Writer in the Forest

Skokomish River

Chapter19

I jotted a note in my spiral notebook about Dad being frail, really frail. He hadn’t eaten for 10 days. Really Nice Doctor had said it was all over, but Nasty Doctor With No Bedside Manner said he’d make it.

This whole thing was a study in role reversal. Nasty Doctor said what I wanted to hear, Nice Doctor had no hope. My parent was my child; the child was in charge of everything. Every trip down the hall was like walking through a minefield. What would happen next? Was I supposed to make everything happen or what would happen if I just sat down and didn’t move?

Nasty Doctor’s nurse told me he takes it very personally when a patient dies. It’s his ultimate failure, she told me, and so he waxed on that my Dad would make it. You can’t be godlike if you can’t make them live or some such thing.

I have too much power. “Vicki? This is doctor So and So. Your Mom/Dad can’t breath/ keep their blood pressure up. They have heart/and or lung failure today. Make a decision (now): Do you want us to intubate or let them go?”

My whole family must have been out to lunch when caretakers learned what life support is all about. I was pretty sure that when Mom and Dad made out Living Wills, they meant for me to unhook them if they were beyond brain-dead, not when they’re half in, half out. I was not qualified to make decisions in the gray area. I had no training for this.

Every time the hurry-up-make-a-decision-call came, I opted for life support. It’s what they expected me to do, and it was the safe, only reversible choice.

I missed as little work as possible during these times, trying to hold everything together. I felt like Clark Kent. I’d save a life then go home, shower and dress for work. One morning, without one wink of sleep, I walked into my job and did an impromptu, televised presentation in front of a hundred people.

The most work I missed was during the period Dad was in a Seattle hospital for a risky heart bypass, the one that caused his kidneys to fail. I was going to night school to finish my 2-year degree. All that stood between me and that piece of paper was three Math classes. My best effort included doing homework on the ferry, in the hospital cafeteria, and at Dad’s bedside.  Although I did my best, faxed my assignments in, and left phone messages to update my teacher, I missed the final test because my Dad was unconscious. I received an “F”. Funny how I held people’s lives in my hands on a moment’s notice, yet I wasn’t capable of passing Math 94.

Screw school. I quit school forever, then and there.

I took a break from all the stress, reloaded my ten essentials, and headed up the Skoke. The long drive just fueled my frustration. When I finally hit the trail, I was too tired and pissed off to go very far. I stopped near the Dolly Varden pool and with a mighty swing, smashed a rock into it’s stupid tranquility. As I watched the flora race away from the watery crater, I concluded I was indeed a tiny god, full of wrath.