I worked at Tuacahn Amphitheater during it's inaugural season many moons ago - I was young, but excited to be a working woman getting real "life experiences." I'd had a fairly sheltered upbringing and it was truly amazing to be living the dream working in a professional theater.
As the Front of House Manager, I had a really good rapport with most of the staff. One afternoon, the younger guy on the maintenance team (and I'm mortified that I can't remember his name when I can remember his face as clearly as day) brought me a box with a bird in it. The bird had flown into a glass pane and fallen to the ground. He'd seen it happen, and quickly picked up the injured animal and brought it to my office.
I didn't know anything about birds or veterinary medicine - I got a soft shirt for it to lay on, poured a small tin of water, and softly pet its head and willed it to live with every ounce of compassion and love that I had in my body. I BEGGED it to survive and fly away. I'm not even a huge fan of birds, but I threw every particle of my heart into saving this one.
But over the next 30-45 minutes, I slowly watched it die. No amount of praying or crying or hoping or making deals with God could save that poor wounded creature - and when it passed, finally out of pain and agony, it took part of my soul with it. I felt as though my heart would break because there was nothing in my power that I could do that would have changed the outcome. I couldn't process this. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair. I cried for HOURS.
Tonight, those feelings came rushing back to me about a hundred fold. My Dad is drifting away - the result of a traumatic brain injury over a year ago that left his mind disconnected, and a lack of interaction and engagement during the pandemic isolation has hastened his decline. He's been in and out of lucidity for awhile, but tonight in speaking to him and hearing him talk absolute nonsense had me nearly in hysterics. I listened to his stories and didn't try to argue or correct him. He told me about the soldiers on the 81 freeway, and how "his guys" weren't shooting anyway and because of that he was going to get to keep a Jeep. But he likes the Korean tractor better. Why aren't I in Brooklyn where I'm supposed to be? Also, there's a squirrel on his bed attacking him. (You get the point.)
Correcting him wouldn't have done any good - his brain isn't working properly anymore. He hasn't been out of bed since December, and he's lost so much weight there's not much left of him at all. And there's nothing MORE we could have done - he had the best doctors, the best care, and was well loved by all his kids and grandkids. Jonette has been amazing over the past few years making sure his insurance was filed and covering his visits, managing the sale of his house, working on his taxes - making sure the only thing he had to do was rest and heal. Except he didn't - no matter how hard we prayed and hoped and begged God to give him a second miracle. (This wasn't his first death-defying brain injury.)
Tonight I find myself preparing for another part of my soul to depart with my Dad on his next phase. I'm not sure when that will happen, but the care home doesn't think it will be much longer now. The borders and airports here in Kosovo are still closed - and though the embassy could get me home, it would seriously impact my treatment and potentially jeopardize my heath (the chemo has destroyed my immune system).
I love you, Dad. I love you enough to stay here and fight for my future. And although somewhere in your brain I know you know this, it doesn't lessen the pain and hurt I'm feeling right now.
As the Front of House Manager, I had a really good rapport with most of the staff. One afternoon, the younger guy on the maintenance team (and I'm mortified that I can't remember his name when I can remember his face as clearly as day) brought me a box with a bird in it. The bird had flown into a glass pane and fallen to the ground. He'd seen it happen, and quickly picked up the injured animal and brought it to my office.
I didn't know anything about birds or veterinary medicine - I got a soft shirt for it to lay on, poured a small tin of water, and softly pet its head and willed it to live with every ounce of compassion and love that I had in my body. I BEGGED it to survive and fly away. I'm not even a huge fan of birds, but I threw every particle of my heart into saving this one.
But over the next 30-45 minutes, I slowly watched it die. No amount of praying or crying or hoping or making deals with God could save that poor wounded creature - and when it passed, finally out of pain and agony, it took part of my soul with it. I felt as though my heart would break because there was nothing in my power that I could do that would have changed the outcome. I couldn't process this. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair. I cried for HOURS.
Tonight, those feelings came rushing back to me about a hundred fold. My Dad is drifting away - the result of a traumatic brain injury over a year ago that left his mind disconnected, and a lack of interaction and engagement during the pandemic isolation has hastened his decline. He's been in and out of lucidity for awhile, but tonight in speaking to him and hearing him talk absolute nonsense had me nearly in hysterics. I listened to his stories and didn't try to argue or correct him. He told me about the soldiers on the 81 freeway, and how "his guys" weren't shooting anyway and because of that he was going to get to keep a Jeep. But he likes the Korean tractor better. Why aren't I in Brooklyn where I'm supposed to be? Also, there's a squirrel on his bed attacking him. (You get the point.)
Correcting him wouldn't have done any good - his brain isn't working properly anymore. He hasn't been out of bed since December, and he's lost so much weight there's not much left of him at all. And there's nothing MORE we could have done - he had the best doctors, the best care, and was well loved by all his kids and grandkids. Jonette has been amazing over the past few years making sure his insurance was filed and covering his visits, managing the sale of his house, working on his taxes - making sure the only thing he had to do was rest and heal. Except he didn't - no matter how hard we prayed and hoped and begged God to give him a second miracle. (This wasn't his first death-defying brain injury.)
Tonight I find myself preparing for another part of my soul to depart with my Dad on his next phase. I'm not sure when that will happen, but the care home doesn't think it will be much longer now. The borders and airports here in Kosovo are still closed - and though the embassy could get me home, it would seriously impact my treatment and potentially jeopardize my heath (the chemo has destroyed my immune system).
I love you, Dad. I love you enough to stay here and fight for my future. And although somewhere in your brain I know you know this, it doesn't lessen the pain and hurt I'm feeling right now.
No comments:
Post a Comment