It was Good Friday. My husband and I were on I-90 with a few of our kids, headed West to my sister's place for Easter. I had talked to mom earlier; Dad was increasingly having a hard time catching his breath. That morning a neighborhood nurse friend had come by to check his lungs and heart; she was concerned that the lungs weren't filling properly and his heart was working too hard still. When I called earlier in the day, I had reinforced the nurse's recommendation to get Dad to the doctor. We all knew that it would be a process to get an oxygen prescription covered by medicare. They live at an elevation of over 7,000 feet and breathing can be hard on healthy people, but for someone who is already ill, with an overworked heart, it can be dangerous.
Now I was calling from the road to see how the day had transpired. Mom was emotionally depleted. She had spent the afternoon watching Dad put himself painfully though a myriad of physical tests to prove oxygen deprivation and it had cost him in every way. The doctor had also ordered a chest x-ray, but it wouldn't be read before Monday, as it was now 4:30 pm on a holiday weekend.
Mom is usually very strong emotionally. I'm not sure I've ever seen her over-react in the form of tears. Her quivering voice let me know things were unraveling for her before her cell service cut out. I relayed the conversation to my husband, who immediately started flight shopping for me. Whether Dad needed me or not didn't matter, it was clear Mom could use support. I called her back an hour or so later with my sketched out plan. I would fly out of Seattle on the Monday following Easter. My sister already had tickets for her eldest and her to be there the following week. He had never been to the Grand Canyon or visited Grandma and Grandpa in Arizona. Because their trip was following what would be a very busy work week for Mom and now the oxygen prescription process with Dad, I would act as an extra set of hands, getting guest rooms ready and running Dad to appointments as well as making meals for Mom to give her relief. Both Mom and Dad sounded excited and relieved at the idea. My husband makes it so easy to serve them! The tickets were purchased before we crossed out of Montana.
Monday morning, March 28th, as I sat at the gate at Sea-Tac, mom and I discussed options for picking me up. I planned to fly into Flagstaff, which was the closer airport, but I'd be in Phoenix earlier in the day. She contemplated coming down to get me sooner. I cautioned against it. Dad had another rough night and I wasn't sure he should be left alone that long and the car ride was no longer feasible for him to Phoenix. We decided a neighbor could be nearby if he needed anything while she was in Flagstaff to collect me.
When I got off the plane, I saw my mom waiting for me. She had a surprise for me; Dad had felt "up" to coming into town to get me! He hadn't eaten much all week and Sizzler's salad bar sounded good to him. After a quick meal, Mom and I decided we needed groceries for a few meals at home. The drive is a little over 70 miles and we weren't sure when we'd be back. We made a dash through a grocery store and headed out of town. Dad was at his limit and was looking forward to his bed.
Dad waiting in the car for me at the airport Monday.
Dad waiting for his salad to be hand delivered by Mom at Sizzler.
As we headed around the last of the highway sections with trustworthy cell service, Dad's phone rang. We had been waiting all afternoon for the doctor to call with information about Dad's tests from Friday so we could have a plan for the week. It was nearly 5:00 and the doctor was apologetic. He had a crazy Monday and had just finally sat down with Dad's results. His advice was for us to get to an ER. He was unemotional in his approach, but informed Dad that there was quite a bit of fluid around both lungs. In his opinion, the only way to get rid of it would be to drain it and an ER was the most direct approach to getting that accomplished. Dad told him "thanks, but no thanks", essentially. He wanted to be home. He did go ahead and put the doctor on speaker phone so he could reexplain it all to Mom. This time, the doctor was a little more insistent, Dad needed immediate attention. When Mom told him we were just outside of Flagstaff, the doctor sounded happy. The following 20 minutes the doctor spent reiterating to Dad the importance of getting immediate help, while Dad insisted he just needed his bed, besides he wasn't packed and didn't even have his shaving kit... Finally I interrupted the three and asked Dad to go ahead and get checked out "for me". He relented and told Mom to go ahead and turn around. We hung up with the doctor and headed back into town.
The ER was already filled to the brim with people waiting their turn. Dad was somewhere around the 20th patient who had yet to be seen. After a nurse took his vitals and checked his saturation level, Dad became number two in line. He was in a good mood while we waited for tests to be re-run. There was another x-ray and a variety of blood stuff to wait on. He was denied water, but was given a fancy green sponge with a chemical lime flavoring to help produce saliva. He wasn't impressed. As it turned out, those stupid green sponge-on-a-stick thingies became his least favorite part of the week, and his only complaint.
As sovereign plan would have it, the doctor on duty was the same doctor that had diagnosed him with Stage IV cancer 3 1/2 years prior in that very same ER. He instantly recognized both Mom and Dad. He remembered a surprising amount of detail, considering how much time had passed since their last meeting. He went on to explain that Dad had been unusual back then, and circumstances over the last three years had changed him as a person as well as a doctor. His own sister had succumbed to the disease, which gave him a new respect for patient's choice to deny certain medical protocol when dealing with terminal cancer... As an observer, I was acutely aware that the interaction I was witnessing between that doctor and Dad on March 28th was a closure both of them needed. It was personal, professional, emotional, and endearing.
Because pneumothorax is a procedure most safely done by those who do it every day outside of an ER bay, and because Dad's situation wasn't immediately life threatening, Dad was given an oxygen tank, scheduled for pneumothorax for the following day, and checked in to the hospital under "observation only". He was given a room, complete with a room-mate, on the third floor around midnight. Mom and I made our way to a nearby motel for a few hours of sleep.
Jumping through hoops in the ER.
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