by H A Dawson
In my ignorance, I believed heart problems occurred in people who were smokers, overweight, drank excessive amounts of alcohol, or lacking physical fitness. Of course, many were like that, but not everyone. I had heard of the occasional sportsman having heart problems, but it never registered that it could happen to one of us, seeming too absurd to be true. A little part of me believed those sportsmen were secret bingers with unhealthy habits. In retrospect, there were crazy thoughts.
For all the years I’d known Dad, he was active and was either training and participating in triathlons, or partaking in his job of landscape gardening. He was an easy-going character who didn’t seem to suffer from stress, and someone who took pride in avoiding smoking and alcohol and eating healthily, all things that should have stood him in good stead.
When I was younger, Mum and I would tease him for preferring to take a mixed salad to work for his lunch rather than buying a burger from the local pub or a pie from the baker's shop. True to his nature, he took our taunts in his stride and never departed from his regimented approach and lived a healthy life.
His illness seemed unfair and I dreaded to contemplate where it would progress. The medication he was taking should be controlling his symptoms, and it had done thus far. What could have gone wrong? I didn’t believe he had forgotten to take his tablets, but I couldn’t come up with anything that would turn out to have a positive outcome. All other options were too horrendous to consider.
Distracted from my thoughts, I stared at a nurse rushing towards the receptionist for a brief exchange before she progressed outside. Glancing through the window, I noticed her standing in the doorway, presumably waiting for someone to arrive. I wondered what was about to happen, but I couldn’t focus long enough to care. My father was fighting for his life and could be dying. I didn’t have the mindset to process anything else.
Growing increasingly tense, I pulled my phone from my pocket to check Mum hadn’t called - which she hadn’t - and then strode to the desk. It seemed to take ages for the plump brunette woman to meet my gaze. When she did, she seemed disinterested causing my tension to rise. Undeterred, I asked her if she could find out how my father was doing. I knew I sounded tense and that I’d spoken in a sharper tone than intended, but I felt in the circumstances, that I deserved a little sympathy and understanding. I didn’t expect her to speak in a curt voice and tell me to sit back down.
‘I need to know what’s happening,’ I said. ‘I don’t believe for one second that you can’t find something out.’
‘When there’s anything to know, someone will be out to speak to you.’
‘But this is important. Why won’t you help me?’
I was going to continue with my complaint when Mum rushed through the swing doors, catching my attention. I felt so relieved that I hurried towards her and fell into her arms. Tears moistened my eyes, my body shook and my voice quivered as I tried my best to share what had happened. Unfortunately, my explanation came out in fits and starts and disconnected snippets, and I didn’t make much sense. Mum didn’t seem to mind, and whilst maintaining a calm façade, she clutched my hand, guided me to a chair, and helped me through my explanation.
‘Did he stop taking his medication?’ I asked in a frantic voice.
‘He won’t have done.’ Her eyes glazed. ‘He’s on so much.’
‘So what’s happened? Why now? Why again?’
She shook her head and stared at the door to the emergency room. I did the same, but as I did so, my mind formed images of the doctors resuscitating him, arousing my panic. Unable to tolerate the added pain it engendered within me, I yanked my hand loose from Mum and leapt to my feet. My breathing was noisy and a squeal escaped my lips. I stared at the door then turned back to Mum.
I couldn’t understand how she could be so calm. They had been together since they were teenagers. Did his failing health mean nothing to her?
I tried to speak but nothing came free. Instead, my face scrunched as my heart felt as though it was about to burst from my body. Mum noticed my distress and guided me back to my chair.
I was determined not to cry and forced steady breathing until eventually, I’d gathered a certain amount of composure. When I turned to Mum, she spoke soothing words, telling me we would get through whatever happened.
‘Have you given up on him?’ I asked.
‘Of course not. I know your dad. He’s a survivor. If there’s even the slightest chance he can beat this, he’ll find a way.’
‘But if his medication isn’t working, what is there left?’
