My Mom and I met with Dr. Rosenbloom to hear how the surgery went at around 1:30. He told us to stay in this large waiting area until my Dad had been fully transferred to the ICU. About an hour later, my Mom and I became anxious. Were we even in the right place?
I walked up to the nurse’s station and asked them for some information. They pointed across the hall to where my Dad was and said he could be seen in a few minutes. I asked if it’d be OK to just peak around the corner. Though my Dad appeared somewhat corpse-like, it was a huge relief just to see him.
Within a few minutes, I was standing around my Dad’s bed with my Mom and Grandmother. My Dad was so doped up on pain killers that he couldn’t do much of anything. He also had this giant tube in his throat to assist his breathing. After standing by him for a bit, the three of us went down to grab lunch.
By the time we got back, the tube was gone and my Dad was semi-responsive. His entire body was swollen from the surgery and the pain medicine caused him to slur when talking. It created quite the scene. For the next two hours, I felt like I was at a comedy club with some drunk up on stage. At one point, he wanted some ice chips to relieve his dry mouth. After consulting with the nurses, we informed him that he couldn’t because the tube had just come out of his throat and they wanted to monitor it. “Well, if they had taken that tube out when they were supposed to, I’d have a damn cocktail by now.” My Dad claims he has awareness of being funny, but you sure couldn’t tell it from his expressionless face.
We returned on Thursday morning and my Dad was alert and talkative, sitting in a chair. His progress over the next few days was remarkable. The original expectation was for him to be in the ICU for two days and a regular hospital room for eight days before being released. Instead, we had full conversations and competitive games of Scrabble for four days before he was discharged from the hospital entirely. Walking my Dad into the pharmacy to drop off his new prescriptions today, ninety-six hours after open heart surgery, was surreal.
Fittingly, my Dad scored the 50 point bonus on his first word in his first post-operation game of Scrabble. The word was HEARTIER. The remarkable recovery is a testament to both the surgeons’ skill and my Dad’s healing abilities. He still has a few weeks before he’s back to full strength. But, the progress so far is beyond what anyone could have imagined.
Walking into the ICU on that first night, I passed by a family. Half of them were in tears; the others were consoling the first half. The anxiety leading up to my Dad’s operation seems like a lifetime ago. It’s weird to think how much different this week could have been.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Good News
We just a call from a nurse down in the operating room. He said they were able to successfully repair Dad's mitral valve and replace his aortic valve. That was the best possible scenario.
They've got another hour of sewing him back up, but the hard part is over. We'll meet with the doctor once they're done.
It's certainly not over, but that call from the nurse was a big relief.
They've got another hour of sewing him back up, but the hard part is over. We'll meet with the doctor once they're done.
It's certainly not over, but that call from the nurse was a big relief.
Different Strokes
My brother and I have been handling my Dad's surgery... well... differently.
When I first heard that my Dad might have surgery, my immediate response was "let me know when it is and I'll buy a ticket." Perhaps I'm especially sensitive to the situation given my recent health issues. But, I think it's really important to care for and visit people who are in the hospital. It's a vulnerable time.
I had visions of my whole family sitting in the waiting room for a few hours and, eventually, sitting with my Dad by his bed. Maybe we'd watch a movie together in his room or sing some songs to cheer him up; there would definitely be balloons.
Oops. This is the Goldberg family. We value individuality, autonomy, and dysfunction. We've never had family dinners. Why would a hospital visit be any different?
Sasha just started a new job. He's up in Massachusetts and isn't planning on coming down until this weekend. This was largely at the encouragement of my Dad who didn't want to interfere with the new job. Sasha has routinely been in touch over the phone and I think would have likely come down had it not been for Dad's prodding.
Grandma, my father's mother, was not around Monday or Tuesday and still hasn't shown up at the hospital. She's waiting for my Mom's friend, Beth, who's racing down from Long Island to help out in any way that she can. I think that will largely entail chauffeuring Grandma around. Almost predictably, her car broke down on the way.
But, I understand why they're not here. I'm having a much harder time understanding my brother's behavior.
Let's rewind to last week. This was before I arrived, so it's second hand. My parents just had a patio installed in the backyard. They needed to move the picnic table onto it. My Mom asked for BB's help. BB asked my Dad to help. My Dad, who's had a hard time lifting heavy things, said he couldn't. BB screamed: "You wuss! C'mon and pick up the table!" I suppose BB was having a heard time believing that his father could be having heart problems.
