“And I think you’re right to slow things down some,” he adds. “Maybe you should wait until schools out to get going on the actual renovations.”
“I think you might be right,” I admit. “The last week of school is usually pretty wild anyway. I should probably make sure I give the kids my best. Maybe we should both just take the week off. Then come back at it fresh and new as soon as school ends.”
“That sounds wise.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
I feel like things are pretty much okay between Dad and me as I drive home. I know from watching HGTV that remodels can stress even the best of relationships, and I sure don’t want to see my house flip undoing my relationship with Dad. In the future I’ll have to be on guard against that.
Packed with all those end-of-the-year activities, the week passes relatively quickly, and finally it’s the last day of school, which is also the day of the kindergarten picnic. With the help of my room mothers and teacher’s aide, Claire, I merge both classes for a day of fun and games at a nearby park. Fortunately, I remembered to bring my camera and am getting lots of good shots.
“Miss Hanover?” calls a voice from behind me, and I turn to see Marion, the school secretary, hurrying toward me and waving her hand.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“We tried your cell phone,” she says breathlessly.
“It’s turned off. Why? What’s wrong?”
“It’s your dad.”
“Dad?” I feel my throat tighten.
“He’s at Saint Josephs.”
“The hospital?”
“Someone just called from ER and said you need to come right away.”
“Go ahead, Gretchen,” says Claire. “We can take care of things here.”
“And explain to the kids?”
“Yes,” says a room mother as she gives me a gentle push. “Just get yourself over to the hospital and hurry!”
“I know you rode over on the bus with the kids,” says Marion. “But I’ve got my car, and I can take you straight to Saint Josephs if you like, Gretchen.”
“Thanks,” I tell her as I grab my bag and start jogging toward the street. As Marion drives, I try calling the hospital to check on Dad but end up on hold.
“Here you go,” she says as she pulls up in front of ER. “You call and let us know how he’s doing, okay?”
“Yes. Thank you!”
I run inside and go directly to the desk, asking where my dad is and if I can see him. After what seems like an hour but is probably only minutes, a middle-aged doctor introduces himself as Dr. Fontaine and tells me that he’s been treating my dad.
“Your father was brought into ER a little before noon with acute MI,” he explains.
“What does that mean?” I demand.
“MI stands for myocardial infraction, more commonly called a heart attack.”
I want to ask why he didn’t just say that in the first place but decide I’ll make more progress by being polite. “How is he now?”
“He’s stabilized enough that we can run a few tests, and then he’ll be moved to ICU, maybe within the hour.”
“Can I see him?”
“Not until we get him settled into ICU.”
“Is he going to be okay?” My voice is shaking now.
“The first few hours are the most critical.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning he’s getting the best care possible.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “He’s lucky he got here when he did. Things could’ve gone much differently.” Then he excuses himself. By “differently” I assume he means that my dad could be dead.
I go to the waiting room and sit down. I am thrown off and scared, so I pray. I ask God to watch over Dad, to make sure he gets the best treatment, and to help him get well. I take out my phone and consider calling someone. But who? Betty is off on a ship, cruising through the Mediterranean, and I doubt she’s using her cell phone. And what would I say at this stage anyway? Wouldn’t it be better to have more information before I get her all worried? Dad has an older sister in Detroit, but other than an occasional greeting card, they don’t really keep in touch. I’d call Holly just for moral support, but she’s still at work, and her boss hates it when she gets personal calls.
That’s when it hits me—and it hits me hard. When it comes to family, Dad and I are almost all we have. And that’s when I start to cry. I don’t want to lose him. I need my dad.
It’s after three by the time I’m allowed into ICU. But even then, I’m not ready for what I see. Dad is pale, and he looks much older than he did last week. And even when I quietly say, “Hi, Dad,” he doesn’t open his eyes. Doesn’t flinch or move a muscle. He’s hooked up to several things. One tube, that I assume is for oxygen, goes into his nose. And then there’s an IV, which is connected to his arm. And finally there’s a heart monitor with irregular beeping noises that make me uneasy.
