The Decision

Supposedly, with wind, the temperature on Thursday was 5. It felt like it too when I went outside to start the cars and, after two weeks sitting at the base of our driveway, I decided to start my father's car and drive it further up, to make room to shovel snow. The inch or so of dusting we got was definitely going to make the remaining ice underneath a problem. Unfortunately, for some reason, not only did my dad's car not start, but turning the key made the trunk pop open. The first time I thought I'd accidentally mashed the button on the keychain, but by the third time it happened, I realized there was some electrical problem, especially since his clock had reset to noon. Before going in the hospital, my dad feared a starter problem, but this seemed to point to a dead battery. He insisted I wouldn't know where to find the battery let alone jump start it, and advised replacing it instead, something he also thought I was incapable of. I admit I'm apprehensive, and I've never liked the big sparks that fly off active jumper cables, but I know I could do it. I've never changed a battery, but I have jumped one or two in my time. Still, with ice being a good conductor and the car not really being used right now, we can wait.

I wasn't sure if telling my dad when I went for my morning visit before work was a good idea, if he needed something else to worry about. But it definitely lit a spark in his eyes, and got the wheels of an ace diagnostician turning about something other than what was wrong with him. There were some stains on his gown where his wound had leaked out during the night, but that was to be expected. When I called my mom at lunch, I learned that his dressing had been changed, and the drains, which were basically a pair of straws, were removed. He was healing nicely, and getting stronger. Movement in the arm was limited, but the swelling was greatly reduced. Most of the blood work came back negative for whatever they were testing for, although we still don't have the results on the bone biopsy, and don't know if he'll need additional surgery to clean up a bone infection.

The doctor had good news and bad news for my father, none of which came as a surprise to me. His initial symptoms of a fever and a rash were so general that I found a number of horrible things it could have been, ranging from infection to some kind of blood disease. Focusing on the most obvious problem, his shoulder wound, let to the most logical conclusion. Thus, the bad news was something I'd read about and not shared with my father. The good news was that he was going to be discharged from the hospital, perhaps in the next day or so. Also good was that the infection was something entirely treatable with antibiotics, which led to the bad news. The only way those antibiotics would be effective would be intravenously, over a period of weeks. My research showed typically 6 to 8, to be exact.

And so, a decision had to be made. If my dad wanted to come home, the hospital could supply all the equipment and medication needed, leave a shunt in my dad's arm, and train my mom how to administer the medicine through his IV. Despite the many safeguards, I have this fear of air bubbles, and I've probably seen one too many shows in which a mobster or some other bad guy offs someone by injecting air into the tube. I freak out if my mom goes near the equipment. The other option, which was covered by my dad's insurance, would be to spend the next few weeks in a nursing home. There he could receive care from professionals, receive therapy to get the arm moving again that he wouldn't receive at home, and have a staff on hand to check his vital signs and test his blood regularly. In some ways, this second option seemed like trading one prison for another, and we want my dad home as much as he wants to come home. In other ways, it would be a step up from the hospital. Not only might he have his own room, but things like wearing pants again would help him to feel human.

It was a lot to ponder, and I leaned toward the nursing home option. It would be easier on my mom, and it would be a more sterile environment than our house. I imagined one of the cats clawing at my dad's line, or him forgetting the shunt in his arm and bumping in to it, which he did a few times in the hospital. There would be no call button in our house, only a telephone, so the response time would be a lot less. The other danger was that, feeling better, he'd overestimate his condition, and my mom couldn't watch him 24 hours a day. It wouldn't be long before he was up on a ladder changing a bulb or lugging something heavy up or down the stairs. I feared if he came home, it wouldn't be long before we were right back where we started. Just the other day when I asked him if I could take the garbage out from now on, if he minded waiting a few hours until I got up at 7 AM, he grumped, “I'm not making any deals!”

Since a nursing home wasn't a hospital and my dad wouldn't be visited constantly by a team of doctors, he wouldn't need my mom there constantly to translate the words that didn't piece his hearing problem. And since he'd be on the mend, she might feel less obligated to hover. We'll see what happens, but hopefully we can adjust our schedules to better balance taking care of the house and my father. I'm knee deep in laundry, and I might visit him an hour later over the weekend so I have time to catch up. It's either that or quit the biggest time waster of all, sleep. I'm also just donating money to my gym and Netflix these days, neither of which I've had time to see.

If my mind wasn’t made up already, the nurse on duty on Thursday convinced me. Something was wrong with my dad's line, and the machine kept beeping. At one point she flushed the line with a saline solution that my dad said burned, and at another I noticed the machine wasn't running at all. “No, it's on,” said she when we paged her, despite the fact that the display said “STOPPED” and I could see there was no drip. My dad wanted to use the rest room, so the nurse unplugged the device so he could wheel it in. That's when she knocked the damned thing over, and I shouted “OHGAWD!!!” The nurse leapt back as it crashed to the floor, while my old man meekly apologized as though it was his fault, sitting in the chair doing nothing. I watched in horror as the nurse picked it up, then noticed a crimped and cracked line I could spot from across the room. “Oh...” she drawled, “This musta broke when it hit the floor...I'm get you a new one...”

Granted, it was an accident, and granted the night shift includes the incompetent as well as the competent-except-when-exhausted. It could have happened to anyone, but if a trained “professional” could mess up, how would my mom fare? I trust my mom with my life, but if a situation arose in which something went wrong, would she know how to fix it? Even told what to do, would she have the speed needed? More importantly, as a not-so-healthy senior citizen herself, did she need to shoulder that burden alone?

So, it looks like we're picking out a nursing home, one of three options in the area. I voted for one that bears but a single digit difference in phone numbers with our own. Maybe when they get a wrong number looking for us, my dad will actually get a call. My mom ruled out a second because she heard they had rats, while a third seems to be a decent choice. We might check them out over the weekend if we can, and at this point my dad is willing to at least try. If he came home and it was too much for my mom to handle, we would lose the option of sending him to a nursing home; he has to be sent from the hospital. But if he goes to a home and absolutely hates it, we can always bring him home and go that route. We could have a nurse visit the house, but not daily according to their plan. Meanwhile, I'm playing up the positive aspects, talking about how he's getting upgraded to a luxury suite, and how he'll be able to dress and shave and be a regular person again. At 78, he'll probably even be the “kid” in whichever place he stays.

It's funny how people hear news in different ways. My dad probably heard that his sentence had been extended, but all I heard was that my dad would be getting better, something I doubted more than once these past few weeks. At best, he'll be home in two weeks, at worst he'll be home in six, but most importantly, eventually, he will be home.