Things beyond our control
Over the past five years, my dad has suffered much: Lung cancer, prostate cancer, organ failure, broken hip, stroke.
And always by his side is my mom, a 5-foot-2 Malaysian powerhouse. Next year, they will celebrate 50 years of marriage.
We first thought we’d lost Dad in October 2004. He’d had major organ failure due to a loss of blood, and his lungs had collapsed. My mom called me at work, and said, “The doctors aren’t sure he’s going to make it through the night.” I caught the next flight to Pennsylvania and arrived that night about 10. A family friend picked me up from the airport and warned me, “You need to brace yourself. It doesn’t look good.”
My older brother had also flown in, and together, we went into the hospital ICU and saw Dad hooked up to a ventilator. He was lying in a fetal position, and every so often, the ventilator hissed as it breathed for him. It was one of the few times I had seen my brother burst into tears.
Dad’s eyes were opened, and he would raise his eyebrows as I spoke to him. I’m not sure if he was there or not. But I talked with him. I tried to joke. I rattled off a few memories.
The next day, we discovered Dad had survived the night and was strong enough to be taken off the ventilator. During our visit, my mom said, “I’m going to go to the chapel to say prayers.”
(A little background: My dad is an atheist. My mother was born and raised Catholic. When we grew up, my dad — who respected my mom’s faith — agreed to have us baptized, but we kids did not go to church. Every Saturday, however, my mom went by herself, and though we knew she went, she never said anything about it.)
Over the next two days, Dad improved dramatically. Each day, we would visit the hospital, and each day, Mom would spend half an hour in the hospital chapel in prayer.
The kidney doctor had declared “renal failure,” but my dad soon regained 100 percent function in his kidneys and became a prolific urine producer. Though his lungs had collapsed, he was soon able to breathe without the help of any equipment or oxygen.
The primary care physician soon updated us: “We’re not completely out of the woods, but he’s still with us. I don’t know how to explain it, but he’s survived.”
“It’s all the prayers,” my mom said, touching the doctor’s arm.
“It must be,” the doctor said.
Many of the medical issues my dad has faced have required long recoveries, including some stays in a nursing home near my folks’ house. In those instances, Mom would go and spend each day with him, doing whatever was needed. Sometimes, she would read him the comics. Other times, she’d scold him for not making sense — even if the confusion was caused by a medical problem. Whatever the situation, she always pushed the medical staff to provide the best care possible.
After his last hospital stay, my folks — both in their 70s — decided it was time to move closer to us kids; all three of us live in Missouri. A month ago, they reached a deal to sell their house. We made most of the arrangements to get them moved.
And then, two weeks ago, just as we were putting the finishing touches on the logistics, my dad had a stroke.
It didn’t look good. That first day, my mom said he couldn’t communicate. He couldn’t use his hands properly. He didn’t remember anything. He wasn’t sure he had kids.
Each day, she went to the hospital and worked with him. “You have three kids,” she told him and quizzed him on our names. She’d remind what day of the week it was. She would read to him from The Economist, one of their favorite magazines.
She fought to get him into the hospital rehab unit, which got him three dedicated hours of therapy each day.
After about four days, I got my first chance to talk to him on the phone. Though he jumbled some words — “planned” instead of “pleasure,” “exalted” instead of “excited” — he could carry on a fairly lucid conversation. I was shocked by his progress.
A few days later, he came home. My sister spent last week here, and I tag-teamed starting Sunday. He’s getting better, albeit very, very slowly. But cognitively and conversationally, he’s definitely Dad.
Together, they are definitely Mom and Dad. They bicker at each other. They cut each other off. Most of all, they love on each other.
And each day I’ve been here, Mom steals away to her room for half an hour to say prayers. It’s not a big production; she just says quickly, “I’m going to go say prayers,” and off she goes.
Tomorrow, I leave, and as I pack my bags, I wonder: Is it prayer? Is it love? Is it sheer force of will?
Whatever it is, my mom is keeping my dad alive and well. And I am in awe.