‘They’ll try something else.’ She studied my worried expression. ‘Have a little faith, Kelly, please.’
I knew she was correct. I saw negatives turn into positives every week in my job as a nurse, yet for some reason, all the knowledge and experience I’d acquired over the years had left me and I couldn’t think straight, stricken by a bout of hysteria. I imagined there was nothing else the medical team could do to save him; I imagined they weren’t even trying. He was another statistic to them and they were only doing a job. They didn’t care for him and love him the way we did and they wouldn’t give their entirety to enable him to live for another day. He was going to die.
I should be seeking to gain control of my mind, but I was too emotional to give it a go. Instead, thoughts of Dad’s death hounded me, presenting me with images that I shouldn’t be contemplating from the moment it happened to various aspects of his funeral.
Mum’s words dragged me from my desperation. ‘Did I ever tell you how proud he was when you were born? He’d take you for walks in a baby sling just so he could show you off to the world. He loved you so much. You were his baby girl. His pride and joy. His reason for living.’
I passed her a cold stare. I wasn’t in the mood to reminisce. I wanted to make sure he would pull through his latest ordeal and I wanted him to be proud of me once more. Yet she didn’t receive my silent message and continued to tell me countless stories of the time we spent together during my early years, from our trips into the shopping centres to his ability to make me laugh. I knew she was trying to brighten my mood, but it wasn’t working, and with each passing moment, my mood darkened.
Suddenly, a thought struck me and I turned to Mum. ‘I thought he worked abroad for a couple of years when I was little.’
She averted an anxious stare and did not reply.
‘Mum?’
‘Not now Kelly.’ She stood up, turning away from me then paced the room.
From her reaction, I had a strong sense she had made that story up to cover something else, although I couldn’t determine why. The most logical explanation was that my parents had separated for a while. If that had occurred, why was it such a big secret? I wouldn’t have judged them or thought any less of them. It wouldn’t matter to me at all.
‘Did the two of you separate for a while when I was little?’ I asked.
‘What?’ She looked stunned. ‘Of course not. Why would you say that?’
The moment the words came out of her mouth, I believed she’d realised why I was asking as she looked uncomfortable and turned away. Since it wasn’t my intention to make her feel that way, I told her that I was curious and added that if they had then it did not matter to me. Yet for reasons unknown to me, my comments did not have the soothing impact intended and her expression exhibited intense worry.
‘What the hell is taking them so long?’ she asked.
I frowned, questioning her behaviour with my expression. It seemed strange to me that she should be more uptight at the thought of discussing Dad’s past than his heart problems. Why would that be?
‘Something’s bothering you,’ I said, ‘and it’s not whatever’s going on in there.’
She cast me a threatening stare. ‘Drop it, Kelly. Now’s not the time.’
‘Why won’t you tell me why Dad left us for a couple of years?’
‘I said not now!’
I was prepared to persist when a nurse left the emergency roo
m where dad was and started along the corridor away from us. Mum wasn’t going to let her get away and trotted after her requesting her help. After a few seconds, the woman stopped and turned, and told her that someone would be with us shortly. Then she departed, leaving us alone and frustrated.
The nurse’s silence caused a heavy weight to form in my gut and my knees to weaken. Mum must have experienced a similar emotion as she grabbed my arm, and together we helped each other back to a row of chairs.
A feeling of dread clutched at my throat. Unable to tolerate my ignorance, my breathing quickened and my temperature rose. I needed to know if Dad had died. I couldn’t bear the wait a moment longer, and jumped to my feet and ran my fingers through my hair.
The door opened. Simultaneously, we rushed towards it.
A man in a white jacket, presumably a surgeon, introduced himself as Mr Singh and asked us to take a seat. Not in the mindset to disagree, I plonked onto a chair at my rear. Mum did too, and with our hands tightly linked, we stared at the surgeon.
