It began with a frantic call. It shattered the peaceful evening like a lightning bolt across a clear sky.
As soon as I put down my phone, the voices in my head that had been quiet since Mom died three years ago roared back and all I could hear them say was — “Here we go again.”
Before I could rush to the hospital, I had to make sure that Phi Phi and Crocker my dogs would be okay. Unlike the times I was caregiving for Mom, I now have a family of my own.
The memories came all at once: the years spent in the hospital, the years I felt I was alone, deprived of a life. Yet I knew I was ready if Dad survived the night — ready to do it all again, take care of a parent, be a caregiver, and putting my life on hold until the end.
As soon as I walked into the emergency room, it reminded me of all the times Mom had to be rushed into the ER, the dialysis days when only my anxiety accompanied me. It was also a reminder that my relationship with my siblings had been non-existent.
. . .
A long night
Those first 24 hours were a waking nightmare. Anything could happen. Even seeing Dad lying down on a hospital bed was a visual reminder that he was old and that this could have been his last night.
The only consolation was that I would be by his side, as I was when Mom died — a blessing not given to every child.
When I walked into the ER room, there were doctors and nurses, they didn’t have to revive Dad but he was unresponsive. When I finally spoke to the doctor in charge, my caregiver instinct kicked in. Even I was surprised that I still had those hard-earned skills I developed through the years I took care of Mom.
I knew what I wanted — the best for my dad.
Luckily, he was brought to the same hospital where I had been going for my own medical checkup. I asked them to call in my cardiologist.
Soon, my own doctor took charge of Dad’s case.
Seeing Dad so frail and disoriented crushed me. He didn’t recognize me at first. When the doctor asked questions to check for a stroke, it took agonizing seconds for Dad to say my name.
There was a tinge of pain not of hurt, it was more of facing the reality that while Dad was there, he wasn’t completely there. When pressed again, he knew me.
And I teared up when he remembered Mom, that he was married with kids, our long-gone family. Dad remembered a time even I don’t have a lot of memories, when we were a family. I was 12 when my parents separated.
Into adulthood, I seldom saw Dad, and there were years when he was completely absent in my life and so was I. It would take many more years to fix hurt feelings. As recently as 2019 we had a falling out, and it took another year to reconcile.
None of those painful memories mattered now. What mattered was that Dad had medical care, at last, overriding his hard-headedness. I could only pray he’d survive the night, as real as the moonlight illuminating through the window that he would expire that night.
A flurry of tumultuous thoughts and voices in my head swirled, yet I was functioning and on top of the situation.
It was like I was once again, one of too many, and while the many parts of me had come in handy, I knew if Dad survived the night, a part of me that I hadn’t seen for a long time would come back, the one who would be sad, who will be mad, who would feel the world had once again forsaken him.
. . .
Dad’s five days
Dad was moved from the ER to the critical wing of the hospital, it felt like a win, having dreaded him being transferred to the ICU which would mean we could only wait outside for updates.
It was the same fear I had with Mom, especially during the pandemic, that if and when she was hospitalized she would be all alone, and I knew she wouldn’t survive.
That fear was later on to be unfounded as we stood vigil when she died under her own terms — to be with her family. For twenty-one days, sleepless as they were, it remains in my heart a beautiful and painful memory.
Now Dad’s turn brought its own torments. For 48 hours he was gripped by hallucinations, visions of people and objects only he could see. I can only brave-face and hold his hands and let the hallucinations be gone until the next one.
Dad was never known for his temper, and yet he had a few episodes with the nurses and orderlies, it was a rare show of his temper, immediately apologizing once lucid. It was during those moments when I knew the father I knew was still there, a decent, quiet man.
What followed were again sleepless nights, but this time it was different from the ones I had taking care of Mom. Since I now have a family, not the traditional kind as I am a gay man partnered with dogs I call my fur babies, I missed them, especially Phi Phi, who since she was a puppy would always be by my side at night.
As the doctors were trying to figure out what was wrong with Dad, the countless procedures followed and I had to be the one by his side.
Knowing Dad, who was always in a hurry, these exams seemed to take forever — 2D echo, ultrasound, and a few x-rays. So it was me who had to hold his hand until he could safely be returned to his room.
The times he had to pee, it was me who had to place the urinal for him, it was all natural for me, I did the same for Mom. Being on a catheter is never a great experience for any patient.