BB used to routinely have lots of friends over to drink and be loud. It was very stressful for my parents. They eventually prohibited him from having people over. Yet on Monday night (after months of being "better"), he had about thirty people over at around 11pm. Mom and Dad got visibly stressed; Mom went to bed. Fortunately, the guests left by midnight. Dad and I kept playing Scrabble which eventually calmed him down. But, why would you chose two nights before Dad's surgery to throw a big party?
Last night, Mom, Dad, and I had just finished a delightful dinner and were getting ready to go to bed before the surgery. Somewhat surprisingly, my Dad fell asleep by around 11:30. My Mom and I sat up talking about our anxieties for a bit. At around 1am, my phone rang; it was BB. "Come pick me up," he said. He was stranded in Philadelphia. Though I offered to just pay for a cab, my Mom and I eventually drove into the city to rescue him. We picked him up on a street corner. The entire ride home, he talked about the exploits of his wild partying. We got home and BB showed no respect for Dad's rest, failing to use his indoor voice. "I won't wake Dad; I'm not an idiot," he said. Dad woke up. Mom and I tried to pack in as much sleep as we could over the next two hours.
This morning, BB didn't come to the hospital, in large part because he had a job interview. I talked with him after the interview, but he didn't seem to have any interest in coming to the hospital. I told him I'd let him know when we had news. He was interested in that.
I think BB's having a hard time with the thought of Dad going into surgery; I think he's having a hard time with life. He's also not very good at expressing himself. As a result, he tends to pull away from and lash out at others. He has definitely expressed concern for Dad. But, BB's actions convey a blatant disregard for his feelings. I find it a bit hard to deal with.
When I first heard that my Dad might have surgery, my immediate response was "let me know when it is and I'll buy a ticket." Perhaps I'm especially sensitive to the situation given my recent health issues. But, I think it's really important to care for and visit people who are in the hospital. It's a vulnerable time.
I had visions of my whole family sitting in the waiting room for a few hours and, eventually, sitting with my Dad by his bed. Maybe we'd watch a movie together in his room or sing some songs to cheer him up; there would definitely be balloons.
Oops. This is the Goldberg family. We value individuality, autonomy, and dysfunction. We've never had family dinners. Why would a hospital visit be any different?
Sasha just started a new job. He's up in Massachusetts and isn't planning on coming down until this weekend. This was largely at the encouragement of my Dad who didn't want to interfere with the new job. Sasha has routinely been in touch over the phone and I think would have likely come down had it not been for Dad's prodding.
Grandma, my father's mother, was not around Monday or Tuesday and still hasn't shown up at the hospital. She's waiting for my Mom's friend, Beth, who's racing down from Long Island to help out in any way that she can. I think that will largely entail chauffeuring Grandma around. Almost predictably, her car broke down on the way.
But, I understand why they're not here. I'm having a much harder time understanding my brother's behavior.
Let's rewind to last week. This was before I arrived, so it's second hand. My parents just had a patio installed in the backyard. They needed to move the picnic table onto it. My Mom asked for BB's help. BB asked my Dad to help. My Dad, who's had a hard time lifting heavy things, said he couldn't. BB screamed: "You wuss! C'mon and pick up the table!" I suppose BB was having a heard time believing that his father could be having heart problems.
BB used to routinely have lots of friends over to drink and be loud. It was very stressful for my parents. They eventually prohibited him from having people over. Yet on Monday night (after months of being "better"), he had about thirty people over at around 11pm. Mom and Dad got visibly stressed; Mom went to bed. Fortunately, the guests left by midnight. Dad and I kept playing Scrabble which eventually calmed him down. But, why would you chose two nights before Dad's surgery to throw a big party?
Last night, Mom, Dad, and I had just finished a delightful dinner and were getting ready to go to bed before the surgery. Somewhat surprisingly, my Dad fell asleep by around 11:30. My Mom and I sat up talking about our anxieties for a bit. At around 1am, my phone rang; it was BB. "Come pick me up," he said. He was stranded in Philadelphia. Though I offered to just pay for a cab, my Mom and I eventually drove into the city to rescue him. We picked him up on a street corner. The entire ride home, he talked about the exploits of his wild partying. We got home and BB showed no respect for Dad's rest, failing to use his indoor voice. "I won't wake Dad; I'm not an idiot," he said. Dad woke up. Mom and I tried to pack in as much sleep as we could over the next two hours.
