A week ago my father
nearly died. In the middle of the night he had a severe diabetic low. By the
time the paramedics got here, he had slipped into unconsciousness. He was as
close to death as I have ever seen someone.
But the IV glucose
infusion given to him by the paramedics did the trick, and ultimately he
regained consciousness. Six days in the hospital stabilized his counts and
enabled him to return home in as good a condition as one could expect of a man
who is 80 and has multiple health issues.
This is his third
chance at life (or maybe fourth, as he had a serious fall from a cliff as a
child). Almost twelve years ago he had a heart attack and then quadruple bypass
surgery. Since then, rigorous monitoring of his health, an exercise program of
daily power walks, and a diet of low-fat, low-salt food prepared by my mother
have helped him beat the odds.
A week ago in the
middle of the night, as I was desperately trying to feel for his pulse and not
finding it—although I suppose it must have been there, faintly, as he was still
breathing—I thought, “This could well be it. This could be when my father
dies.” I began to think of when the funeral might be, how long it would take my
siblings and B. to get here. I considered how my mother’s reality would change
and whether she could live in this house alone.
But in about half an
hour, he had moved far enough back from the line separating life and death to
be able to speak. And within a few hours of being in the ER at the nearest
hospital, he was able to give me instructions about an e-mail that needed to go
to a friend.
He had dodged the
bullet. He had a third chance at life.
Why some people get
third or fourth or fifth chances and others don’t even get a second, is of
course an imponderable. One can say it is simply down to luck: he was fortunate
enough to share a bed with my mother, who noticed something was wrong. If he
had lived alone, he would be dead now. On the other hand, those who believe
that God has a plan for each one of us would say that this was clearly not yet
my father’s time.
I don’t know what I
think on this score. I recoil from the idea that a loving God would have
“planned” that K.B. be taken from us at such a young age and at such a time in
her life. And yet it was to God in the dark hours of last Friday that I
prayed for my father.
I didn’t know what
exactly to pray. To ask for more years of life for him, especially since he had
already survived longer than anyone might have expected twelve years ago,
seemed almost greedy.
So I merely prayed,
“God, help him.”
