Two weeks ago today, the sickening news came: my daughter’s father, my ex-husband, suffered a massive heart attack while working. Rushed to the hospital, resuscitated, then open heart surgery. He never regained consciousness, not yet. He lies there, part of his brain not working, tube-fed, not breathing on his own.
She drove all night, six hours to get there. She thought they had taken her to the wrong room, unrecognizable. Last week end, I drove with her. Except for his hands, I would not have recognized him myself, so thin, so aged. How could someone change that much in the ten years since I had last seen him? She went back again late this week, returned late last night. Moved to a longterm care facility, he remains the same except he no longer even opens his eyes, no more staring into the void.
I feel frozen. This morning I delivered my grandson to my daughter–he stayed with me this trip. Checking on her father’s apartment, my daughter found his photos, some from when we were young. She showed a few to me. I stared, shocked, dismayed. My today’s to-do list just sits here. I force myself to work at it bit by bit, write two peer review assignments for a class I am taking–I do not want to disappoint, vacuum and dust one room at a time, tell myself I need to go out on this 20 degrees warmer than normal day and garden, write this blog post. I feel frozen.
He had plans neither she nor I knew about, plans to perhaps make him happier, return to the land of his birth. Will some miracle occur, will he awaken, recover? Is there some appropriate time for which we wait?
I feel frozen. When will I thaw?