My Head Had Spoken

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.