The Night Nurse

It’s 6:45 am and Dad’s sleeping soundly, after having been up with some pain in the middle of the night. He’s recovering well, considering, you know, the brain surgery and all. It’s day three post-op; removal of a second Glioblastoma tumor. We await MRI and test results today to learn more.

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Yesterday morning was good- Dad seemed himself for the first time in a while. He was telling us about his night nurse and how “strict” she was as we filed into his ICU room; embellishing and entertaining us with a German accent and Quite Serious Nurse impersonation (“you vill pee now!” and “I vill give you shots ven I come back!”). The more we laughed the more Dad joked- such a gift. (Turns out the nurse was not only not German, but also just efficient and professional. Having grown up with a German grandmother and mother, Dad’s humor is especially dear).

But it made me realize again what makes Dad so... Dad. He’s focused first on the person- he wants to connect with you. He wants you to want to connect with him. He wants you to be happy, content, safe. He’s not listening to your words until he makes sure you are all of those things. If he can’t get a read on how you feel, well, then, apparently you become a strict [and German] night nurse.

Every time I leave the ICU he asks where my coat is- reminding me it’s freezing outside (yes, thanks Dad- we’re pretty aware of the 17 inches of snow, sub-zero temps, and state of emergency in buffalo).

When my sister grimaced and shifted positions in her chair (having hurt her back a few days ago), Dad stopped the entire conversation to make sure she was ok.

And after dinner last night, he asked us what we were going to have... for dinner. He’s not remembering our answers but is persistent in making sure we are comfortable and well-fed, from his hospital bed.

I remember being 17-ish and heading out for the night- the questions from mom were of the who/what/where variety and from Dad it was, “Do you have a coat? It’s pneumonia weather out there” and “Have you eaten? Have some bread, it will soak up all the alcohol.” (And also, “Do you have enough money? Here, take this just in case” as he slipped me a $20). Concern for your wellness, matched with just the right amounts of worry and love. 

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The sun has come up as I finish writing. Dad’s still sleeping. Hoping today is even better for him. And I’m eager to hear the stories of the Night Nurse when he wakes.

The view from 8th floor ICU Waiting Room at Roswell Park Cancer Institute. 

Togetherness: In the Waiting Room

Coffee cups, glasses cases. Crumpled napkins and half-drunk water bottles. Comfy socks and books and... us. Here, together.

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I was just in Buffalo last week. Here to be with mom and dad and for the kids to get special time with them. When we landed home in SF, Oliver bawled. He loves his grandparents so fiercely. He loves them with the force of a million loves. He loves them so much that he secretly wrote this note the next morning en route to school:

“Grandma and Grandpa, I really miss playing all those games with you, and the nerf, and the cheese, and the movies, and the gym, and Sear, and Niagara On The Lake, and the brownies, and the snow, the banana bread, and going to buy stuff, and the snoball fight, and the thing for the sled, but most of all I miss...”

“... YOU. I love you GUYS A LOT! I love you, love Oli [sad face]” 

When we landed in SF I got the text from mom, “please call me when you can.” And I knew; the MRI results were bad. Dad had been more confused, losing words and conversation threads. They found another tumor and significant brain swelling. Surgery would be scheduled asap.

And so I’m back. Buffalo didn’t get any warmer in the last 5 days. But it’s warm here, in this space, with these people. My people. My brother in law said it well- my family knows how to rally. I couldn’t imagine it any other way; there’s no world in which I’m not here. So we’re here in togetherness, waiting.

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Watching her face is hard.  She nods, expression intent, neutral. We hang on every word, every mouth or eye movement, for a clue. “Ok,” she nods, “thank you.” She hangs up; all is well and they are nearing the end of his surgery. Mom is strong and fragile at the same time.

Meanwhile the emails keep coming in. Prayers and thoughts. Offers of support. The kindness of friends and family is overwhelming in the best way. 

And so we wait. In the Waiting Room. We drink our coffee, we remove our glasses to wipe a tear. We eat and share silly cat videos. We discuss topics like fear and belief. And we read; solitude in togetherness.

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Update: Dad’s surgery went well. He’s in recovery for the next few days. More waiting, but it’s grateful waiting.