Trigger Warning: This post discusses the death of a parent and grief.
Pack a life
The last few days have been a whirlwind of chaos and stress. I made it through finals week with flying colors, only to immediately turn around and pack my entire life into a 10×15 storage unit. It feels so strange to leave such a comfortable life behind.
The last time I packed up my life and put everything away was when I got out of the military and took an epic cross-country road trip from Alaska to Arizona.
Back then, it was easier to pack up and hit the road on the right foot because I was leaving behind a career that I could no longer continue for medical reasons. I was excited for freedom and a new path, and even more excited to spend time with my family after being away from them for ten years.
The last time I drove into the desert
But as I drove through the vast desert of eastern Oregon this week, I remembered the last time I drove through an endless expanse of desert and the traumatic circumstances that surrounded it.
It was six months ago when I got the call that my dad was in the ICU and I thought I still had a chance to see him alive.
The quickest way to get to El Paso after receiving the horrible news was to take the first flight the next morning from Redmond to Tucson, where my mom met me at the airport with her car to borrow. I immediately took responsibility for driving and accelerated towards El Paso, convinced that there was still time to say goodbye.
Running towards El Paso
As I drove through the desert from Tucson to El Paso, I tried to compose myself enough to drive safely, but it was a lost cause. I tried playing loud music. I tried to distract myself. Nothing stopped the tears or the sobs. I will never forget the shock of hearing my own voice making sounds I had never heard before, a pain so raw and powerful that it almost didn’t seem human.
I couldn’t believe what was happening.
As I sped toward El Paso, I asked God, the universe, anyone who would listen: Please don’t take my dad yet. I needed it.
About an hour into the drive, we had a conference call with the neurosurgeon. He was talking on the speaker while my sister and other family members gathered in his hospital room and listened.
«It’s gone.»
The neurosurgeon explained the injury. Cerebral amyloid angiopathy had caused the catastrophic brain hemorrhage, and the blood thinners he was taking after a previous heart attack had made it even worse. I had never heard of cerebral amyloid angiopathy throughout my medical career. I had a million questions. I wanted to know how extensive the brain hemorrhage was, if there was anything we could do, if there was a chance.
Then my sister said the words, «Alayne, she’s gone.»
I refused to believe it. I refused to accept that a decision could be made so quickly. My medical brain couldn’t comprehend my own father’s death. I wouldn’t believe it until I saw it with my own eyes. So I continued to speed toward El Paso, refusing to believe he was gone. After all, I had just spoken to him a few days earlier when he called me for my birthday. He looked healthy as a horse. He really couldn’t have left.
the hospital
When I finally got to the hospital, I don’t even remember parking. The lobby was a chaotic blur. Tears streamed down my face as I tried to find the Neuro ICU on the map, which seemed like an impossible maze. A kind nurse saw how distressed I was and offered to take me where I needed to go. I am still grateful for their kindness to this day.
I checked in at the reception. They were waiting for me and let me go straight back to their room. Everyone else in my family who had been there had gone for lunch.
It seemed like he was just sleeping peacefully. He was on life support, so he didn’t look dead. His chest rose and fell. His face still had color. He could feel the warmth in his hand as he held it.
I sat alone with him for at least an hour, talking to him and wanting to believe I could hear every word.
Finally, my family returned, followed by the doctor. He was kind, but I was too emotionally paralyzed to really interact. Everything was blurry.
The longest ten minutes of my life
Before declaring him legally dead, they performed one last test. Lihat juga fhga. They took him off the ventilator to see if he could breathe on his own.
My family left the room, but I stayed. My eyes were glued to him and the monitors, silently begging him to breathe. It was the longest ten minutes of my life.
Nothing.
Doctors declared the time of death.
Once the test was completed, because he was an organ donor, he was put back on life support. My brain was tricked into seeing him “breathe” and appear alive again. That would continue for four more days, until he was finally taken off life support.
That day lives on in my memory on a loop.
A different kind of loss
As a Navy medic, I have faced death before. I have heard it called times of death. And while it was always heartbreaking that we couldn’t save someone, they were patients I didn’t know. This was different.
Our last day with him
On our last day with him, I watched the nurses unhook him with the gentlest of care, treating my dad as if he were still alive and could feel everything. I was the only family member in the room during the unhooking process, because the others had been warned that it could be traumatic to see the breathing tube come out.
That was the moment the emotionally retarded doctor in me took control. I didn’t even realize how well I was maintaining it. “Treat the patient now, feel it later” is something every healthcare worker understands.
After they unhooked it, my sister came back into the room. He sat next to me, holding us, as we watched the color slowly drain from his body and his heart stop beating.
The nurses, in an effort to comfort us, told us we could play their favorite songs during the process.
My sister turned to me and asked, «What song should we play?»
I reminded him how much I loved the Four Tops. He had taken her to one of his concerts when she was little and she loved them back then too.
He found the perfect song right away: “Reach Out.”
He turned to me with a sad smile and asked, «Does this sound like him?»
Arrive
We pressed play and listened as the music filled the room, giving us something else to focus on for a while.
The craziest thing happened during the lyrics “Come on girl, catch me.”
My dad had been sitting upright in his hospital bed with his arms tucked under the blanket. Due to spinal reflexes during the dying process, his arms suddenly extended from under the blanket towards my sister and me.
For a moment, it felt like it really was him, approaching us at just the right moment.
It was very like him.
In my years as a doctor, I had witnessed decortication and decerebrate postures, involuntary reflexes in which the arms move inward or outward, but I had never seen anything like what he did.
I like to believe it was his way of making us smile.
When the pain keeps hitting
Depression has hit hard and continues to hit. I have felt quite isolated where I have been living, away from my family and lifelong friends. Since my dad passed away that October day, I have listened to that song frequently. His message still hits painfully close to home.
Dad, I’m getting closer
Dad, I’m getting closer. The pain of losing you still feels so raw. I will hold your ashes close to my heart and hope you can see all the beautiful things from wherever you are.
where will I look for you
I will look for you now in the forest, among the unfolding ferns, the tall swaying pines and the wildflowers scattered like pieces of color from the sky. I will look for you in the desert, in the tranquility of the morning light, the creosote after the rain, the wind moving through the bushes and the wide sun-drenched miles ahead. I will also look for you on the mountain peaks, in the high wild stillness, the ridges etched against the sky and the brightness of the morning alps warming the stone. I love you and can’t wait to take you with me every step of the PCT.
