If You Look Straight Up, You Can See the Sky

There's blue sky and puffy white clouds above my dad’s bed in his room on the fourth floor. They're ninety degrees out of whack, with the tops pointing to the right looking up from where my dad's fast asleep and snoring. Nurse Holly fed him a little bit of soup and a few bites of fruit a short while ago. Gave me the situation report and buzzed the doctor, who showed up soon after. Then the surgeon's resident, who's reaching out to the surgeon. Looks like another gallbladder infection, but 98-years-old!

There will be no surgery, rather, a tube and a bag like he had three years ago, right before the first lockdown. That tube and bag stayed with him for months instead of weeks, a casualty of the new normal. The next round of tests is expected around 5 or 530.

When we showed up in Urgent Care two days ago, there were blood tests and x-ray and CT scan. A move to the ER, where Nurse Chris recommended going straight to ER next time. 98-years-old. The hospital’s running a full house, with no beds available. Could be an hour, could be three days, according to Nurse Chris. But they can do everything they need to from the ER.

The move to a room took slightly over a day. My dad’s been asleep and snoring most of the time. Sometimes, he mumbles in his sleep, or he wakes up and asks about mom, wants to go home. “Man proposes, God disposes,” mom used to say. But the old sayings get lost in the fog. Now she says “I'm so happy to see you.” Me too, mama.

His wrists are strapped to the bed, but not to prevent escape. He's not going anywhere. Nurse Holly thinks he took a swing, not at her. Plausible.

The sky's out of whack, or the world’s gone sideways. Down here, my dad’s sleeping peacefully through it. Strapped to the bed, with his mouth wide open. A tough old bird weathers the storm.

Today was the day to go home, but his white blood cells are still too high. Maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day. Let someone else wait for a room.