Last week was my father's birthday. He turned SIXTY-FIVE. SIXTY. FIVE.
I have to admit that as of November 1, 2010, I would have bet money on the fact that he would turn 65. I would have bet money on the fact that he wouldn't live 65 days. Obviously, I was wrong. I am OK with being wrong, really I am. I am just not sure if being wrong in this case is...right.
I called my father on his birthday and left him a message. I purposely didn't wish him the usual "Happy Birthday" or "Hope you have a Happy Birthday". I am not one to lie, not very well at least and never intentionally. Happy is relative, and not in the related way as in wishing my father Happy any day. It just isn't possible. I can wish him a day better than the one before. I can wish him happiness, but I know that he has far outgrown and surpassed the ability to BE HAPPY.
He called me back. Our phone call was breathy and shallow. He gasped for breath. He grasped for words. He was failing at both. He was discharged from the hospital after SEVEN weeks. After TEN days home, he was taken back to the ER. According to my brother, he was given three options: 1) Go home and get strong for the LVAD (Seriously?), 2) Go home with Hospice & no Primacor IV (die in two weeks) or 3) Be admitted to the hospital with IV and die in August. Seems like a wide array of options, which is really feasible and realistic? I have no idea. The Social Worker never found the time or reason to return my calls.
My father is home. What does that mean? I have no idea. Each day is becoming more difficult. The Primacor is no longer as effective. The end is near. How near?
I wonder how I will feel when his end is here. I wonder how long it will be before I am notified. I wonder how I will be affected. The reality, I try not to wonder. When reality happens, I will no longer wonder. I will know.