November

Physically, the drive to Major Medical Center is a little easier when driving a car instead of an ambulance. There’s not nearly as much surface area for the wind to toss the vehicle around when I’m cruising down mountain roads in my car. The drive goes by a little faster when listening to loud music in the confines of my personal vehicle.¬†Emotionally, however, this drive is a completely different story.

In the ambulance, I have protection. Occasionally, old memories start to stir in the back of my mind. But they’re easily buried beneath the more intense focus I have when driving this large vehicle. I can hide in the professionalism I put on with my uniform. I can drown it out when chatting with my partner. But in the car? I have none of those luxuries. It’s just me, the radio, and this long drive that does nothing but dig up old memories.

A year ago, almost to the day, I was making this same journey in this same small vehicle. The same jagged lines of mountains and valleys lay just beyond the metal guard rail. The same bare trees stood in the piles of dead, reddened leaves. The same enormous building sprawled out before me, patient windows glittering in the afternoon sun. The same road wound past the ambulance entrance, where I’d parked my truck many times before, and continued down to visitor parking. And an eerily similar sense of dread settled into my stomach when I put the car in park.

A year ago, I made that drive knowing that, once at my destination, I would play a part in making that ultimate decision for my grandmother: comfort measures only, or aggressive medical and physical therapies. I felt fleeting emotions in a numb, hollow space in my chest: fear, sorrow, grief, strength, anger. It was an awful experience I wouldn’t forget. I just didn’t realize that a year later, I’d be making this same journey.

This time, I’m driving up to go see my father. It was supposed to be a relatively simple surgery for a relatively simple problem. Instead of this quick, easy procedure and recovery, we were met with complications and phone calls, sleepless nights and unknowns, running nurses and worried doctors. A week-and-a-half later, time and progress feels as though it’s standing still.

Something about November, Major Medical Center, and my family. I hope with all my heart that we don’t have to make the same decision this year.

Please keep him in your thoughts. Thank you.

Comments

  1. Dude,

    I hope your Dad’s ok.

    Tj

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