Last Tuesday my mom called me at work to tell me my father collapsed while taking their new puppy to the vet. Noticeably shaken, she couldn't really tell me much more than that, but when I asked if he was breathing she said, "yeah, but that's all."
Little did either of us know she was wrong about that.
My dad has had his share of health problems ever since he was almost killed at work 25 years ago when he suffered a devastating head injury on a construction site. Nothing like preparing to lose a father when you're in 7th grade. He was hit on the head with a piece of rebar while standing on the side of a drott. At the time he was a 39-year-old superintendent and was talking to the drott operator when the rebar sprang from a piece of concrete and struck him, knocking him out cold and sending him face-first onto a pile of rubble. It was the first time in his career he wasn't wearing his hard hat in the field.
As a super of a construction project, he probably should've known better than to walk outside without head protection. According to his doctor, however, had he been wearing a hard hat he likely would've been killed almost instantly -- I can't remember the exact rationale given at the time, but I recall hearing something about the velocity of the rebar shattering the plastic helmet and sending fragments into his skull. Dad was in a coma for two weeks, and we were told that 5 percent of patients suffering his extent of head trauma actually live. A month or so later, he walked out of the hospital.
One life down, eight to go.
Though my dad got extremely lucky back then and, miraculously, really only suffered some vision loss in one eye in the short term -- I remember insurance affording him one free pair of Serengeti sunglasses every year -- this injury has contributed to increasing memory loss over the years, and there's actually a portion of his brain today that essentially is dead. Not a bad trade-off, though, everything considered.
Fast-forward to a year-and-a-half ago. My parents were in town visiting for the weekend. Early on a Sunday morning my wife and I were woken by my mother's screaming. My first thought was that my son, who was one-and-a-half at the time, wasn't breathing, and I almost shit my pants as I ran out of my bedroom to see what was going on. I saw my mom pounding on my dad's chest in the guest bedroom and she said he wasn't breathing. By the time I got over to him he let out a couple weird snoring sounds and started to wake up, completely groggy. He had wet the bed, which to my knowledge is never a good sign. By the time the paramedics showed up my dad said he was fine. They took him to the hospital and monitored him and couldn't tell what had happened. Normally that would be because we live in southern Maryland (where, to put it politely, it's a challenge to find a decent doctor), but he was put through a battery of tests by his doctors in Buffalo when he got home and they said his heart and brain looked fine. Eventually he was diagnosed with sleep apnea.
Two lives down, seven to go.
This brings us back to last week. By Wednesday I'd learned that my dad collapsed as a result of ventricular tachycardia and did not breathe for 19 minutes until medics arrived and finally got his heart started after defibrillating him twice. In medical terms, he suffered sudden cardiac death and technically was dead by the time he hit the floor. In fact, if it weren't for Dr. Dick Payne (stop laughing, I'm not making that up) and his wife and other quick responders at the veterinary clinic who performed CPR and chest compressions, Dad wouldn't even have made it long enough for the ambulance to matter.
The most ironic part about this whole story is that my dad, a cat fan, doesn't really even like dogs. But they got a Pomeranian puppy and he's apparently in love with the thing (maybe because it looks like a cat). They took the dog -- Brutus -- to their friends' house last Monday night and its eye was scratched by the family cat. That's why my dad was at the vet in the first place instead of at home alone, where he usually spends his days working around the house, fixing up rooms here and there while my mom is at work. (He's been on and off work for the better part of the past 15 years. Age and his original head injury have worked in tandem to significantly hinder his short-term memory, making it very difficult for him to hold down jobs requiring one to, well, remember things from one day to the next.) So, I probably don't have to explain how events would've otherwise unfolded last week had my father been at home by himself when his heart gave out.
Three lives down, six to go.
Anyhow, once I learned how grave this situation was I knew I had to fly home as soon as I could, which, unfortunately, was Thursday morning. That meant I had to cancel a cooking class -- a birthday party, no less -- I was supposed to give that had been scheduled for the past two months. So I want to apologize to the ladies who were expecting my presence last week. Please blame my father!
I got to Buffalo General by noon on Thursday and hung out with my mom until my dad was out of surgery to implant a defibrillator/pacemaker device in his chest. The procedure went well and I was able to visit Dad for a couple hours. Later that evening I met up with my good buddy Daren and grabbed some dinner and beers, but that meant I missed the awesome home-cooked meal that was prepared at the Kevin Guest House, a hospitality house where my mom was staying that is maintained in large part through donations and the help of volunteers. It turned out that one of the volunteers was Derek Smith, a former Buffalo Sabres player my dad always liked.
When my mom texted me saying that Derek was there eating dinner with them, Daren and I left the pub for a half-hour to meet him, and right away you could tell he exhibited the class that Sabres players (and for the most part, hockey players in general) have always been known for. After Daren and I returned to our IPAs and chicken wings, my mom told Derek that my father would love his autograph. Instead, Derek said he would just go visit my dad Friday morning.
Dad with Derek Smith
After I got home last weekend, I received an email from Derek saying it was nice to meet me and my family, and that he hopes my dad recovers quickly. Pretty stand-up guy right there. Suffice to say, I sent him a sample of my spice mix and pepper sauce, an admittedly paltry thanks in comparison to what his gesture meant to my father, but I hope to be able to hang out with him again. Derek, if you read this, maybe T-Rev's Stiff Willi Chili can help sponsor an upcoming Sabres alumni fundraiser.
As for you, Dad, normally I'd wish you a speedy recovery and the best of luck, but by my count you can scare the hell out of us at least five more times before we really need to start worrying. But, just in case ... get well soon!
