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Tuesday, January 21, 2003 |
My father's breathing machine was turned off at 6 PM. He's been breathing on his own now for over two hours. He won't be able to keep this up forever, but now no one can tell us how long we can expect him to continue--it could just be a few hours, or it could be as long as a day. All that is left now is wait until his heart and lungs figure out that his brain has already died.
I haven't seen Gabe since this morning. The pediatrician prescribed antibiotic eye-drops for his infection. I haven't witnessed it yet, but he fights having them put in his eyes with a near-legendary vigor. Apparently, if you haven't seen a baby who has just had a burning fluid squirted into his eyes, you haven't seen pissed-off.
10:55:13 PM 
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What the Hell Took Me So Long? Oddly enough, today while I was getting ready to go to the hospital, the solution for fixing the comment problem came to me. It's simple, so I can't imagine why I didn't think of it before. It is also inelegant, and time-consuming to execute, so it might take me a few days. I'm sure Steve will be glad to again being seen as a rational--if contrarian--poster, as opposed to the crazed human non-sequitur this problem has made him appear to be.
10:54:30 PM
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Fembots It is just me, or are the anchorwomen of the Fox News Channel kind of scary -looking? They look like a definition of beauty adopted by a tired and irritable
focus group after the rude guy ate the last donut. Also, I didn't think that professional newsperson's make-up was supposed to shine under the studio lights like that.
On the other hand, I'd rather watch an army of Fox News fembots than Shepherd Smith, with that "I'm a spree killer waiting to happen" glint in his eyes. That man must be Damien's out of wedlock demon-child. If I see Smith host one more profile of We're-Simple-But-Proud-Folks-Sending-All-of-Our-Children-Off-To-Fight-Evil-Doers parents, I'm going to hurl.
10:53:41 PM
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It's odd how, no matter what else happens, the obligatory tasks still must proceed. Make coffee, wake the baby, change the baby, get the baby to sleep. It is good to have a reminder that for nearly everyone else, this day is an ordinary day, unremarkable and filled with bothersome routine.
I'm at the hospital now, and I don't see a phone jack that I can monopolize. I'll have to blog into TextEdit (still haven't found an acceptable WP program for OS X--but there are reports that a public beta of Nisus X will be out in Feb.) and post later.
The tests are showing a very low level of brain activity, there is slight response to stimulus, but in situations like this that isn't unusual. The doctor is evasive, but it doesn't sound like that is going to make a difference. It is possible that he will breath on his own if the vent is turned off, but unlikely. My mother and I have decided that this afternoon--24 hours after he lost consciousness-- we will have the machine turned off. I'm not really comfortable with that, but there is no question that this decision is in accord with his general wishes, and mother's. My father never thought that the situation he is in now was equivalent to life, so my doubts are secondary here.
The Intensive Care Unit here at Flower Hospital is in the wing as the Maternity Ward. The last time I came here--almost nine months ago--was to pick up my wife and Gabe. Last night while we waited I saw the moms-to-be arriving for the Monday night tour of the ward. Last time I was here I never gave much thought to the other significant events that were happening just a few paces away.
10:52:25 PM
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We also discovered yesterday that Gabe has an eye infection. So this morning there is also a scramble to make and keep an appointment with the pediatrician and to line up alternative day-care for him. One aspect of the current situation is that I am fairly busy--figuring out who needs to be called, making e-mail lists, arranging things at work, beginning initial research about what needs to be done next--and I haven't spent much time thinking about things much farther out than the next 30 minutes or so.
My mother is grasping at anything--every movement, tremor or graph on a machine-- to give herself hope. Right now I'm working on the assumption that this is a good thing. She worked in a hospital her entire adult life, so I'm sure that as the day goes on she will come to a better understanding of the odds than I have. This year would have been their 40th anniversary, so this day will be infinitely more difficult for her than it will be for me.
8:30:05 AM
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© Copyright 2003 Douglas Anders.
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