by Dan Marshall
I laid my dad down for an afternoon nap next to my mom, who had fallen asleep with a yogurt in one hand and a spoon in the other. I showered and found a nice shirt to wear—one that gave my arms the freedom to easily lift drinks to my mouth. I sprayed myself with cologne, trying to hide the smell of dying parents and cat piss. I was all ready for a great night. I’d start with a bit of wine and finish with a flurry of gin and tonics and maybe a few late-night beers out on the gazebo. Perfect.
As I was about to pour myself a glass of wine, my dad rang his bell. I ran upstairs, pulled him up from his nap, and removed his BiPAP mask.
“I can’t breathe,” gasped my dad.
“Okay, well, I’m going to have a glass of wine. Ring if you need anything else,” I joked. Him struggling to breathe wasn’t out of the ordinary, so I figured everything was normal.
“DJ, please,” he managed. I took a closer look at him. He was for real. He didn’t look good at all. He was white as a Mormon. He was struggling. At a recent doctor’s appointment, we were told that his lung capacity was down to 18 percent, meaning he needed to take five breaths of air to get a normal breath. At this point, the five-breaths-for-every-one was more like seven. He looked like he was about to die. I stopped dicking around and got serious.
“Shit, do you need to go to the hospital?” I asked.
He didn’t answer. He was too focused on breathing. I rushed over to my mom and tried to jostle the yogurt in her hand loose—a process that wakes her up 98 percent of the time. She jumped from the bed with energy I hadn’t seen out of her in years.
“Don’t touch my fucking yogurt,” she said, her spoon held like a pistol. She looked more like John Wayne than a cancer patient.
“Dad isn’t breathing well. What should we do?” I asked the cancer patient. She walked over to my dad.
“Bob, are you okay?” she asked. No answer. He could only focus on his breathing, with a look of absolute fear in his eyes.
“Fucking answer me. Just because you have Lou Gehrig’s disease doesn’t mean you can act like an asshole,” she said.
“No, not okay,” he managed, the rate of the breathing intensifying.
“Mom, call Dr. Bromberg and figure out what we should do,” I said. I hooked my dad back onto the BiPAP, sure that if we didn’t do something immediately, he would die.
My mom spoke. “I fucking told you assholes that we should have done the surgery on Tuesday, but no one takes the cancer patient seriously.” She closed her eyes. “I fucking told you.”
“Mom, call Bromberg. Dad can’t breathe. Jesus Christ,” I yelled back.
She opened her eyes, picked up the phone, and slowly dialed the number. I heard her hang up the phone a couple of times, probably because she misdialed or something. She finally held the receiver to her ear.
“Hi, we’re trying to get hold of Dr. Bromberg. This is Bob,” said my mom. There was a pause as the receptionist said something. My mom closed her eyes. It looked like she was about to fall asleep. It didn’t look like she was in the middle of an emergency. “No, this is Debi, his wife. Did I say it was Bob?” my mom laughed. There was another pause as the receptionist said something. “Okay, so he’s in Africa? What part?”
This was getting nowhere, so I snatched the phone away from my mom. “Mom, give me the phone. What part of Africa? Are you fucking kidding me? Like that matters.”
“Hello this is Robert’s son, Daniel. My father is having a lot of trouble breathing and may need to go in for an emergency tracheotomy. What should we do?” I asked.
“Well, just call 911 and they’ll take him up to the hospital,” she said.
“Okay. That makes sense … Is Dr. Bromberg really in Africa or was that my mom’s chemo talking?” I asked.
“He’s really in Africa,” she said.
“Oh, what part?” I asked.
Of course! Why hadn’t we just called 911? Instead we were sitting there like a couple of idiots with yogurt spoons up our asses. I called 911. I was amazed how calm the operator was. So smooth. So in control. So nonchalant. Probably fairly sexy. Who knows. I tried to match her calmness, but couldn’t. I was a frantic mess. She managed to get my address out of me, and said she’d send over the paramedics right away.
Right after hanging up the phone, I heard the sirens. They were for real. They didn’t mess around. I bet they didn’t make a joke about drinking wine. They understood the magnitude of the situation.
