The First Forty-Eight

The First Forty-Eight
   I was never before so exhausted as when I worked straight through the first forty eight hours of Dad’s hospitalization. Remarkably, as sick as he was, Dad continued battling the angel of death and, from where I stood, his boyhood training as a fighter seemed to have paid off.
   “Don’t do any more Son,” Dad pled after a third wave of diarrhea left us emotionally and physically drained. “Please, the nurses are better at this. It’s not right for a son to be doing this for his father.”
   I didn’t quite see things that way. I was there to protect Dad’s dignity or so I thought. As it turned out, I could not have been more mistaken. My father was a retired brigadier general in the United States Army. He didn’t need me to protect his dignity, but rather the comfort of his sons at his side.
High Holidays Interlude
   “I want to be in the right place at the right time,” I confided to Rabbi Louis. “Well then, if you know where that is, and I trust that you do, then this conversation is over.” And it was. I just needed to hear it from someone else. I told Ron.
“You’ve made the right decision little brother. Religion would not be worth much  if you couldn’t take care of your father at a time like this.”
“I couldn’t agree more, Ron.” His face brightened. With his arm draped on my neck, we strolled down the hall to the elevators. “Coffee?”
“No, but a latte would be good right about now,” I quipped.  “Be back in a few,” Ron said as he disappeared behind the elevator doors. I returned to the family lounge. He had always made life easier for me.

Ron (This paragraph appears as a text box in the manuscript)

My older brother by eighteen months, Ron had to step into some pretty big shoes upon our arrival in St. Louis but somehow always managed to keep them on. Big brothers are awesome figures, kind of like the sole fireman I once saw, when I was a little kid, extinguish a car fire, its flames shooting out from the engine after the hood had blown off. The presence of heroes in the lives of children is an invaluable ingredient in the formation of their character. So too with the great fraternity of big brothers, always up for the challenge. And you know what? I rather liked it that way.