“Visits in here are limited to five minutes,” a nurse informs me as she checks on the heart monitor.
“Bye, Dad.” I gently squeeze his hand, which seems abnormally cool. “I love you.” I wait for some response, but there is none. “See you later,” I say quietly.
I find Dr. Fontaine looking at a laptop computer by the nurses’ station, and I ask if he can fill me in a bit regarding my dad.
“From what I can see, your father is going to need bypass surgery, or a CABG, otherwise known as coronary artery bypass surgery. I thought we might attempt an angioplasty at first, but after going over his medical records more carefully and looking at the test results, I no longer think that’s the best treatment.”
“What exactly happens with bypass surgery?” I ask. “I mean, what does it entail?”
“It’s major surgery. To put it simply, we open his chest and replace the diseased artery to the heart with a healthy blood vessel from somewhere else.”
“Is it dangerous?” I ask, knowing this is probably a stupid question. “I mean, what if his heart stopped while you were doing this?”
“Actually, his heart will stop. We use a heart-lung machine to take over the blood circulation during the surgery.”
“Oh…” The image of Dad on an operating table with his heart stopped makes me feel weak.
“Coronary bypasses are becoming a fairly common procedure,” he continues, and I can tell he’s trying to reassure me.
“So it’s not really that risky?”
“All surgeries involve some risks.”
“Right … so when do you plan to do it?”
“We’re prepared to do an emergency bypass today, but we’re hoping that your father will respond favorably to the medication and that we can delay the surgery.”
“Why do you want to delay it?”
“For the optimum outcome, we want him to be in the best possible shape. I’d really like to keep him here a few days before we do the surgery.”
“When will he wake up?” I ask weakly.
“When he’s ready. The pain meds are probably helping him rest. But don’t let it worry you. He needs a good rest right now.”
“He felt so cold,” I say. “Is that normal?”
“It’s a new treatment for heart patients who are unconscious. We use cold packs to lower the body temperature a few degrees.”
“Is that safe?”
“Absolutely. The cooling allows the body’s metabolism to slow down, to preserve and protect cells that might otherwise be damaged. And, of course, all this is carefully monitored. But the outcome with this cooling treatment is nothing short of amazing.”
Then he tells me that the nurse is preparing a release form for me to sign, and I thank him for his time. He excuses himself, and I just stand there like a dummy next to the nurses’ station, wondering what I should do next. I’m so used to asking my dad this kind of question. Whenever I have a problem or a crisis, I turn to him. He’s the one who always has the answers. Of course, this reminds me about my house flip, which suddenly seems like the lamest thing I’ve ever attempted, and I
wonder if there’s any chance I can sell the ranch house as is. Would I even be able to find a buyer who’d want a run-down old house with a gutted kitchen, a bad roof, and bathrooms with dry rot? What have I gotten myself into?
It’s after five, and I’ve been in to see Dad several times, each time for only five minutes, but he’s still unconscious so no response. And he still feels cold when I touch him—and I suppose that worries me even though the doctor said it shouldn’t. Finally I know it’s time to call Holly. I catch her in a parking garage on the way to her car, and choking back sobs, I explain to her what’s happened today, and she promises to come straight to the hospital.
“Th-thank you!” I blurt out with tears now streaming down both cheeks.
People in the waiting area look up when Holly enters the room. She’s dressed for work, but she’s so stylish she looks like she could be heading to fashion week in New York. Oblivious to the attention she’s getting, probably because she’s used to it, she comes straight for me and wraps her arms around me, holding me as the dam breaks and I let it all out. After a couple of minutes I feel bad for getting the shoulder of her pale pink button-down soggy. And finally, feeling self conscious, I step back. “Sorry for falling apart…”
She shakes her head. “Don’t be sorry. This is what best friends are for, honey. Now tell me everything…like how is he, when did this happen, and what’s next?”
