![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
The month of September is a bittersweet month for me. It started out being a sweet month. Doug and I were married on September 10, 1994. We're celebrating our ninth wedding anniversary today.
In 2001, September became bittersweet for me. It started on the morning of September 9th. Dad was rushed to the emergency room because he felt really sick and weak and he had alot of pressure in his upper stomach and chest. Turns out his serum potassium level was double what it was supposed to be, which caused all sorts of mahem in his body (liver malfunction, renal failure, fluid retention, heart arrhytmia). The ER doc also thought he saw a large mass on his left lung. It took about a day and a half to get his potassium under control (too high or too low can kill ya) before they could do more tests. On the day of our anniversary the pulmonologist (my pulmonologist, actually) did more x-rays and some tests and determined that there was no lump in his lung, it was just an bad x-ray from the E.R. That was wonderful news, but then later that night he had a mild heart attack.
September 11. Dad was going to be having a cardio catheterization to see if his heart arteries were clogged again that morning, so I was just about to get out of bed to get ready to go down to the hospital. The phone rang just before 8:00--I thought it was mom telling me dad took another turn. Then I heard Doug fumble around, the T.V. go on and him say "HOLY FUCKING SHIT!" something you don't say to my mother...I ran into the living room just in time to see the plane hit the 2nd tower. It was totally sureal at the hospital, especially in the ICU. Dad was pretty much the only conscious and alert patient on the floor, so all the TVs in the unit were tuned to the coverage and the nurses had a radio on in the nurses' station. Everyone was in shock and there was a stunned hush over the whole hospital, even where it was busier. Around noon we were told that my dad's heart was a total mess and the only hope for any longevity would be at the very least double by-pass surgery. However, he still wasn't stable enough for surgery--it would have to wait at least a couple of days. AND the usual cardiologist who would do the surgery was stuck in Colorado at a conference because of the national shutdown on air travel that we didn't how long would last.
On top of all that, my one of my oldest and dearest friends lived in Astoria, Queens and I (of course) was unable to reach her because the phone lines into NYC were FUBAR. I was terrified for her, especially because I knew there was a very good chance she was in Manhattan attending classes at NYU. I wasn't able to confirm her safety until later that evening when I called her parents while I was on break from my night class.
September 14 my dad was transferred to St. Luke's Hospital in Milwaukee. He had double by-pass surgery on September 18 and was back home on September 22. In November came the pacemaker. December brought the high-powered, rarely used drug that merited a 48 hour stay in the hospital after the initial doses because its major side effect was sudden cardiac death if it didn't work...January brought a cardiac ablation procedure. My daddy was strong--he wasn't expected to make it out of that by-pass surgery, but he lived for almost two more years. He got to spend time with his only grandchild, stand as best man in his son's wedding, watch his daughter graduate from college and know that she had her foot in the door toward her first degree oriented job before he died. They weren't really "good years" though-he spent most of that time plagued by side effects of the medicines that kept him alive and his physical quality of life deteriorated to the point where we knew that considerations like scooters and extra handrails on the stairs and in the tub were going to be needed. He slipped away before any of that was necessary. That's a good thing. But I miss him, dammit, every single damn day, and I wish he was still here.
Nine years ago tonight I danced with my daddy to the song "Daddy's Little Girl." He was a gruff sort of man, not given to showing or expressing much emotion, but as we danced he sang that song to me word for word. When it was done, he hugged me, kissed me, and said "I meant every word of it." There were tears in his eyes, and mine, too. Nine years later, here I sit in front of this computer, crying as I type this to you. Bittersweet days....
In 2001, September became bittersweet for me. It started on the morning of September 9th. Dad was rushed to the emergency room because he felt really sick and weak and he had alot of pressure in his upper stomach and chest. Turns out his serum potassium level was double what it was supposed to be, which caused all sorts of mahem in his body (liver malfunction, renal failure, fluid retention, heart arrhytmia). The ER doc also thought he saw a large mass on his left lung. It took about a day and a half to get his potassium under control (too high or too low can kill ya) before they could do more tests. On the day of our anniversary the pulmonologist (my pulmonologist, actually) did more x-rays and some tests and determined that there was no lump in his lung, it was just an bad x-ray from the E.R. That was wonderful news, but then later that night he had a mild heart attack.
September 11. Dad was going to be having a cardio catheterization to see if his heart arteries were clogged again that morning, so I was just about to get out of bed to get ready to go down to the hospital. The phone rang just before 8:00--I thought it was mom telling me dad took another turn. Then I heard Doug fumble around, the T.V. go on and him say "HOLY FUCKING SHIT!" something you don't say to my mother...I ran into the living room just in time to see the plane hit the 2nd tower. It was totally sureal at the hospital, especially in the ICU. Dad was pretty much the only conscious and alert patient on the floor, so all the TVs in the unit were tuned to the coverage and the nurses had a radio on in the nurses' station. Everyone was in shock and there was a stunned hush over the whole hospital, even where it was busier. Around noon we were told that my dad's heart was a total mess and the only hope for any longevity would be at the very least double by-pass surgery. However, he still wasn't stable enough for surgery--it would have to wait at least a couple of days. AND the usual cardiologist who would do the surgery was stuck in Colorado at a conference because of the national shutdown on air travel that we didn't how long would last.
On top of all that, my one of my oldest and dearest friends lived in Astoria, Queens and I (of course) was unable to reach her because the phone lines into NYC were FUBAR. I was terrified for her, especially because I knew there was a very good chance she was in Manhattan attending classes at NYU. I wasn't able to confirm her safety until later that evening when I called her parents while I was on break from my night class.
September 14 my dad was transferred to St. Luke's Hospital in Milwaukee. He had double by-pass surgery on September 18 and was back home on September 22. In November came the pacemaker. December brought the high-powered, rarely used drug that merited a 48 hour stay in the hospital after the initial doses because its major side effect was sudden cardiac death if it didn't work...January brought a cardiac ablation procedure. My daddy was strong--he wasn't expected to make it out of that by-pass surgery, but he lived for almost two more years. He got to spend time with his only grandchild, stand as best man in his son's wedding, watch his daughter graduate from college and know that she had her foot in the door toward her first degree oriented job before he died. They weren't really "good years" though-he spent most of that time plagued by side effects of the medicines that kept him alive and his physical quality of life deteriorated to the point where we knew that considerations like scooters and extra handrails on the stairs and in the tub were going to be needed. He slipped away before any of that was necessary. That's a good thing. But I miss him, dammit, every single damn day, and I wish he was still here.
Nine years ago tonight I danced with my daddy to the song "Daddy's Little Girl." He was a gruff sort of man, not given to showing or expressing much emotion, but as we danced he sang that song to me word for word. When it was done, he hugged me, kissed me, and said "I meant every word of it." There were tears in his eyes, and mine, too. Nine years later, here I sit in front of this computer, crying as I type this to you. Bittersweet days....
