today's post is the first in a series called project real life. posts will equate to one page lifted from the guest blogger's journal.
background: guest # 1 is a recent high school graduate who will be heading off to college this fall.
Okay. Here it goes.
At 10:17am Thursday, Grandma called from next door. Dad's having pains in his chest and back. Had it since Tuesday, but it's unbearable today. He's going to the hospital. Needless to say, I'm driving. I'm ready to roll in 90 seconds (literally; she's still on the phone with Aunt when I walked out the door). Dad decides to call his physician first. At 11:00, the doc says go to the hospital. They'll already be waiting, "direct admission" is the term.
At this point, my mind is in "Get your butt in the car" mode. Not panic, just "let's go". But Dad has to brush his teeth while Grandma puts in a load of laundry, changes clothes, and cleans out the car. Maybe I'm just misunderstanding the urgency of the situation, but I thought we're going to the hospital, right?
We leave at 11:25., an hour after I was told we were going. On the way, Dad declares he's hungry. I say quite firmly "We're going to the hospital." Dad and Grandma are hungry. I'd just keep driving, but I'll never hear the end of it. So we stop, as requested, at the Waffle House. The entire time, I'm reading the riot act. I called my brother for a reality check, because this sounds totally stupid to me. In fine form, he replies "Bring me back two scrambled eggs, hashbrowns, and sausage."
Does this sound f-ing stoooopid or what?
After more than an hour we leave, and finally check in at 12:50. He's immediately taken to PCU and put on a heart monitor, then promptly falls asleep. A lot of tubes of blood are drawn, and an EKG is run. At 3:30, Grandma decided her knees hurt too much and we leave. On the way home, which takes forever, she asks if I'm bothered by Dad being in the hospital. Up to this point, she's done well. Her normal emotional train wreck of herself has held together until now. "What do you mean "'bothered'?"
"No. Dad's at the hospital. He's being taken care of."
Now, emotionally, I'm the Rock of Gibraltar. My feelings show a lot more in my writing than my actions. Upset to me means emotionally unsettled (like crying, jitteriness, and showing a general lack of control or discipline), like Grandma's acting like now.
"You have no idea how much your father loves you!" Translation = I'm pissed your panties aren't in a wad.
"I love dad, too. But having an anxiety attack will not do any good."
"Would you feel better if I had a breakdown?"
"I guess not."
After we got home, she started calling people, telling them he's had a heart attack. Aunt calls and tries to calm her down once she starts with "Be sure to bury us both next to (dead husband), because neither of us will survive this. And I want to use this funeral home, not the other."
Aunt: "Can we wait until the doctor actually examines him before we plant him in the ground?"
Aunt, Lil' Bro, Cousin, and I go to the hospital about 7pm. Dad's still asleep. Slept through the doctor's examination. Woke up long enough to hear the doctor say "The patient won't stay awake long enough for me to tell him what's up." Dad's not hungry, so I eat the spaghetti dinner.
Thus, my day ends.
The next morning, Dad is discharged after a heart catheter first thing in the morning reveals surprisingly clear arteries. It was all likely a muscle spasm or pinched nerve.
Chapter closed on yet another insane anecdote of my upbringing.