Greg and Chelsea were the only other people home. Tiffany was still at work and Jessica was out with friends. Greg and Chelsea came upstairs. They weren’t as frantic as I was. Chelsea was carrying her math book, a finger holding her place. She had been doing homework like a good nerd, even though it was a Friday.
“Is everything okay?” Greg asked casually.
“Dad can’t breathe anymore,” I explained. “He might die.”
“Oh no,” said Greg as he went over and placed a hand on our dad’s shoulder.
“Could someone help me with math homework later?” Chelsea asked.
“Your fucking dad is fucking dying, you little fucking idiot,” I yelled at Chelsea, reactivating the Dickhead Dan in me. She giggled and left to go attempt her math homework by herself.
“I told you guys we shouldn’t wait. You all think I’m crazy, but I’m the smartest one here,” said my mom through a mouthful of yogurt.
“Now is not the time to act crazy, Mom,” said Greg.
A fire truck, an ambulance, and a strange truck emblazoned with the words UTAH UNIFIED FIRE DEPARTMENT showed up. All of our bored Mormon neighbors started to collect outside our house, trying to figure out what was going on. One small boy, probably eight or nine, kept casually riding by on his Razor scooter like he was just enjoying the sunlight instead of waiting to see a corpse exit the front door. Fucking Mormons. So bored all the time.
Four paramedics came up into my dad and mom’s room. They began asking me a series of questions, from simple to complex. Greg and my mom stood off to the side.
“What’s his name?” one asked.
“Bob Marshall. Middle name Wendell, after his father, who shot himself in the head with a sawed-off shotgun when I was in the fifth grade. That was also on a Friday and also messed up my weekend plans,” I wanted to say.
“Bob Marshall,” I really said. “Oh God, I hope he doesn’t die.”
“How old is he?” one asked.
“Only fifty-four. Can you believe that? He should be out enjoying life, drinking wine in France and compiling a reading list for when he retires. But instead, he’s a prisoner in his own body, not able to do the things he loves. Skiing. Running. Visiting friends. Holding conversations without people having to say ‘What?’ every two seconds. Lou Gehrig’s disease can go fuck itself,” I wanted to say.
“Fifty-four, I think,” I really said.
“Does he have heart problems?” one asked.
“Nope, he’s really lucky in that area. He’s actually a really healthy man—minus the Lou Gehrig’s, which has crippled him and blessed him with the inability to push that crucial element we so casually refer to as ‘oxygen’ in and out of his body,” I wanted to say.
“No,” I really said.
They were good, very professional. One of them focused on taking my dad’s vitals (oxygen level, blood pressure, pulse, other shit I don’t know about). One guy focused on asking me the questions. One guy talked on his walkie-talkie. But one guy roamed around the room looking at photos, not really doing anything, saying things like “Nice house.” He was no help. I bet the others hated working with him. He kept asking them questions, but not helping out himself. He also used the word “bro” a lot, as if he were sitting around a bong waiting for an awesome, meat-covered pizza to arrive. He would say things like “Did you take his pulse, bro?” or “Did you activate his oxygen, bro?” or “Should we run him up to the University of Utah, or would St. Mark’s be the better choice, bro?” or while looking at a picture of us in Hawaii, “Where was this pi
cture taken, bro? Looks like Hawaii.”
My mom sat there with her yogurt, shaking her head. “I told you fuckers he needed it on Tuesday. And now he’s going to die.”
“Shut the fuck up, Mom,” I told her in the politest voice I could manage.
“You’re the absolute worst person to have around in an emergency,” said Greg.
Because my dad’s vitals were so low, they decided that running him up to the hospital was the only thing that could keep him alive, bro. He’d stay up there until they could perform the life-altering trach surgery on him, bro. Assuming, of course, he made it until then and didn’t die, bro.
Construction was starting to settle down, but our elevator was still being built. We needed to take the stairs. “Grab the transfer chair, bro. We’re going to have to carry him out of here,” said the dipshit paramedic.
They got the transfer chair and gathered around my dad.
