My dad got pneumonia and was admitted to the hospital in March. He quickly suffered multiple complications, went into septic shock, and suffered strokes. After being on a ventilator and unconscious for 2 months, the doctors told us it didn't look like he would improve much beyond his comatose state. We came to terms with the idea that our dad was going to die, but then he began to recover unexpectedly. I had spent a month in California meeting with doctors, monitoring his progress, coordinating the dissemination of information on his health to family and friends. I was in a haze, as my brothers and I also coordinated shifting the caseload of his law practice, paying his utility bills and basically doing all the things it takes to run a person's life.
When my dad started to come to, he couldn't talk because he had a tracheostomy. He would grasp the nurses' hands and look at them intently and mouth out "Thank you." He didn't say that to me, although he did kiss my hand. He gained more consciousness and awareness with time. One day I went to visit and a friend of his was in his room, waiting to meet me for coffee. When I walked in, I was arguing with my brother on the phone, who wanted to sell the furniture in my dad's apartment, and give up the lease to save money while my dad recuperated at a rehabilitation center for around 6 months.
My dad was angrily trying to say something to me. I moved closer to read his lips. He mouthed "waiting for you." I said "Who?" And motioned with his head towards his friend who was waiting for me and gave me an exasperated look. I was early to meet the friend, but that's not the point. The point is that you can never do enough for an alcoholic. After all the time and energy I put into caring for him. I sat by his bedside, holding his hand and talking to him while he was unconscious because the doctor said it might help. I brought his CDs from home and played them for him. I told him stories and when I ran out of things to say, I just told him about what flavor of frozen yogurt I would eat when I left the hospital. And when I left to come back to New York, a friend of his asked him if he missed me and he made a talky motion with his hands and rolled his eyes, as if to say that I talked too much.
It was really painful for me when I got home to feel like all my effort was not recognized or appreciated. But it really shouldn't be surprising, because it never was. So many nurses, doctors, friends and associates of my dad told me how lucky he was to have a daughter like me when he was unconscious. And I kept finding myself hoping that they would tell him that when he came to instead of me. But it doesn't matter if they all told him that, it doesn't mean that he would hear it.
I am so grateful that my dad is alive. It means that we have the opportunity to work on our relationship. I know I can recover from all of this pain and damage done to me and my thought processes and feelings without anyone in my family's support. But in order for my relationship with my dad to recover, he would have to recover too. He's only sober right now because he's still in a rehabilitation center and now he has cirrhosis. So, it's exciting that for the first time in my life, my dad is sober. But it's also scary. I am just grateful for the opportunity. However it plays out is not something I control. I can try to have conversations with my father and he can choose to do whatever he wants with that.
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