We were a close family. My brother and I lived in the same Long Island suburb where we grew up, no more than a mile from my parents’ house. In a world of complicated relationships, ours was simple. Dad was a shopkeeper by day and family patriarch by night. The family felt cocooned in love and acceptance, and Dad offered advice and unconditional support for any choices we made.
On most fall Saturdays, my two sons and I went to Dad’s house to rake leaves and work in the garden together. One October afternoon, the boys jumped in deep piles of leaves while I was on the ladder helping Dad clean the gutters. As we worked, we talked about my issues at the university. We had walked and talked and worked together for decades. As I unburdened myself of worries, he would create a zone of calmness around me. With my thoughts quieted, I could concentrate and do my best work. Dad was my backstop. It was the only way I knew to get through problems, and I expected it to go on forever.
Up on the ladder, I called for Dad to hand me a hose to flush out a downspout. Eyes on the clogged drain, I extended my arm in his direction, expecting to feel the hose in my palm. Nothing.
When I looked down, I saw Dad’s hand clenching his chest. Face grey. In that instant, our world changed forever. The short-term plan was clear. Handling medical crises was what I had trained for as a doctor. But my comfortable world had been punctured. My backstop compromised.
My own chest tightened, resonating with Dad’s pain. I yelled at Mom to watch the children, piled Dad into the car, and sped through every stoplight between home and the hospital. If only I could get him there alive. When his breathing began to labor, I nudged him hard. “Stay awake, Dad! You’re my rock.”
He didn’t respond. Was he dead? Where would I be without him? I had never seriously thought about it.
Then he slowly opened his eyes and asked in confusion, “Where are we?” My thoughts jerked back to reality. We still had a chance. I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles were white and pressed down on the gas pedal, hoping more speed would ensure a better outcome.
The car skidded to a halt in front of the ER entrance. I grabbed a stretcher and pushed Dad inside, thinking only, ‘Keep him alive.’ Images flew through my mind. Sledding on our Flexible Flyer down the hill next to the firehouse, standing with him in the wings before my last concert, before I abandoned a career in music for medicine. In good or bad times, always together.
I hadn’t thought much about how my role was changing as Dad aged. It had been a graceful process so far, a gradual diminishing of his energy and narrowing of his interests. Someone who didn’t know him might not have detected these small changes. But after today, things would be radically different. Was I ready for this?
I pushed Dad into a cubicle, stuck a wide gauge needle into his arm, and connected him to an IV. Then I hooked up an EKG machine and paged the cardiologist to the ER. I felt empowered by my medical training. In the midst of my frenetic activity, I could avoid thinking about the future. What if he didn’t make it? I wanted him here with me, forever. I wanted things to remain unchanged.
I stood back as another doctor rushed in to read the EKG. Suddenly, Dad’s eyes turned up and his breathing stopped. When I saw the flat line on the monitor, my own heart froze. “Cardiac arrest stat!”
Breathless medical staff arrived from everywhere, surrounding Dad’s bed. Someone yelled, “All clear!” A pulse of electricity pierced him, jerking his lifeless body forward as if launching him into the next world. But his heart began to beat again.
When he opened his eyes, I thought he was back. But his body shut down again, and it took another shock to rally him. Then four more shocks. Amazing what a human body can endure!
I, who don’t believe in God, found myself praying, bargaining years of my own life for his. “He can’t die. He can’t.” Minutes passed. Slowly, I realized that I might not be able to save Dad. But I could still love him, could always love him. Whatever today’s outcome, I had become Dad’s backstop. My roles hadn’t changed, son, father, physician-scientist, but I had to be differently empowered. I had to learn how to accept new responsibilities for those who would increasingly depend on me.
An eternity later, Dad was sitting up on the stretcher, awake, breathing easily. Chatting with some nurses. They were laughing, probably at one of his lame jokes. Dad’s gaze met mine, and he asked in surprise, “Son, you look upset. Is everything okay?”
The craziness of the past two hours flashed through my brain. My reckless drive to the hospital. Dad’s loss of consciousness in the car. Hooking him to an IV just before his heart stopped. The multiple shocks. And now, Dad’s amnesia for everything that happened. I could barely process it. I had saved his life so he could save mine. So everything could stay the same. But nothing was the same.
I wanted to snap, “Are you kidding? Nothing is okay.” But I didn’t. I slipped seamlessly into my new role. My judgement would determine the course of his care, guide his recovery and, most importantly, shore up his will to live and enjoy a different, less active, life. And I would have to come out of the comfortable shadows that I had enjoyed for so long, becoming the visible exemplar of our family’s culture.
Imperceptibly, our relationship had been changing in small ways for some time. I had been making an increasing number of decisions for him, ensuring that he was not overcommitting himself. Now his heart attack forced the issue. I had absorbed his lessons over these many years, cocooned in our family’s environment of acceptance and love. That was the glue that held us together over the generations. Without fanfare, I had come of age emotionally.
Meantime, the medical staff were looking to me for answers about Dad’s medical history.
Things shifted as we gracefully exchanged roles. I created a zone of calmness around Dad, a place where he could safely lean on me and function at his best. An act of love.
I glanced at the mirror in the cubicle. I wondered whether something would look different. My eyes more deeply set? New worry lines engraved on my forehead?
“Yes, Dad. Everything’s okay now.”
As he relaxed on the gurney, I held his hand. I was confident that I could do my best to manage whatever the future might hold. Medical personnel swarmed around us, preparing for the next step in his care. Dad and I were oblivious to the bustle. We shared a zone of calmness just large enough to accommodate two.
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