealthy, but saved and made safe investments where they could. That was all wiped out by the costs of Mom's illness. All Dad has left is the home that they shared for 62 years.
As I'm leaving, promising to see him in a few hours, urging him to rest, telling him how very much I love him, I see his mouth tighten. He mutters under his breath, they should let him go, he can't afford this.
The last pieces of my heart break anew.
This is our health care system. A frail 85 year old lies for hours waiting for a bed and, in terrible pain, waits for necessary surgery; yet his first worry isn't getting well, surviving for his children and grandchildren, to savor new memories yet to be made, but rather that he can't afford to have his broken leg repaired.
Mr. Lieberman and colleagues, I wish you could meet my father. He's a proud man, an honest, moral, upright man of great character. He's spent a lifetime working hard and doing the right thing, always. Yet here he is, reduced by fate to what some insurance company would consider a "dog." It is your upcoming decision that will determine how many more good families will endure these painful moments. We are not statistics, we are human beings, American families. We are not slackers or freeloaders, we just need a fair chance. Mr. Lieberman, if you have any heart left, look into it, and then do the right thing, please. I'm begging here. I never want another soul to see and hear the hopeless pain that I witnessed yesterday on my father's face in that hospital room.
I have to get around now and get ready to drive back north to be there before they take him for surgery. I want to tell him one more time how much I love him, how grateful I am to him for loving me, caring for me all these decades, just in case the DNR comes into play and I never get another chance to tell him.