05-01-10, 09:52 PM
Join Date: May 2010
I'm new to this community, and I'm hoping for some form of a coping mechanism.
I'm a writer, and I'm going in for a degree in writing at the university I am currently attending, but out of all the topics and subjects I've had to write about, this one is the hardest.
My father isn't dead, but he isn't as alive as he once was. In about two weeks, it will be the one year anniversary since the day a stroke took him from our home. I remember the events vividly that it feels like I'm relieving it when I just have too much to time to think. I remember the hospital ride, getting my little sister somewhere safe and away from the situation, and trying desperately to get ahold of an immediate family member.
My mom was away for business, and so it was just my father and myself along with my sister alone in the house. I had gone off to work when I received a phone call from my little sister telling me "daddy fell". I rushed out with no hesitation and drove as fast as possible could, and then I came home and saw he was on the floor, clutching on to his right arm, he couldn't speak words, there was vomit on the floor, I rushed to call 911, and I tried to get him to focus. When we were at the hospital he was erratic, he tried hard to get away from the restraints, the doctors had told me that a blood clot had caused the stroke and they couldn't use blood thinners to relieve it as his blood was already too thin.
Later that night, I left to an empty home to clean the mess left behind. Some girl friends came over to stay the night. Everything just felt so much more emptier, and I was still in disbelief. I couldn't sleep for days. And in those days all the cat scans weren't showing any signs of recovery. He was in a coma for two weeks before he awoke.
The doctors didn't even think he'd wake up, I remember a doctor telling me my father would probably die within the first week.
I remember having to search for his living will by myself as my mother still wasn't home to pick up the pieces I couldn't do myself. It would like shards of glass were burying themselves in my lungs each and every day.
Everyone pitied me in the hospital because I was 19 at the time, and they couldn't imagine going through an ordeal like that at my age. What else could I have done other than do everything in my power to keep him alive?
He currently lives in a rehab room for the brain dead and the disabled. He cannot move his right side and he is struggling with speech.
I am grieving for him because I want him back home where he belongs and I am constantly afraid that he will die.