As Dad slowly got better, and better meaning being alive and able to eat, I would be the one who would buy him brewed coffee, something not on the hospital menu. Without restrictions, I would ask him what he wanted to eat, even letting him have a few more servings of fruits and a few glasses of Coke Zero.
I did the same for Mom, I wanted her to feel like she was still in control, like the captain of her own ship, even with her choices. Mom was more compliant and her tolerance for pain was a badge she carried throughout her life. Dad, on the other hand, was different.
Finally, the medicines and antibiotics kicked in. For an 85-year-old, his doctors were quite surprised that he was relatively OK, although his diabetes was unmanaged, and he still appeared to be weak and couldn’t even sit. The doctors reassured me that in a few more days, Dad could come home.
. . .
But where was home for Dad?
For many years, Dad stayed in his office, in the photography school he had built single-handedly with the help of some fellow photographers. It was his biggest triumph, the one thing he could call success in life, despite the heavy price it came with — at Mom’s expense and his separation from his family.
The photography school never fully recovered from its past glory after the pandemic, the final blow to Dad’s life purpose. He was never the same again.
In my mind, I was ready to take him in. I already had discussions with my partner, although I told him he could say no, even if he said no, I would find a way for me to take care of Dad.
And yet, when asked Dad wanted to go back to his office. A decision that left a sting as it meant I wouldn’t be able to help as much as I liked, considering my siblings, like me, had a family, a partner, and dogs even if they didn’t see it that way.
I can’t live with him in his office. A choice that was both painful and non-negotiable knowing the toll it would take on my mental health.
On the day that Dad was finally allowed to go home, I finally went home too, and home meant being with my partner and dogs.
It was great to face first-hand what true unconditional love was. Both Phi Phi and Crocker were there to welcome me, love embodied during a crisis.
And that is what love is, not in empty words or emojis during birthdays, but during times of crisis when one is measured. Sadly, the people you thought would rise to the occasion often fall short.
Again, why was I even surprised when most of my siblings cycled back to their fair-weather selves, except for my eldest sister? Despite shouldering monetary costs, they had rehashed their greatest shortcomings from Mom’s final days. Even with all their financial help, it couldn’t compensate for their absence — they fell short.
. . .
Adult Orphan
Today, I looked up to see if there was a word for someone like me, who will be 55 if and when Dad’s time finally comes. There it was, the word I never knew existed— “adult orphan.”
An adult orphan is someone who lost both their parents in adulthood. And for a 55-year-old, I am past adulthood, being sick myself, I would be lucky to have a few more years, and yet, the word still gives me pain.
I’m not sure if I am ready.
As long as Dad lived, he was the tangible reminder of Mom. A reminder that I was once a child, that I had a family, that I had parents I could call for help, especially Mom.
The truth is, I’m not ready. Not because I want Dad to cling to life beyond a reasonable quality of existence. But as I’ve come to realize, I am still grieving the loss of Mom.
. . .
The final goodbye
The road ends the same for everyone, a short blink, a long, lonely solitary walk, or by God’s grace could come with a few rest stops along the way. There’s no veering off this highway; death’s our final destination after all. Those five days Dad spent at the hospital were one of his stops, a chance for him to call his children’s names, hold their hands, and whisper goodbye.
Who knows when? We can’t rush death. Who knows why? Some get a few more days, months, even years. And how? That’s a mystery too.
Maybe Dad just wanted to know now — If and when his time finally comes, would someone be there to hold his hand? Will there be someone to be with him when the road gets dark, stay still as he takes his one last look back at his life, or be by his side as he takes his last breath?
It’s a little blurry now what is on Dad’s mind. Maybe there’s confusion, maybe even sadness. But by faith, by God’s grace, he will not be alone.
The time would come for Dad, the inevitable goodbye. And the last thing I want for Dad is to have dignity in his remaining days, months, or even years. From here on he is on borrowed time, but aren’t we all?
Someday I have to come to terms with being an adult orphan, and I have to draw strength from both Dad and Mom because that’s their superpower. Their greatest gift to me was passing on their courage in enduring life’s tragedies. Mom, most especially, she faced death head-on. And their gift came in handy, even when I was struggling. In all my 55 years, I’ve survived.
I am a survivor, and that is a better name than “adult orphan.”
Thank you for reading.
Note:
Some parts were copied from my Facebook posts here and here.
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This post was previously published on body-mind-soul.
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From The Good Men Project on Medium
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