   I watched Dad for hours while he slept. Here was a man who could sleep in the bus while holding the standee’s strap. Ron and I witnessed this many times. But now he slept as an old sick man sleeps: his jaw hangs open, and his irregular breathing is noisy and often punctuated by sudden explosions of snoring. It’s at such moments when you fear the worst.
Coffee Break
    “So here you are.” Ron’s voice startled me. "It's so sad,” he began, handing me a steaming latte and pulling up two chairs next to where I had stood staring out at the dark vastness of lake Michigan. “Oh, wait! Did I tell you? Last night, Dad and I made it to the bathroom in time.”
“You did? That’s great to hear. And?” I was desperate for any good news. “Wait. That’s not the part I meant,” he cautioned. My stomach knotted up. “Dad told me he needed to sit on the toilet a while longer and that I should lie down for a few more minutes. He’d call me when ready. No more than five minutes later,” Ron paused. Oh God, here it comes. “I heard him sobbing,” Ron confessed in an undertone. “The rest of the night,” he sighed, “went from bad to worse.” Ron looked as exhausted as I had been after the first forty-eight hours. I took over.
   Dad’s incontinence emergencies made it difficult for us to get any sleep. Dad slept as he had always, at the drop of the hat anywhere, anytime, but now, his mouth hung open gasping for air. As much as I wanted to respect his wishes, the bottom line
was Dad was stuck with me. We both knew the nurses could not always make it in time. So I went on helping him as much and as often as I could. If you’re wondering why he did not use a bedpan, I can tell you he mentioned its use once, but I’ll not quote him for fear you might think my father a coarse man. I assure you he was anything but; he could, however, be colorful at times. The use of a bedpan would have meant he had surrendered, given up and in. How appropriate would that have been for a United States Army Brigadier General?
   And so we shuffled in a race against time from his bed to the bathroom, a distance of seven feet although it might just as well have been seven miles. Sometimes we didn’t make it slowed down, as we were, by the awkward weight of Dad’s heart monitor and drips. Each successive attempt, however, presented a greater challenge, and despite his embarrassment (which, by the way, he hid very well) he did not, as many would have, throw in the towel. I’ve known no other man so driven by sheer guts as my father.
Ribald
   Everything went to hell in an instant. We called for help. The hour was 3:00 am but within seconds two nurses and their aides arrived to help with Dad’s clean up. Everything had to be stripped down: bed sheets, mattress and pillow covers, gowns, everything.
   I watched. Armed with only his smile and charm, Dad began telling this joke which even made me blush, transforming this matronly foursome into a gaggle of schoolgirls as if at a pajama party, each one excitedly recounting the story of  her first kiss.
   If you wish to know how and when to measure the greatness of a man, avoid the many obsequious admirers who shower him with accolades at fancy dinners. Rather, watch him closely after he has survived several knockout blows and risen back to his feet with a perseverance and perhaps, an awe-inspiring grace.
Failure to Heal
   “There is nothing more we can do for either his incontinence or cancer,” Dad’s oncologist said, a man who infuriated me one day when he showed up with his pretty nurse practitioner whom he desperately tried to impress with his cavalier manner. “The
prognosis varies with each patient for three months, six months, even a year,” he concluded, shrugging his shoulders and turning up the palms of his hands. Dad was scheduled for release on the coming Monday despite our protestations to the medical review board that he was not ready.
   The digital clock on the end table dimly illumined the once glossy covers of several back issues of Sports Illustrated.  5:00 am. “Doctor, please forgive the early hour but the tincture of opium. Uh, I’m sorry. This is the answering service? Who’s the patient? The patient is my father, Albert Busch. (847) B-u-s-c-h, 894-1003.” I was trying to reach Dad’s gastroenterologist whose week old prescription of tincture of opium shots to treat my father’s incontinence hadn’t yet produced any positive results.
Two Minutes Later
   “Thank you for the call back doctor,” I continued but the tincture of opium seems to have had no effect after more than a week.”
“I’ve tried everything I know to do,” he admitted, “but if it hasn’t worked by now, I do not know how to stop it.” My heart sank. Humph! Two of Chicago’s finest specialists and they can’t  fix my father’s diarrhea.
Reb Isser’s Suggestion
   I peaked in on Dad. Roberta had nodded off  in the recliner, a copy of Danielle Steele’s latest book on the floor .Taking advantage of this opportunity, I returned to the family lounge where Ron and I had spoken several hours before.
“Prayer is like calling De Aibishter,” the voice of Reb Isser, an old friend and teacher, echoed in my ears. “Call Him three times a day. If He doesn’t pick up, He’ll get back to you. You’ll see.”
“Master of The Universe,” I began, “who heals all flesh and performs wonders, my father awaits his end of days. Please relieve him of this indignity that he may leave this world, when you call him, in peace.”
   The wee hours are eerily silent in the oncology unit. I glanced at the clock radio. 5:59 a.m. became 6:00 a.m.
   The hospital discharged Dad several hours later that Monday morning. Meanwhile, we waited for the tincture of opium to kick in. Dad’s first week at home was worrisome, preoccupied with the real likelihood that the incontinence might worsen.
The Best Call
   We made it through the first week. My cell phone rang late Friday afternoon just as I pulled into my driveway.“Dad, what’s wrong? Are you still at home? What’s …?”

“Alan, it’s worked! The tincture, Son, the tincture kicked in minutes after you left!” I had to remove the phone away from my ear. “My G-d! Thank G-d. Heather,” I shouted for my wife, “the opium has cured Dad’s diarrhea!” (Had anyone ever uttered that sentence before?)
”So, Dad. Tell me how you feel?” Tears streamed down my cheeks. “Sonny Boy, I feel … I feel like I’ve so much to be thankful for.”
That was all he said. My brother Ron from whom I had never heard any religious exclamation, stunned me with a nearly evangelical  “Praise the Lord!” And Reb Isser’s advice? Well, you know.

   The teaming up of prayer with good old-fashioned guts proved itself once again a force to be reckoned with and an invaluable lesson for us all.

(excerpted from Between 10 and 5 With Dad, Keeping the Fifth Commandment by Alan D. Busch)