He pulled up a chair beside us and spoke to my mother. ‘Your husband is in a critical condition, although he is now stable. He’ll move to intensive care for further assessment by the cardiologist. They’ll tell you more.’
It was fantastic news and my hand rose to my mouth and tears moistened my eyes.
‘What happened?’ Mum asked.
‘The medication he’s taking stopped working and his heart couldn’t contract properly, limiting the blood flow around his body. He’s been under immense pressure and is lucky to be alive.’
She passed me a momentary expression of hope. I felt the same, and even though he was still at risk of dying, he was in the best possible place and had a chance of making a full recovery. Quaking, I stared at Mr Singh who was sharing some of the details of what had happened. However, I soon realised I was too emotional to absorb their exchange. All I could think of was Dad’s recovery. He had survived another scare and was going to live. It was everything I’d hoped for, an incredible feeling.
Moments later, my ears tuned back into their conversation and to Mum who was asking if we could go see him. Mr Singh said that we could, but he limited our time to a couple of minutes. He added that we shouldn’t put him under any pressure, and we shouldn’t encourage extended responses.
Elated, we followed him back to the room. At the doorway, my pulse raced and my excitement danced. Our ordeal wasn’t over by any means, but I felt as though we were making small steps of progress. Dad would be out of the hospital and back at the fitness centre in no time. It was just a matter of time.
We entered the room. Seeing Dad connected to intravenous fluids and a machine was a distressing sight. I was accustomed to seeing him as the fit strong man that he was. I wasn’t accustomed to seeing him pale, exhausted, and helpless.
Mum sat on the chair by his side and I stood next to her. When she touched his hand, his eyes opened. At first, they seemed glazed. Then a slight smile curved his lips.
‘Pam,’ he whispered.
‘We thought we’d lost you.’ She placed her hand to her mouth and fought bubbling tears. ‘We were so worried.’
‘I’m a survivor.’ He turned his head to me. ‘Remember?’
She nodded. ‘We both are.’
Their eyes connected. I sensed a private exchange was taking place and even though I wasn’t privy to their thoughts, I believed it related to the time they’d spent apart. Even so, my ignorance didn’t bother me as it had done earlier. Their love for each over was clear to see and that was the only thing that mattered. It was a beautiful moment.
I was still absorbing their reunion when Dad looked at me. ‘Baby-girl.’
Tears drenched my cheeks. I could not speak. I loved him so much. We may live apart, but he was still a considerable influence in my life and I couldn’t bear the thought of living a day without him in my life, let alone several decades. How would I cope if he didn’t survive this? How did anyone cope?
Perhaps I was going to find out.
Or perhaps not.
Only time would tell.
Chapter 3
Dad remained in the hospital for monitoring as the cardiologist attempted to stabilise his heart. It was proving difficult for me to stay calm, and my dread remained, tightening my torso into a permanent state and making me feel light-headed and nauseous. I couldn’t understand why this was happening to us when other people with his condition could live for years without problems or medication changes, and it seemed unfair. He didn’t have coronary heart disease or congestive heart failure caused by high blood pressure. Aside from his one problem, he was a fit healthy man. Even his cardiologist admitted it was rare for his condition to progress the way it had.
I tried to gain strength from his otherwise good state of health. He didn’t have any pulmonary problems or digestive problems; he didn’t have a major systemic disease or cancer; he didn’t suffer from cachexia, the weakness and wasting of the body. Even so, what use was a healthy fit body without a functioning heart? It certainly put things into perspective.
In general, my work in the Ear, Nose and Throat Department proved a good distraction, yet he always remained in my thoughts, causing me to consider popping to his ward to see him during working hours. Yet, I never did. Aside from it being inappropriate, I didn’t believe I would learn anything new. Of course, I wanted to see him, but my actual desire was to learn that his heart was stable and that he could return home. I didn’t believe that such a thing was about to happen in the short term, and if it did, I would learn about it via the proper channels.