So I go into all that I know, and after I’ve exhausted my information and most of my brain cells, I pause to take a deep, choppy breath.
“Where did it happen?” she asks.
“The heart attack?”
“Yes. Was he home? Did he call an ambulance?”
“I don’t really know.”
She nods. “I guess I just wonder … what would you do if you were alone and felt chest pains? Would you call 911 or just wait to see? Or what if you were driving in traffic? Would you get out and ask for help?”
These sound like Holly questions. Which is probably one reason she makes a good legal assistant—and why she might make an even better attorney if she ever gets the confidence to go back and finish her law degree.
“Dad doesn’t even use his cell phone anymore,” I tell her. “So maybe he was home and simply called for an ambulance from there. However he did it, the doctor said he made it here just in the nick of time.”
“Good for him.” Holly’s big brown eyes get misty now. “I know he’s going to be okay. He has to.”
“I just wish I could talk to him,” I say.
“Does the doctor have any idea when he’ll regain consciousness?”
“When he’s ready. The doctor said he needs this rest…to help prepare him for surgery.”
Holly takes both my hands and squeezes them now. “It’s going to be okay, Gretch.”
“How can you know that for sure?”
“I just feel it.” She nods firmly. “I prayed for him all the way over here. I know he’s going to be fine.”
I want to question this, because I’m not so sure about God today. After all, he took my mom when I was thirteen, and there was Collin and the wedding that never happened. It seems my life is full of losses. Where was God then? But I don’t have the energy to argue just now.
“What about your house?”
“What about it?” I ask flatly.
“With your dad, well, kind of incapacitated, won’t it be a challenge to get the renovations done in time?”
“I’m thinking about just putting it on the market as is.”
“As is?” Holly frowns. She’s already seen the house. And even though it was somewhat cleaned up by then, she was still pretty shocked by how bad it was. “What if you lose money on it?”
I consider this, then shrug. “It doesn’t seem to matter now…”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up. I’m sure it’ll work out.”
“It seems pretty minor in light of Dad’s health.” Well, other than the fact that the security of his home is hinged to the loan for that house. But I don’t want to think about that now. I notice Holly looking at her sleek Gucci watch, the one Justin got her for their one-month anniversary. I can’t imagine what he’ll get her for one year.
“I hate to leave,” she begins with a worried brow. “And I don’t expect you to make it now, but tonight is Tina’s—”
“Tina’s bridal shower!” I slap my forehead as I remember that Holly’s younger sister is getting married in a couple of weeks. Naturally, Holly is Tina’s matron of honor and hosting a shower for her tonight. “I totally forgot, but I do have a gift for her. It’s all wrapped and everything. It’s at my—”
“Forget about it. I’ll tell Tina what happened. She’ll understand.”
“I’m sorry, Holly. I was supposed to help you too.”
“Don’t give it another thought. I just wish I didn’t have to go. Tina will have a fit if I don’t pull this off.”
I nod. Tina, who used to be a fairly sweet girl, has turned into a real Bridezilla. I even suggested to Holly that she should call that TV show and see if they want to feature Tina the Terror for their next June episode. I’m just thankful that Tina has never really liked me that much. So far, other than being invited to the wedding and a couple of showers, I’ve gotten off fairly lightly.
“Good luck with the shower tonight,” I say to Holly.
“I’ll need it.” She sighs. “The truth is, I would rather be here with you, Gretch.”
Holly gives me a sad smile and a little finger wave as the elevator door closes.
But as I walk back over to ICU to check on my dad, I know that I would gladly endure the worst of Tina and endless showers if only Dad were healthy. I peek through the window to see that he’s still resting quietly. Then I check with the nurse before I slip back into the room. It’s amazing how in just one day everything’s beginning to feel so familiar. The slightly raised mechanical bed so the medical staff can easily help him and observe him from the nurses’ station, the various machines, the sound of the ECG, the soft lighting, the tubes, the smell, which is kind of stuffy—a strange mixture of cleaning supplies and something more organic and human.