“One. Two. Three. Bro.” He was lifted.
I was in a state of absolute panic, but it was sort of relaxing watching other people care for my dad for a change. It had been a rough couple of months.
The paramedics carried my dad out with ease and kept asking if he needed to be intubated. Intubation is the process of jamming a breathing tube down a patient’s throat and into his or her lungs, which would be incredibly painful, unless you were some sort of deep-throat champion, which I assumed my dad wasn’t.
“You want to be intubated, bro?” asked the casual medic.
“Fuck off and get me to the hospital, bro,” I imagined my dad saying. But he couldn’t talk. He could only focus on breathing, not shitting himself, and enjoying the last moments he would spend in his dream home without a respirator breathing for him.
Somehow, in the mayhem of it all, I ended up in the ambulance with my dad. The neighbors swarmed. “Is he okay?” asked one.
“He has fucking Lou fucking Gehrig’s fucking disease and he fucking can’t fucking breathe so we’re fucking taking him to the fucking hospital, you fucking fuck fuck!” I wanted to yell at the top of my lungs.
“He’ll be fine. He’s gonna live forever,” I really said.
We settled into the ambulance. It was actually quite cozy. I mean, I wouldn’t throw a sleepover party in there, but I could certainly nap in it. I sat holding my dad’s hand, now withered and cold. I told him over and over again that it was going to be okay. I didn’t know what else to do. He just stared back at me with a look of terror in his eyes.
“It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay,” I repeated on loop, more for me than for him.
As we were sitting, I looked over at the medic who had said “bro” a bunch. He was drawing doodles on his latex glove, like a bored fourth grader sitting in science class. I guess the whole “My father is dying” thing didn’t pique his interest.
“Bro, the Forty-fifth South Bridge is closed. You got to take Thirty-ninth,” he said.
Though the circumstances that find you in an ambulance are always shitty, it’s a pretty slick way of getting around town. No wonder it’s so expensive. Everyone pulls over for you and lets you zoom by. It’s like being royalty. One car, however, decided that they would follow us—apparently seeing the ambulance as a way of beating the thick Salt Lake traffic. The “bro” bro took notice. He hit one of the other paramedics on the arm. “Bro, check out this asshole,” he said while shaking his head. “What an asshole that asshole is.”
The ride took only about ten minutes. I was thankful the “bro” dude didn’t ask to stop at Wendy’s so he could raid the dollar menu.
When we arrived at the hospital, two of the medics picked my dad up and carried him toward the hospital’s emergency room.
“It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay,” I said a few more times for good measure. My dad gave me an ever-so-slight smile, as if to say that it would be okay, that he would pull through and keep on fighting this shitty fight. I gave him a smile back and said, “It’s going to be okay,” one last time before they wheeled him off and he disappeared into the hospital’s busy clutter.
His life was now in the hands of professionals. He would go on a respirator. A machine would now breathe for him. He would never be the same again. This horrible disease was slowly taking everything.
I figured it was time to go outside and start making phone calls to family members and canceling plans with friends. No drinking for alcoholic Dan tonight. Going out would be way too messed up, and for sure place me in hell. Tonight would be the first of many spent at a hospital praying to the God that doesn’t exist that my father would live another day, bro.
Tiffany had missed Grandma Barbie’s funeral because she was out visiting her boyfriend in Portland, Maine. I thought missing the funeral for a vacation was incredibly shitty. I had consequently been extra mean to her this week. So I decided it would be a nice gesture to call her first. Maybe it’d patch things up and we’d be best friends forever.
“Dad’s in the hospital,” I said.
“No shit,” she said.
“Whoa, you don’t have to be a fucking bitch,” I said.
“I’m not, but I know when my dad’s in the hospital. Greg called,” she said.
“Sorry.”
“Well, I’m coming up. Do you want anything from Starbucks?” she said.
“Coffee drinks give me diarrhea,” I said.
“So do you want anything?” she asked.
“I’ll have a nonfat vanilla latte.”
I hung up and called Abby. No answer.