This morning, BB didn't come to the hospital, in large part because he had a job interview. I talked with him after the interview, but he didn't seem to have any interest in coming to the hospital. I told him I'd let him know when we had news. He was interested in that.
I think BB's having a hard time with the thought of Dad going into surgery; I think he's having a hard time with life. He's also not very good at expressing himself. As a result, he tends to pull away from and lash out at others. He has definitely expressed concern for Dad. But, BB's actions convey a blatant disregard for his feelings. I find it a bit hard to deal with.
Trauma Alert
Sitting in the waiting room is nerve racking. Every time the elevator opens, I check to see if Dad is emerging with his new heart... or maybe the doctor with some news. I'd swear that many of the patients are actually my Dad (after all, they share the same shade of white hair).
Promised that we'd have periodic updates, Mom and I sit wondering why we haven't heard anything yet. Is no news good news? Or are the surgeons too preoccupied with the catastrophes at the operating table? We can only imagine.
My Mom finally got up and asked a receptionist if we'd be getting an update. She punched a few buttons to dial into the operating room and reported back, "everything's fine; the doctor is still working."
Phew.
Minutes later, we hear over the loudspeaker: "TRAUMA ALERT! Emergency personnel to the helipad."
Is that Dad? Are they rushing him off to Penn after realizing that Dr. Rosenbloom can't handle this and Dr. Baveria is indeed the best surgeon?
As I'm writing this post, my phone rings. It's some unknown number. Perhaps Mom's friend, Beth? Perhaps the receptionist is trying to reach me? An automatic voice message answers: "This is a very important message regarding..." (::gasp::) "...your Best Buy reward points."
As beepers go off signaling news about some surgery, phones ring all around the waiting room, and elevators constantly ding because someone has arrived at our floor, I can't help but wonder, "why the hell does nobody else seem to be as freaked out as Mom and I feel?"
Maybe they're just hiding it better...
Promised that we'd have periodic updates, Mom and I sit wondering why we haven't heard anything yet. Is no news good news? Or are the surgeons too preoccupied with the catastrophes at the operating table? We can only imagine.
My Mom finally got up and asked a receptionist if we'd be getting an update. She punched a few buttons to dial into the operating room and reported back, "everything's fine; the doctor is still working."
Phew.
Minutes later, we hear over the loudspeaker: "TRAUMA ALERT! Emergency personnel to the helipad."
Is that Dad? Are they rushing him off to Penn after realizing that Dr. Rosenbloom can't handle this and Dr. Baveria is indeed the best surgeon?
As I'm writing this post, my phone rings. It's some unknown number. Perhaps Mom's friend, Beth? Perhaps the receptionist is trying to reach me? An automatic voice message answers: "This is a very important message regarding..." (::gasp::) "...your Best Buy reward points."
As beepers go off signaling news about some surgery, phones ring all around the waiting room, and elevators constantly ding because someone has arrived at our floor, I can't help but wonder, "why the hell does nobody else seem to be as freaked out as Mom and I feel?"
Maybe they're just hiding it better...
The Waiting Room
Well, it's been about six months since I last posted to my blog. I'm here posting again with some health issues, though this time about my Dad.
All of his life, my Dad has had a faulty aortic valve. He had surgery when he was a child. At the time, he was told that, at some point, he'd have to have the valve replaced; that time has come.
Right now, I'm sitting in the waiting room at Cooper Hospital in Camden, NJ, having just seen my Dad off to pre-op. The surgery is scheduled to start in just over an hour, at which point my Mom will have to join me, and should last about five hours. Until it's over, we'll play the waiting game.
It's all a bit weird, the whole thing. On the one hand, I feel really confident in the surgery. Statistically, the odds are great that everything turns out well as something like 99% of these surgeries go smoothly; the likelihood of success is even higher when you consider that statistic is skewed by patients who are not in good health (and, as I said, my Dad's having this done before there are signs of heart deterioration). And after meeting him on Tuesday morning, I have a lot of confidence in Dr. Rosenbloom.
