Pardon the Radio Silence…

I like routine.  It makes me feel comfortable and in control.  I realized that is why my mom likes to clean – she’s in control.  I didn’t inherit that one.  I notice change easily, can sense when something is out of the ordinary.  Or maybe I just plain worry sometimes.  Nine years ago when my beloved Grammy Elsie passed away, my parents had to tell me over the phone, since I was in my sophomore year at American, a nine-hour car ride away.  I hate out of routine phone calls from them because of this.

I talk to my parents everyday, often twice a day.  But almost always after work.  The exceptions usually having something to do with my brother’s most recent debacle – at least in the past couple years – when I will get a random afternoon call on a work day.  And now when that happens, something has to be wrong.  They wouldn’t just call at 2 p.m. on a Thursday.

At 2 p.m. last Thursday, my mom called and said that my dad had might have to have “a little heart surgery” in the coming days.  He went to the doctor, without even telling my mom, because he felt like something was wrong.  He just thought he’d gained some weight.  He even mentioned it to me over the summer that it took a lot of effort to do anything.  And my dad can do anything, he’s kind of a super hero like that.  After failing a stress test and seeing a cardiologist, it was determined that he needed a stint put in or “a little heart surgery.”

Needless to say I grabbed everything I could, burst into tears and drove home.  I packed a suitcase, got in my car and made it as far as Baltimore before I realized I was crazy to be driving home.  So I made a u-turn on I-95 and pulled into BWI and got on a plane.  By 11:30 p.m. I was in Vermont.  “You know you didn’t have to,” he said.  Riiiiiiighhhht.

Friday I saw my dad’s heart on a video monitor with my mom and a doctor in a small exam room.  Listened while he said that a major artery was 90 to 95 percent blocked, and a couple others were 70 percent blocked.  I held my mom while the doctor said, if dad hadn’t gone in when he did, he likely would have died.  Within the month.  And I was strong for my mom (until I had to retell that fact to someone else, then I cried a lot more).

Friday I sat in a hospital with my mom while my dad had a quadruple bypass that saved his life.  Yesterday, we brought him home.  He is totally a superhero.  A superhero with a bad case of heart disease that we had no idea even existed.  As it turns out, it’s rampant in his family.  I know I’m certainly going to get checked out when I go back to DC.

My dad doesn’t like to make a fuss.  I didn’t get my showboating, attention-whoring ways from him in any way, shape or form (but thanks mom!).  It bothers him that others have to go out of their way to do anything for him, when he is the first person to help someone else in a similar situation.  In recent years I’ve tried to tell my dad how proud I am of him, how much I respect him, and how proud I am to be his daughter.  And for a girl who doesn’t consider herself religious, doesn’t pray or really understand what I believe in, I’m thanking God quite a bit that my dad is still here.

So pardon the continued interruption.  I decided to extend my stay through Sunday and am taking the week to help out where I can (my mom doesn’t believe in the power and beauty of dishwashers) and just visit with my family.  I’m so lucky to have them.  It’s times like this when living 9 hours away sucks super big time.  But at the same time, we’re only a fast plane ride away. 

I told my dad last night, “You’re so lucky, you get to hang out with me until Sunday!”  To which he replied, “No, H is unlucky.”  That’s my dad.