My Dad was a life-long smoker. He started when he was 15-16 and finally quit when he was in his 60's, with a few, occasional lapses. Because of smoking, he developed COPD. It was diagnosed when he had a bit of a "problem". Dad caught the flu; normally, not a big deal. He went to the doctor who gave him some antibiotics because the flu led to walking pneumonia. So far, so good. My Mom walked into the living room, handed him his pills and a glass of water and went back into the kitchen. When she came back into the living room, she found Dad still sitting there with pills and water glass still in hand. She asked him, "Aren't you going to take those?" and when she only got a blank look in response, called 9-1-1.
On the way to the hospital, Dad's heart stopped twice. Both time, defrib brought him back. After a longish hospital stay, he was diagnosed with COPD and home he went. They also found a slightly faulty heart valve, but didn't do anything at the time and referred him to a heart specialist.
Fast forward to 2000. Mom dies from an abdominal aortic aneurism (AAA). Not a good time. Dad's heartbroken, but picks himself up slowly and carries on.
Fast forward to September 2009. Dad needs an angioplasty for atherosclerosis. It's supposed to be a quickie. Day surgery with, possibly, an overnight stay. So, Dad and I go to the hospital. All goes well, the surgeon is a very happy camper with the procedure and Dad's looking good. I go back and am talking with him in the recovery room and he "crashes". His carbon dioxide levels spike through the roof.
To make a long post somewhat shorter, Dad's in the hospital. Dad's home and I'm staying with him. Back to the hospital. Back home with me staying and visiting nurses. Back to the hospital. This time, that leaky valve, the one they were "waiting for the right time" needs to be replaced. Back into surgery. Dad comes out of it okay, but they can't get him off the respirator. He winds up at a respiratory center where they work on getting him off of it but they can't. Toxins build up in his tissues causing subcutaneous bleeding and his body slowly poisons itself. My brothers and I get the lovely decision to pull the plug. Dad dies February 17th, 2009.
My Dad was the greatest guy I've ever known. He taught me how to sing Roger Miller songs, taught me how to shingle a roof, use an axe and change a tire. He was a life-long railroader and I learned about trains from him. Ships, too, since he loved the age of sail. He was a special guy that I would've liked a lot more time with. Cigarettes took that from me. Smoking stole my Dad from me. If you want to smoke, go ahead. I certainly can't stop you. But if you have kids, a spouse, anyone on the face of this planet that cares about you, remember this: you stand an excellent chance of making them make the same decision my brothers and I did. If you want to end your days hooked up to a ventilator, with your limbs blackening from trapped blood, your mind not working and your brain in a foggy haze--terrific. Just remember that that's the final picture your loved ones will have of you.
My time since then has been spent dealing with estate things, having to sell the house all of us kids grew up in and dealing with things here at home that took a backseat during a bad time. My husband, Mike, is the best. He was supportive, loving and didn't mind sharing his wife with his dad-in-law when Dad needed me around. I couldn't ask for a better man or a better husband to share my life with. And that is the long story of why I haven't blogged in a long while.
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