Chicken Little

I should have known. Actually, I did, I think. When Robert and I left for this winter's trip to hike in Oregon, I gave him the perennial speech about how we may have to come back suddenly if something happens. Something, of course, is if my dad or step-mom dies, or I get wind that they're about to leave the premises.

I know they're dying. Logic dictates that in their condition, it could be any moment for either of them. However, every time I think that moment is close at hand, I'm proved wrong. it could be tomorrow, or it could be in years. Everyone urges me to get some respite, to get the hell outta Dodge while the gettin's good.

So, I decided to ignore my impulses and go on our usual winter excursion to hike to waterfalls in the Pacific Northwest. But right off the bat, I didn't like the way Dad sounded when I called from the hotel room at night after we'd get back from the trail. He sounded more frail, nonsensical. I began having serious regrets for leaving. But, then, I always do.

I'm no doctor, but since I'm the one who sees them daily, I am also the one who sniffs out the pneumonia or the urinary tract infections, or the fevers, or whatever it is -- before the nurses and doctors do. And, since I can sense the slightest change in their behaviors, it's often before anything will show up in a test. By the time they're diagnosed (they take turns at this, you see,) they're near death, the nursing home is asking me if I want them to get hospice involved and I'm calling my brothers and telling them to come right now if they want to see them while they're still alive. The medical treatment comes and the parents immediately rally. By the time Bruce and John arrive, the folks are upright, conscious and chatting away. Not necessarily making any sense, but very animated. And again, I've declared that the sky is falling when it's clearly still firmly in place where it's always been. Maybe a bit cloudy, but certainly not the storm I'd predicted. It's come to the point where even I think I'm a charlatan.

So, one week into the two week trip, I talked to the nurses, who told me he's lost another eight pounds (in a week!). I asked them to check on him because he's not making any sense at all now when I talk to him. They called the doctor earlier that day and he ordered some tests, but he said I shouldn't come home early; Dad's going to wait for me to come home before he dies. Even though it'd gone through my mind more than once, I found it a bit shocking that I wasn't the only one thinking it. I also wondered about the logic of why I would have him wait for me; I want to see him alive, not dead. I don't want him to have to hang around any longer than he needs to, but ...

I called Dad and the only lucid thing he said is that he felt like hell and asked me to bring a knife to help him "cut his throat because he wants to die." I told him I wasn't inclined to do that, and asked him to hang in there. How does one respond to that? I'm no expert in this stuff.

Devastated, I hung up the phone. One look was all it took; Robert asked me to decide if I wanted to go home or not. I didn't see any options; Dad needed me. Robert immediately began packing the car while I made cancellations for the rest of the lodging for the trip, and we left within minutes. What a prince Robert is; he didn't hesitate for one second, and promised he would not be upset if I said we needed to go home. I believe him.

While driving through a mountain pass, I got a call from the nursing home, but was disconnected. The voice mail message said Dad was severely dehydrated and needed an IV, but they needed my okay before they'd proceed. Dad's health was being held captive to a cell phone connection. Luckily, I was able to get through at the next freeway exit, and give my authorization. The nurse assured me when I called later that Dad should begin feeling better shortly.

By the time I got back last night, it was pretty late, but I went to the nursing home, anyway. Dad and Pam were both sleeping, but I woke them. Dad was incoherent, but stroked my face with his hand. Within a few minutes, he was able to verbalize a little. He understood I was back, and that I had come home to see him. I could tell he was glad I was there.

He's not going to die today. I'm still Chicken Little, but I don't care; I made the right decision to come home.