Almost

Stuffed peppers grace the dining room table and my family is just sitting down to eat when the phone rings. My husband’s Dad is on the floor again and he must leave immediately to go pick him up. When he arrives, his Dad is laughing and his Mom is going about her business of tidying up the house. Just another normal day. It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when Pa could walk and talk and live outside his hospital bed. But then came the fated night and the stroke that almost ended it all. So now he is bed-ridden and cannot talk. He requires constant companionship and care. But he still has a lot of living to do and he is still an integral part of our lives. Even if he falls and his wife can’t get him up off the floor.

Tonight I think about my children and how they almost lost their Pa. Maura was a precocious three and a half, her brother barely two. The call came in the early hours, piercing the quiet. My husband rushed to the hospital, and was almost too late. Pa was not supposed to make it. A massive brain stem stroke had rocked his body, and a heart issue to boot. I took Maura to say good-bye; although he was unresponsive, I knew he could hear the light of his life. The picture of her pale Pa wasn’t pretty; attached to tubes and monitors, he looked more like a frail gosling then the tickle monster she was used to. But I thought they were saying good-bye. It was important. He tenaciously clung to life, but just barely. After three weeks in the intensive care unit they wrote him off and sent him directly to a nursing home.

There followed a hazy time for him when he was aware but only vaguely of what transpired. And Maura would not go near him. Seeing him in the hospital had really spooked her. Marty had no problems. Happy go lucky to begin with, he was only two and they had canaries in the waiting room, so it was all good. I remember Maura sitting in the hall when we visited because she was too afraid to come in the room; she sat in her chair with just her shoes visible so I knew she was still there. It was like keeping an eye on the Wicked Witch who was smashed by the house.

Nine months passed before the Christmas miracle. Pa was going home the day after Christmas. I was worried about the day, wondering how everyone would react. I shouldn’t have. Something magical happened when he returned to his house. Maura lost her fears. In fact, she climbed up into Pa’s hospital bed immediately when we got him settled. Soon after, she raced back out to the living room declaring that Pa was hungry. She was four, and he couldn’t talk, so I marveled at how they figured that out.

These days when we go to visit, my three kids make a beeline for Pa’s room as soon as they hit the front door. Two year old Sean never knew the “old Pa”, but he is the one leading the pack and clambering up into the bed first. Sometimes I even feel bad for Nana that he gets so much attention, but I am glad my children understand we need to take care of the more vulnerable among us. The kids take turns regaling Pa with stories and laying with him in bed. They try to pry the giant television remote from him and get a cartoon instead of the requisite “Cash Cab”. And they shower him with the love that he almost missed. Lucky guy. And very lucky grandchildren.