Hospital

Just a clip…

I took photos of my dad while he was in the hospital. Scratch that. During his past two hospital stays. I wasn’t sure why at the time I felt compelled to as I am not someone who chronically notes or memorializes my day to day activities. There were times in this process that I was unsure of him living, making it through the night or morning, of him opening up his eyes one more time. He was lost consciousness twice and was only revived because of aggressive medical treatment. If he would have been at home or solely by himself we would most certainly be dead.

One would assume, then, that there is a sense of relief, of triumph, right? All I continue to feel is confusion and constant worry. I am glad I took the hospital photos just so I can believe myself when I look at him now and think back to just three weeks ago and how every time I left his hospital room I would think it was the last time I had seen him. Because of this, I continue to have a sense of dread when the phone rings and a sense of paranoia every time I walk into his new room. The feeling seems familiar but it’s taken a bit to piece together why I am handling this all so well. And then suddenly it occurred to me this evening: I have done this before.

My mother was ill for much of my sister’s and my childhood. There was an ever-present tension in the air that would linger and yet sometimes disappearing for a day or a few weeks. We lived with her and her illness, almost as just a regular and normal addition to our family albeit one that had to be kept under wraps.