But, at the same time, there's always that chance. While in college, I played a lot of poker. If I had a 99% chance of winning a hand, there is no doubt that I'd bet everything I had. But, working at Amazon has caused me to look at failure rates instead of success rates; if we fail to process 1% (or even 0.01%) of all orders, that's a lot of customers who aren't getting their stuff. We strive to build systems that succeed in excess of 99.99% of the time and, even then, build in mechanisms to handle failure gracefully. I can't help but look at a 99% open heart surgery success rate as a 1% failure rate with no real recovery options in the case of failure; that's a lot of people who don't make it. And there's a big difference between my Dad's life and an anonymous customer's order (not that I don't care about every order placed on Amazon ;-).
This whole process has forced me to think about my Dad's mortality in a way that I haven't ever had to before. In the back of my mind, I've always known that someday, my parents won't be around. But, to think that day could be today is a bit surreal.
When I got home on Monday morning, it became very clear to me that my role was to "be there" for my Dad. We ran some errands, played a lot of Scrabble, and talked about a variety of things; mostly, we just tried to keep his mind distracted from the approaching Big Day. I also tried to stay very positive. My Dad tends to be rather obsessive and negative thoughts would just churn in his mind.
I think my approach was helpful for him. However, it left me unable to talk about my own anxieties. My Mom suggested that I say something like, "I know everything will probably be OK, but I wanted to tell you how much you mean to me." But, even that seemed to show doubt, something that would have surely played in my Dad's head. So, I ended up trying to show him what I wanted to say by being supportive during our time together.
Ultimately, I had to say goodbye to him as he left for pre-op in a wheelchair without being able to vocalize everything I felt. I just hope I'll have another chance. For now, I guess I'll just have to wait and see.
All of his life, my Dad has had a faulty aortic valve. He had surgery when he was a child. At the time, he was told that, at some point, he'd have to have the valve replaced; that time has come.
Right now, I'm sitting in the waiting room at Cooper Hospital in Camden, NJ, having just seen my Dad off to pre-op. The surgery is scheduled to start in just over an hour, at which point my Mom will have to join me, and should last about five hours. Until it's over, we'll play the waiting game.
It's all a bit weird, the whole thing. On the one hand, I feel really confident in the surgery. Statistically, the odds are great that everything turns out well as something like 99% of these surgeries go smoothly; the likelihood of success is even higher when you consider that statistic is skewed by patients who are not in good health (and, as I said, my Dad's having this done before there are signs of heart deterioration). And after meeting him on Tuesday morning, I have a lot of confidence in Dr. Rosenbloom.
But, at the same time, there's always that chance. While in college, I played a lot of poker. If I had a 99% chance of winning a hand, there is no doubt that I'd bet everything I had. But, working at Amazon has caused me to look at failure rates instead of success rates; if we fail to process 1% (or even 0.01%) of all orders, that's a lot of customers who aren't getting their stuff. We strive to build systems that succeed in excess of 99.99% of the time and, even then, build in mechanisms to handle failure gracefully. I can't help but look at a 99% open heart surgery success rate as a 1% failure rate with no real recovery options in the case of failure; that's a lot of people who don't make it. And there's a big difference between my Dad's life and an anonymous customer's order (not that I don't care about every order placed on Amazon ;-).
This whole process has forced me to think about my Dad's mortality in a way that I haven't ever had to before. In the back of my mind, I've always known that someday, my parents won't be around. But, to think that day could be today is a bit surreal.
When I got home on Monday morning, it became very clear to me that my role was to "be there" for my Dad. We ran some errands, played a lot of Scrabble, and talked about a variety of things; mostly, we just tried to keep his mind distracted from the approaching Big Day. I also tried to stay very positive. My Dad tends to be rather obsessive and negative thoughts would just churn in his mind.
I think my approach was helpful for him. However, it left me unable to talk about my own anxieties. My Mom suggested that I say something like, "I know everything will probably be OK, but I wanted to tell you how much you mean to me." But, even that seemed to show doubt, something that would have surely played in my Dad's head. So, I ended up trying to show him what I wanted to say by being supportive during our time together.
Ultimately, I had to say goodbye to him as he left for pre-op in a wheelchair without being able to vocalize everything I felt. I just hope I'll have another chance. For now, I guess I'll just have to wait and see.
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