In the meantime, I had a cleaning task to do. Whilst cleaning up a person’s vomit from the bed and the floor was among the less pleasing tasks I had to attend, I had grown used to doing it and didn’t experience a negative reaction. It was part of the caring role I enjoyed doing, and this time was no exception. The patient was a young man who had just had a tonsillectomy and he suffered an adverse reaction to one of the analgesics. Whilst his throat was too sore to speak, his expression and body language told me how bad he felt to be giving me the extra work.
I’ve often heard my colleagues complain about being the system, the public, and the patients taking them for granted, and whilst many complaints were justified, I didn’t enjoy moaning and kept my distance. Nevertheless, on the rare occasions that I received recognition, and especially from patients, my mood lifted. Did that not mean that the negatives around me affected me also?
With the clearing complete and the young man back in a clean bed, I summarised the significant aspects of my shift to the next duty nurse then gathered my belongings from the locker room ready to leave. My first stop was to visit Dad and then I was going to enjoy a rare evening with Matt. We still hadn’t spoken about his decision to administer drugs to Noah, and to be honest, it was the least significant thing on my mind. I had enough to worry about with Dad’s ailing health. If Matt was about to do something that had the potential to ruin his career, then that was his problem.
Striding away from my department was a good feeling. I loved my work but I always felt liberated to be leaving. Nonetheless, as I approached Cardiac Care, my butterflies re-emerged in my stomach and my gait stiffened. Whilst I loved seeing my father, I felt anxious. I wanted to see him at home laughing about something silly on television; I wanted to see him at the sports centre working out on the treadmill or the bike.
Swallowing my unease, I entered the ward and my gaze settled on the bed the second one from the end. Dad didn’t see me immediately. When he did, he smiled, albeit briefly, then his expression transformed into something more serious.
‘Hi Dad,’ I said, kissing him on the cheek. ‘How’s it going?’
‘You don’t need to visit every day. I won’t be offended.’
I stiffened. ‘I want to and I do work here.’
‘No offence, but I’d rather you didn’t.’
I held a strained stare wondering as to his problem. I assumed he was depressed, so I chos
e not to question him further and told him I was spending the evening with Matt. He didn’t take kindly to my swift change of subject and demanded I listened to his complaints.
Frowning, I waited for him to continue.
‘You shouldn’t be thinking of me,’ he said. ‘You should be living your own life. You’re far too dependent on me.’
I swallowed a lump in my throat. ‘You can’t expect me not to worry.’
‘I can and I will. You’re young and I’m …’ he paused and turned away. ‘I’m not.’
‘I understand you’re a bit down, but you will get through this. They just need to come up with a treatment plan. And they will, they-’
He cut me off. ‘Don’t give me your optimistic claptrap, Kelly. I’m not one of your patients, and I don’t appreciate you patronising me.’
My hurt blocked my throat, and I stared, unable to speak and unsure of what to say.
‘Please go,’ he said and rotated his head away from me.
‘But D-Dad …’
‘No buts. I’m tired and I need to sleep.’
I considered my options. I understood his needs, but I also hated leaving in such circumstances. His treatment of me affected me greatly, and I knew should I leave I would turn into an emotional wreck over the course of the next few hours. I wouldn’t be able to eat or sleep and I would feel nauseous and light-headed. So, I resolved to stay.
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ I said firmly. ‘I’m here now, like it or not. So you’ll just have to put up with me.’
He did not respond.
‘I understand how awful you feel, but this is not the end. You should have a little faith.’ I paused, remembering a comment Mum had made. ‘It’s what Mum told me on the day you fell ill. She said you were a survivor and that you’d fight this. Clearly, she was wrong. She doesn’t know the true you.’
His body tensed and his eyes moistened, yet he refused to make eye contact and stared at a spot at the end of the bed.
‘I, for one, haven’t given up on you,’ I said. ‘And I won’t … not ever. Aside from your heart, you’re one of the fittest men I know.’ I forced a smile. ‘For your age, that is.’