My father passed away seven years ago this month. I spoke these words at his funeral. I miss him and wish he had a chance to meet his first great-grandson.
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There lay my father, asleep or resting, on the hospital ICU
bed. The doctor spoke. She wanted to know our wishes if his heart
ever would fail to beat. The doctor at
the previous hospital prior to his transfer here had asked my brother the same
question. The doctor phrased it in the
way such that we knew what she thought we should do, based on her medical
expertise, as a doctor to the family of a patient. My sister thought her speech was
slanted. My older brother who is a
medical doctor himself told us that the doctor spoke with statistics and
experience. The odds stacked up against
my father, heavily.
My father had suffered a prolonged period of reduced blood
flow to his vital organs. His aneurysm
ruptured the day before. We were warned
about all possible complications and consequences, and it was too early to tell
the extent of any damages.
We were told my father’s only chance of survival that day
was an operation to relieve the pressure that had built up and interfered with
his bodily functions. We consented. My mother was exhausted, physically and
emotionally, and had delegated the decision making on the five of us. The operation lasted under two hours. My father pulled through. He was stable enough that my mother went home
to rest. His conditions remained stable
throughout the evening and the night.
In the morning, the doctor called. We consented to a dialysis and hurried to the
hospital. Then we were told the blood
pressure had gone down between the doctor’s call and our arrival and the
dialysis could not be performed. My
medical brother looked at the monitor and thought my father would have about
twenty minutes before his heart would stop.
This time, we had to make the hard decision of what to do in the event
of a heart failure. There was no time to
waste. My brother explained to us that
we could only resuscitate the heart a few times, but in the end the heart would
not come back. My cousin in Arlington
had miraculously arrived at the same moment.
We sent my husband out to get my niece.
We were there, crying together, while trying to figure what would be
best for my father. My sister was not
quite ready to let go, but she went with the decision to let my father go in
peace. I definitely thought it was the reasonable
thing to do, since we had been warned over and over about brain, liver, and
kidney damages even if he was to survive.
But as if being comforted by an unexpected reunion with his wife, his
five children, his son-in-law, his niece, and his nephew around him; my father
refused to go. His heart rate became
steady, albeit weak, and his blood pressure steadily rose from the low 70’s to
the mid 90’s. At one point, it was 105,
the minimum pressure required for dialysis.
With my father’s condition stabilized, some of us went home to rest.
Before we had a chance to come back to the hospital, my
father’s condition worsened. His heart
rate became irregular again. As soon as
we heard that the EKG chart went flat, we piled into the cars and hurried to
the hospital. I thought we were too late
to be there with him when he left our world, but he was the one with the last
word. I dropped my mother and two
brothers off as I went to park. As soon
as my mother walked into the room, my father’s heart danced and the monitor
picked up movements. Then as I walked
into the room a few minutes later, the same thing happened. My sister and my husband were the last two to
arrive before my father said goodbye for good.
There is no doubt in our minds that he waited for all of us to
arrive. He went peacefully, surrounded
by loved ones.
It has been six days since we said goodbye. My head had spoken. It was best for my father to go. Then why is my heart so heavy? I’m more in a daze now than when he was in
the hospital. His image appears
frequently in my mind. It was just three
weeks ago that we celebrated Tet together and just two weeks ago that we
gathered at my brother’s place for dinner.
My cousin was there at Tet celebration.
He and my father recounted their days in the North of Viet Nam where
they were born. I see my father now with
his remembering how many “cay bang” at the village gate. I could only imagine what it looked like. Then I see him being somewhat unsteady with
his steps, but taking the effort to come to my brother’s place in Falls
Church. I recall the phone calls with
him when he thought the pharmacist had given him the wrong medicines, despite
me telling him otherwise. When he
finally cleared everything with the pharmacist, he told me “You win,” with a
chuckle, his way of saying “You were right.”
I thought he was silly of thinking of that as “winning” or
“losing.” But now his words sound so
charming and loving, and I want to hear “You win” from him again. Lately he didn’t give advice, but sometimes
sought it. I want to receive a phone
call from him one more time. He’d begin
with “Ba co cai nay muon noi voi Tran,” which means “There is something I want
to talk with you about.” I would then
say “Talk to me. I have all the time in
the world.”
I’d like to thank all of you for taking time to be with us
today. I wish you all the time in the
world to spend with your father, mother, and other family members.
