Life is Short.

When I was in college, I spent a lot of time painting and drawing in a basement studio that, in the years since graduation, has gradually become a storage area for boxes and furniture. I can't really complain since it's my parents' house and I stopped using the room about nine years ago for some reason. I listened to a lot of Metallica though and produced a ridiculous amount of art back in my college days. And I recall one cold February night when I heard a tapping, a gentle rapping, on the door at the top of the stairs.

I could see the door to our driveway from my desk, and through the curtain I didn't see anyone standing there. I assumed it was the wind and nothing more, turned my music back up, and went back to work. A few moments later I heard that tapping again, a gentle rapping at our driveway door. Late nights often played tricks on my mind and sometimes I'd turn too quickly and mistake the cord from my radio for an animal running past. Still, I opted to check out the faint noise at the top of the stairs. Armed with a T-square(not to be confused with a scarier T-Bag), I crept up the steps, flipped on the outside light, and peered out the window. There was nothing out there, so I dismissed it as the wind.

I returned to my drawing table, and no sooner had I picked up my brush then I heard that tapping again. I bounded up the steps, opened the door, and found the screen door partly open. “Cold” said a small voice. I looked down as a three- or four-year-old little boy pushed past me and headed up into our kitchen. “Uh Ma, you have a visitor!” I called in. She was very surprised to see little Peter from across the street, and after calling his frantic mother to let her know where the little guy had wandered off to, she made him some hot cocoa. When the couple across the street moved in, longer ago than I realize, they were expecting their first child, Peter's older sister. Now they have three children, two daughters and a son, and on Saturday morning my dad informed me that their son was plowing our driveway out and asked me if he should give him money.

“What do you mean Peter's plowing the driveway?” I asked groggily. The kid can't be more than 10 or 11 now, and short for his age. But sure enough, when I looked out the kitchen window, most of our driveway was clear. Peter had a plow hooked up to his four-wheel ATV, and was operating it like a pro. By the time we got out there with our shovels, there wasn't much to do but the edges of the driveway and around the cars. “What do I owe ya?” asked my dad, reaching for his wallet. “NOTHING!” laughed the little boy, but my father stood in front of his vehicle waving a twenty until he took it. It was only fair; in ten minutes he had accomplished what would have taken us at least an hour. I used to feel guilty when friends of my father would clear our driveway before I got to it, like I was such an irresponsible son that someone else had to clean up my mess. I'm kind of getting over that as I get older and lazier.

So, with one less thing to worry about, our attention turned to my mom, and the hope she'd be discharged from the hospital. But each time my dad called her room, he got a weird answering service and opted not to leave a message. I suggested she might be talking to someone else and it was going straight to voicemail, but my uncle soon called and said he had trouble reaching her as well. When he tried the main desk, they told him her line had been disconnected!

I wasn't worrying yet. It could have been a technical glitch, or perhaps after the first night you had to pay for phone service and my mom hadn't requested it yet or was trying to save money. But when my dad got through to the nurse's station on her floor and found out she had taken ill again and was returned to the ICU, we went in to crisis mode. I didn't even have breakfast, just took a quick shower, got dressed and leapt into the car, my dad riding shotgun. Up in the ICU, my heart leapt to my throat when I peered in to the unlucky section #13 where she was the other day and saw an unconscious woman with myriad tubes running from her nose, throat, and arms. It took me more than a few seconds to ascertain whether or not it was her. Without her glasses, she did kind of resemble this woman. Thankfully, I turned around and saw my mom waving from a bed across the way, in the very familiar station #5 where I spent many a sleepless night in the year 2000, waiting for the diagnosis of my Meckel's Diverticulum and subsequently recovering from my surgery.

She seemed fine, and her vitals were somewhat normal, but apparently during the morning she had some more palpitations and the instruments monitoring her showed a return of her thus-far unexplained Atrial fibrillation. Nurses rushed in while she was helping her roommate adjust her curtain, and screamed at her to get back in bed. She didn't even realize the portable device she was wearing was still transmitting vitals.

A number of things could have triggered the attack. Prior to it, a doctor had visited her and given her a device to do breathing exercises. He left, never returned, and never told her how many to do. She may have hyperventilated a little bit. The other thing that irritates me is that, while she was brought in for heart palpitations and was on a low-salt diet, each meal was served with what appeared to be black coffee. She's since let the doctors know and requested tea. Who serves caffeine to someone with her symptoms?! The biggest annoyance though is that they relocated her without notifying her family. You'd think a phone call to my dad would have been in order, kind of a “don't panic; your wife is okay but we've moved her back to ICU to keep a closer eye on her” message. Imagine if we showed up without calling and found an empty bed in her room?

My uncle showed up not long after my dad and I. A doctor stopped by, still not offering any theories but asking her what she thinks triggered the attacks. Her vitals remained steady and they have her on various medications to regulate everything. She'll probably remain in the ICU at least another day before they move her back to a normal room. It makes more sense than moving her along too soon again only to rush her right back where she started.

Visiting hours were shorter, and when they brought her lunch we had to leave. She's still sharp, stocking up on things and asked me to take a packet of mayonnaise and a little plastic container of butter home. It's not that we have a shortage of condiments or can't afford them; she never could pass up anything free. I put them in my jacket pocket and subsequently forgot about them. My dad and I then had lunch with my uncle, and talked about his trip to Florida. After a month down there in 80 degree weather, enjoying casinos and a lower cost-of-living, it had to be hard for him to arrive back in New York the other day during the heaviest snowstorm this season. My dad asked what television shows they got down there and he explained that the channels might be different but most places get the same shows. “When are you going to get Cable?” he asked my dad, “You know, life is short.” At the age of 80, now a widower for about a year-and-a-half, my uncle definitely appreciates the value of enjoying the time we have. Earlier in the day I saw someone who didn't even exist yet when I was in high school operating machinery and working more efficiently than two adults. Time goes by so fast.

We came home for a bit after that, where the neighborhood kids had taken to collecting all the snow in the neighborhood on a flatbed, which Peter towed on his ATV back to his yard to construct a fort. I took my dad back to the hospital in the afternoon, and my mom asked if I had snow on my jacket. I rubbed at a wet spot that didn't feel wet, and figured it was just a stain. I left them for an hour to go to 5:00 mass, and the church was either very hot or I was having another one of my panic attacks. I relaxed my breathing, unzipped my jacket, and removed my wristwatch. I tucked it into my jacket pocket, and my hand came out a little greasy. If I was fighting panic, I soon had to fight laughter instead when I removed my day planner from that same pocket and saw it covered in butter. We all had a nice laugh when I returned to the hospital and explained the mystery stain. I'm such a mess.

Sometimes life is like the movie Click, like events play in slow motion or fast forward and we have no control over which speed. In the past few days I've spoken to more doctors because my dad is hard of hearing, and they seem to be looking at me as the adult responsible for my folks. I thought they were the adults responsible for me. I'm the guy walking around with busted plastic butter containers in my jacket, the one who doesn't get to shovel his driveway before a ten-year-old cleans it. Why are they explaining things to me? I've never learned how to properly swim, and I remember some people telling me that the best way to learn is to be thrown into a pool and let your reflexes take over. That's what life is like. Things move so fast, sometimes we're tossed into the water whether we're ready or not. I guess it's time to start swimming.