“I love you, Dad,” I whisper again, gently holding his hand, which is quite cool and completely lifeless. I can see by the slight up and down movement of his chest that he’s breathing, but if not for that, it would be hard to tell he’s alive. “Holly told me that she knows you’re going to be fine. She’s praying for you. I’m praying too. I need you, Daddy. Please hang in there and get better.” Then I just stand there with tears streaming down my cheeks. What if he doesn’t get better? What if he doesn’t make it through the night? Should I have insisted on the emergency bypass surgery? Does the doctor really know what’s best?
I feel a gentle nudge on my shoulder, and the nurse nods toward the clock. “I hate to disturb you,” she says, “but time’s up.”
“Sorry.” I look back down at Dad, smoothing his fuzzy eyebrows with a forefinger. “I love you, Daddy… I’ll be back in a little while.”
It’s after six when I return to the waiting area, and I suddenly realize that Riley has been home alone all day. I tell myself that he’s probably okay. As always, I left him with a big bowl of dry kibble and water and his toys. And he has his doggy pad to relieve himself on if need be, which he has probably used by now, although he prefers to go outside. I feel sorry for him, but it’s Dad who concerns me; most. Riley will be okay.
“Gretchen?” I hear someone calling my name. Thinking it might be the doctor and fearing that something has changed with Dad, I turn to see. But it’s not the doctor. It’s Noah Campbell. What is he doing here?
“How’s your dad?” he asks with what looks like real concern in his eyes.
“Not so good,” I admit.
“What happened?”
I quickly explain about the heart attack and the need for bypass surgery. “How did you hear about him?” I ask curiously.
“I happened to be driving by your
house in Paradise—”
“Happened to be?”
“Well, I was driving out there not too far from the subdivision, and I wondered how it was going.”
“And?”
“I saw your dad’s pickup there, and—”
“Dad was at the house?” I demand.
“No, he wasn’t there. But the front door was open, and the radio was on, so I assumed he was inside. I went in and called for him and looked around, but I didn’t see him.”
“Dad was at the house?” I repeat my question, trying to wrap my mind around this surprising fact. Why was Dad at the house? Hadn’t we agreed to take a week off? What was he doing there anyway?
Noah gives me a curious look but simply nods. “Hank had definitely been there. Looked like he’d been working in one of the bathrooms. His tools were still there, and my guess is that he’d been fixing some of those rotten floor joists.”
“He wasn’t supposed to be there.”
“Why not?”
“We’d agreed to take a break this week—until school ended for me.”
“A break?” Noah looks somewhat confused. “When there’s so much that needs to be done?”
“But I didn’t want Dad doing it.”
“Right…” Noah almost seems to be biting his tongue now.
“So Dad had been at the house,” I repeat, trying to act like that was just fine. “But he was gone?”
“Yes. I went outside to look around, and a neighbor lady came over and told me what had happened.”
“What happened?”
“She said she was getting her mail when she noticed your dad by his pickup. He was clutching his chest, and she went over to see if he needed help. Then she realized it was a heart attack, so she ran back to the house and called for help.”
“So an ambulance picked him up?”
“Yes. The woman—I think her name was Marsha or Martha—said she stayed with Hank until help arrived, but she was sorry that she didn’t know CPR or anything. She said he was in a lot of pain. She asked me to let her know how he was doing.”
“Thank God for that neighbor calling for help. That’s just one reason I wish Dad kept his cell phone with him.” But even as I say this, using a slight scolding tone, all I can think is, Dad was working on my stupid house when he had his heart attack. If it hadn’t been for me and my impossible plan to flip a house. Dad might be perfectly fine right now. And once again I feel tears coming. I choke back a sob, quickly excuse myself, and dash for the rest room, where I turn on the faucet and just cry and cry. This is all my fault. If Dad dies, I can only blame myself.
A Mile in My Flip-Flops Page 8