I put my phone in my pocket and found myself standing next to the “bro” guy. It was awkward standing next to each other and not saying anything, so I figured I should make some sort of effort.
“What’s up, bro?” I said.
“Not much, just chilling, bro,” he said.
“Well, thanks for helping save my dad’s life,” I said, even though it seemed like he hadn’t done shit, assuming drawing doodles on latex gloves added no medicinal value.
“I was glad to help, bro,” he said as he patted me on the shoulder and lit a cigarette. “I’ve seen a lot of shit in my day, and your dad seems like a tough dude, so I’m sure he’ll be chill. Hang in there, bro.”
“Thanks, bro,” I said, hoping he was right.
This was all such a close call. Had we not called the ambulance, had we fucked around any more, had my dad not elected to go on the respirator, this could’ve been the day Lou Gehrig’s finally got its hands around my dad’s throat and strangled him to death. I was glad it wasn’t. Though watching him struggle with this horrific disease was the worst thing I had been through, I didn’t want it to end. I still wanted to have a dad. I still needed to see that rare smile. I still needed to hold that bony hand. I still needed my road map. I wasn’t ready to become an official member of the Dead Dad Club just yet.
I took a deep breath and headed into the hospital, ready to start the next stage of the Lou Gehrig’s grind, thankful that my dad was still ticking.
REHABILITATION
My dad’s surgery was scheduled for November 13. The doctor couldn’t push it up, so my dad had to wait four days in the intensive care unit until he had the tracheotomy. During that time, he was intubated, so he couldn’t talk, and they didn’t want him moving around at all—not that he was very mobile anyway. So he just had to lie there with a fuck-my-life expression on his face, staring at the hospital’s stained ceiling. He looked terrified, as if he wasn’t sure all this pain was worth it. After all, the surgery wasn’t going to cure Lou Gehrig’s disease. It was simply going to prolong his life another year, maybe two, maybe three. His days of running marathons through the streets of Boston, or alongside the Green River in Moab, were fading further and further into the distance. He had a whole new life now. I felt bad for my dying pal.
I visited him in the hospital every day. The Jazz season was starting up, so I figured we could put the game on the hospital TV, hang out. Fuck, may
be I’d bring us a couple of cold beers and some popcorn. Maybe I could manage to jam that shit into his feeding tube. Before the Lou Gehrig’s disease, anytime we were watching a game together and the Jazz scored, we would exchange a high five. We couldn’t do that anymore.
“I wish I could high-five you,” I said after Deron Williams nailed a three. My dad didn’t say anything. But he did raise his foot as much as he could. I looked at it, a little confused. Carlos Boozer slammed down a jam. My dad raised his foot again. I finally put it together. “Oh, you want to do foot high fives?” He nodded his head as much as he could. I pulled my chair up to his bed, and we exchanged foot high fives every time the Jazz scored. It wasn’t exactly like watching the game together in the Delta Center, but it was better than nothing.
The surgery finally rolled around. It was a routine tracheotomy. Nothing special. The doctor was pretty ho-hum about the whole thing. He talked about it as though he were piercing my dad’s ears or something. The operation basically involved cutting a hole in my dad’s trachea, putting a plastic tube called the trach tube through the hole, and then hooking the respirator to it. The doctor had done hundreds of these surgeries before, so it was just another Tuesday for him. For us, though, it was a life changer.
The surgery was successful! Everything went great! My dad is the luckiest man on earth!
My dad was moved to the postsurgery part of the hospital for a week, and then to the Neurological Rehab Center at the University of Utah. The purpose of his stay in rehab was for their professionals to train us, his shithead family, on how to care for him. Insurance wouldn’t cover the cost of a home nurse, and my mom insisted that we continue to care for him, so we had no choice. It was our duty as his children. I didn’t mind, but caring for him was now going to completely change. We’d have to learn how to operate and manage the respirator. This involved suctioning the mucus out of his lungs with this gross plastic tube, changing his tubes, and maintaining certain pressure levels. We’d have to learn what all the parts and buttons were, and what all the various alarms meant. Someone would have to be there to monitor him at all times, just in case the tubing came loose or the respirator began to malfunction.
