Water and Air

Another coughing fit.  Watching him is truly torture.  This is all my fault, I think to myself.  My mother already scolded me for trying to give him water earlier.  “It will cause him to aspirate!” she chided. Ever since Dad gave up on chemo last month -- and the cancer it was just barely keeping at bay fully invaded him like a conquering army-- she has fully reprised her pre-retirement role as the supervising nurse.  She already made it clear to my siblings and me that she is in charge of his care and she knows what is best for him.  After all, she was his primary caregiver every day for the last four years: allaying his fears about the surgery to remove his bladder, aiding him through the difficult transition to living life with an ostomy bag, easing his horrific pain when the cancer entered his hip bone, supporting him through the exhaustion and infections caused by chemotherapy, and the weakness and incontinence caused by radiation.  She had earned her position as the leading authority on Dad’s well-being.

And yet, how could I refuse him?  My Dad, who always did every little thing I ever asked of him, is begging me for just one thing.  Although it is extremely difficult for him to speak he still manages to breathlessly sputter “Wat-er” while pointing to his mouth.  At first, I just do as my mother instructed: moisten the foam swabs the hospice has provided to wet his parched lips and the inside of his mouth.  I dunk the swab in a cup of water that my father is longingly eyeing.  As soon as the swab is inside his mouth he begins to desperately suck every last molecule of water out of it.  With some effort, I pull the swab away.  The second it is out he again implores: “Waaa-terrr.”  There is only one thing in this world he wants right now and I can give it to him.

I listen for my mother’s footsteps.  She is in the kitchen muttering something about the medication the aide left and rifling through cabinets.  I look towards the hallway that leads to the kitchen and then at my Dad.  Considering his pleading, frantic expression, I relent. “OK, just a little sip, Dad.”  The look of gratitude on his face as he grabs the cup and puts it to his lips for a gulp of the coveted liquid tells me I did the right thing.  My relief is short-lived, however, as he begins to cough violently, his weak body retching with the effort of getting back the breath that he just coughed out.

He keeps coughing, each cough more breathless than the last.  I hear the water in there.  He is literally drowning in the two ounces of water I just gave him.

“Please, don’t let my Dad die,” I think helplessly.

As soon as those words cross my mind, I remember the last time I made the same desperate plea.  It was twenty five years ago at this very house.  Dad, Mom, and I were sitting at the dinner table having steak, potatoes and some formerly frozen corn.  Our Collie mix Prince sat attentively with his long, regal nose resting in my lap, waiting for any crumbs that might slip down onto my acid-wash jeans.  It was a school night.  A light breeze occasionally blew back the embroidered cotton valance.

Out of nowhere, Dad violently pushed his chair back and jumped up from the table.  “What’s the matter, Neil?” my mother asked, panicked.  But he could not answer.  In fact, he couldn’t breathe at all.  The steak had lodged in his throat.  My mother tried to perform the Heimlich on him.  But her tiny frame was no match for Dad’s broad body.  He looked around in a panic and then bolted out the front door.  My mother ran to the phone to call 911.

I ran after him out the door.  Our neighbor Mr. Clarkson, a World War II vet who was always working on his lawn, saw Dad, whose skin was now turning a bluish purple, and ran over to help.  Our next door neighbor Debbie, a slender, young Italian lady, grabbed me, trying to calm me down.  Only then, I realized I was screaming at the top of my lungs, “Please! Please don’t let my dad die!”  She assured me everything would be okay, to just calm down.  I kept repeating the same thing over and over, as if the sheer volume of my words could push open his airway.  Meanwhile, Mr. Clarkson kept on trying.  After many attempts, the steak partially dislodged.  Dad was still having trouble breathing.  The ambulance arrived and through my tears I saw him being put in on the stretcher.  The doors slammed closed.  I thought to myself that could be the last time I see my Dad alive.  My neighbor reassured me that they got him breathing again.  But the only thing I could remember was seeing him turn that odd color.

Now I looked down at my dad writhing -- once again struggling for air -- on the bed that had taken the place of our couch in the middle of the living room.  The couch where we sat together opening Christmas presents and fawning over newborns had been replaced by the hospital bed that would not leave this spot before my father left this Earth.  Presents and babies were replaced by oxygen tanks and commodes.  Dad’s forehead was starting to take on that same deathly color it had twenty five years ago.  Except, this time Mr. Clarkson was no longer around.

When Mom heard the ruckus she came in and took charge of the situation.  She grabbed the oxygen and put it over his face.  She tried to calm him.  The panic on his face slowly subsided.  His breathing became more normal.  The immediate crisis was over.

It was another week before my Dad finally gave up the fight.  Some burly men in suits came to carry him out of our home.  Dumbfounded, we watched them put him in the back of a station wagon.  We took the bed apart and the couch reclaimed its rightful place in the living room.  But in my mind the memory of that bed and all that took place there still casts a shadow over that spot.