June 28, 2009 | Filed under: Boys Are Dumb, Thinky

I want him to be cute and smart and funny, but doesn’t everybody say that?

I want him to be sensible and responsible and responsive to others’ needs.

I want him to have a job he likes and finds fulfillment in.

I want him to have a positive view of marriage and building a family. It would help if his parents are still together and actually like each other, but I recognize he’s not in charge of that particular dynamic.

I want him to have friends, some of whom will become my friends.

I want him to be good in bed. Yes, I said it.

I want him to come with only an overnight bag’s worth of baggage from previous relationships, if at all possible.

I want him to still be hopeful.

I want to walk down the street with him, holding hands. When we’re 60.

I want him to be athletic.

I want him to know, instinctively, that we’re on the same team. Some days we’ll be running a relay race, others we’ll be the core of an offensive line, but always we’ll have matching jerseys.

I want him to like his family.

I want him to like my family.

I want him to read and explore and travel and be willing to join me when I suggest something crazy like, “Let’s hike the Grand Canyon!” At the very least, I want him to willingly hold down the fort when I go off and do something crazy like hike the Grand Canyon.

I want it to last.

June 11, 2009 | Filed under: The Fam

It’s Day 10 of Heartapalooza 2009, and Dad will be sent home from the hospital today. However, there will be more follow-ups and more surgery and, based on the doctor’s descripton, likely more issues with his heart. And more heart-stopping moments for me.

Today is a good day, and I’m going to focus on that, and leave the worry for some other day far, far into the future. Kind of like what I’m doing with my work assignments.

June 4, 2009 | Filed under: I Write About My Feelings, The Fam

I’m learning my way around all of the machines in the room, which one does what. Which alarm beeping is associated with which machine. How to read information off of the displays and track what’s going on or ask questions when things look different.  Dr. Google and I have also become good friends. I’ll tell you next week if they end up following my recommended course of treatment, given my vast knowledge of the workings of the heart and current innovations in cardiovascular surgery. I mean, I did take AP Biology in high school. Fifteen years ago.

(Oh My God.  Fifteen years ago?!?!)

(Also: our night nurse remembered my brother from high school — he was a year ahead of her.  Hello, small town!)

* * * * *

She may be Irish, but my mother has a stiff upper lip that would put Queen Elizabeth II to shame. I, on the other hand, walked in Wednesday afternoon and immediately burst into tears. Awesome.

* * * * *

My sister is the (self-appointed) communicator, especially when it comes to stuff like this, but Steve is the entertainer.  Therefore, I put him on the task of updating Dad’s website with today’s news, including this little gem:

He could, however, use a comb–he has that “I’ve just finished mowing the back yard and am ready for an MGD” look about his hair.

* * * * *

We’re waiting. There’s a lot of waiting that goes on in the ICU, I’ve learned. Normally this amount of waiting — and for what, exactly, isn’t really knowable — would drive me batty. Or I’d take the opportunity to worry, endlessly, because at least that’s doing something. Instead, I’m chilling.

This is no vacation, don’t get me wrong, but there’s no hurry, no deadline to meet. Sitting in a dark room listening to the rhythmic sounds of the ventilator and the compression pack machine and the fan they brought in to keep Dad cool and comfortable, there’s just no need to worry. It’s like a week of continuous moments of zen. (Though I’m certainly hoping this stage doesn’t last all week.) We are focusing on calming, soothing, healing vibes here. Maybe the nurses will let us bring in some patchouli incense. I should ask…

June 3, 2009 | Filed under: I Write About My Feelings, The Fam

I was awake for ten minutes before I started crying. I think that warrants some kind of medal.

My dad had a heart attack yesterday. I”m getting on a plane in a few hours to fly back to Wisconsin.  I booked a return flight so far into the future that I’ll run out of vacation days and sick days if I actually stay there that long, but I have absolutely no idea how long it’s going to take, and I was on the brink of a meltdown staring at Northwest’s website trying to figure it out.

On top of the logistical challenge of being 700 miles away and therefore having to get on a plane, rather than jump in the car and drive home, is the extra tasty mega-scoop of Catholic guilt because I, being an asshole who’s too much of a bigshot to check her personal cell for messages or have her siblings’ numbers programmed into her work phone, was completely in the dark for most of the day yesterday.  (The first message is from my mother at 6:15 AM. Nobody heard from me until 4:30 PM when I saw a text on my BlackBerry from a number I vaguely recognized as my brother’s saying to call ASAP.  So I did. I then realized that some of the missed calls shown on my phone were from my sister. Nice.)

I don’t really know what’s going on, as far as a diagnosis goes.  Neither do the doctors.  Dad is in ICU in a stable, intentionally-sedated state.  Later today they’ll bring him out of the sedation and make decisions about what happens next. I’m trying to focus on the likely “nexts,” like another surgery, but I cannot rule out the possibility that he could die. All of this is not fair, not fair, not fair. We just talked last weekend about his last visit to the cardiologist, wherein he was declared 100% recovered from the triple bypass surgery he had last fall (without a heart attack), all the numbers look good, come back and see me in a year.

Or, have a heart attack next week. That’s cool, too.

I was not prepared for this. Duh, I know, nobody ever is, but having spent the last 18 years knowing he would likely have a heart attack some day, the surgery-sans-heart attack and all-clear from the doctor really lulled me into thinking I wouldn’t have to deal with this particular event for oh, ten or fifteen years. Or never. I was really OK with never. Not fair.