Why do I work tirelessly to prevent the inevitable? It is much like the story of Sisyphus--although the rock symbolizes a more
complex aspect of my struggle. Should I have let my father die that night, when he had made peace with God and accepted his life's end? For what purpose did I recall him to life, my father, who has fallen from the man whom he will never know again? If he is never to redeem himself, have I, acting in supposed benevolence, prolonged his suffering? I see a jailer in the mirror, my love a key that confined him in his cell.
My father attempted to take his life last week. This was the second attempt since he was fired from his job, effectively forcing him into retirement. 55-years-old. Too old to realistically establish himself in another career, too young to qualify for Social Security. He was trapped within a ten year gap that was meant to yield another decade of economic productivity. To him, his life was essentially over, his utility long expired. The entire meaning of his life contingent on the avarice of a capitalist society.
He had long struggled with alcoholism and an addiction to prescription pain medication. After fifteen years of battling this disease in his private life, it ultimately invaded his public life. Public drunkenness, multiple DUIs, a drug overdose in his dealership's restroom. His weight fluctuated constantly, sometimes within a hundred pounds. If his heart didn't give out before his sixtieth birthday, I was certain that he would succumb to liver failure.
I found him on the bathroom floor, unresponsive. His body was lying disarranged on the tile, an indication that he lost consciousness while he was still standing. I checked for any signs of a head injury, but found none. As I lightly brushed the back of his head, preferring to identify a wound by touch rather than sight, I caught a strong whiff of liquor that would have woken me up if I were sleeping
His breathing was labored and sporadic. I caught myself holding my breath while waiting to hear each subsequent gasp. I thought that he may have just been drunk, so I slapped him across the face with enough force to wake anyone up. His face moved with the velocity of my hand. No response.
"Do you think we should call an ambulance?" my mother asked.
"Of course we should! I'm not going to leave him like this," I yelled, in disbelief of how unnecessary her question was. Why wouldn't I help him?
"9-1-1. What's your emergency?"
Just like the movies. "I found my father on the bathroom floor. He is unconscious and having trouble breathing."
"Sir, what is your address?" I gave her the street name, city and zip code.
I was immediately transferred to another woman, presumably a paramedic. I didn't care to ask.
"I want you to lie him flat on his back, okay?" directed the new woman on the phone. Luckily he was already on his back. I doubt that I would have been able to move him in his comatose state, even if the adrenaline were to give me a marginal amount of additional strength.
"Put your hand on his forehead and your other hand on the back of his next, and tilt it back, slightly." I followed her instructions without hesitation.
He gasped.
"Place your ear near his mouth, and say, 'now,' whenever he takes a breath."
"Now," I shouted. I waited to hear the second exhalation. Ten seconds passed. "Now."
Another fifteen seconds passed before I heard a faint breath. "Now."
"Sir, I'm going to need you to perform CPR for me, okay?" I was not ready for that. I am naturally an indecisive person, and the thought of having to make such an impulsive decision sent me into a state of derealization.
"But he's still breathing! He doesn't need CPR," my mother screamed. "You're going to hurt him!"
"Ma'am, I'm going to need you to listen to my instructions without questioning me," the woman replied sternly, before continuing with her introductory course to CPR. "Put the heel of your hand on the middle of his chest."
"Okay," I managed to say, my voice trembling.
"Now place your free hand on the back of your other hand. You need to press his chest down, counting, '1-2,' let his chest come up, '3-4.' Count with me. 1--."
I didn't wait for her to start counting. "1-2!" I shouted. His stomach protruded further than his chest. "3-4!"
"Good! Again," the woman on the phone relayed.
"1-2-3-4." I looked at my hands and felt detached from my body. I felt as if I were a spectator of this traumatic event. The room began to look elongated, as if I was sitting in a movie theater.
"I need you to continue doing this until the paramedics arrive."
I don't remember how long it was before I felt a gloved hand on my shoulder.
The leading paramedic firmly moved me aside, although there was a touch of compassion in his guiding hand. I scooted toward the wall, my eyes never leaving my father.
The first EMT removed his knife and cut my father's shirt off. They attached patches to various parts of his body--two on his chest, one on each of his calf muscles, another one or two on his left arm. They couldn't feel a pulse by touch. They expected the worst and prepared for electrical cardioversion.
They found a weak pulse.
"Do you have any idea of what may have happened?" one of the paramedics asked, addressing my mother.
Before she could answer, I interjected, "he abuses opiates and prescription sleep medication." It was only speculation, but it was a more accurate lead than any of them could produce.
"He has been getting into the medication I hide from him--Ambien, Norco," my mother said in agreement. She was referring to him in the same manner that you would a dog. You forfeit any sense of humility and self-control when you acquiesce to addiction.
They administered a dose of Flumazenil; it is meant to reverse the initial effects that Ambien has on the central nervous system.
His pulse and blood pressure returned to normal levels. My father had evidently overdosed on medication used to treat insomnia. Although his vital signs had been stabilized, he still needed assistance breathing. One of the firemen continued to use a manual resuscitator.
"What's his name?"
"Mike," my mother and I said simultaneously.
"Mike? Can you hear me, Mike?" the paramedic continued to call out his name.
My father responded in weak, unintelligible grunts. But he was awake. He may have been absent consciously, but he had returned physically. He lost consciousness in the privacy of his own bathroom only to be woken up by a cortege of first responders, naked and utterly vulnerable.
The three largest men hoisted my father up and placed his defiant body on the gurney that was rolled into the room without me taking notice.
The paramedics followed the team of EMTs that proceeded to deliver his body to the ambulance. The last EMT to enter the vehicle met my eyes, nodded as to convey his sympathy, and shut the door behind him.
I looked on as both the ambulance and fire engine departed my neighborhood.
