"Death of my Father"
By Irma Szymanski, MD
I came to the USA in 1959 to advance my medical studies. Although I had planned to stay only for a
maximum of two years, I kept extending my stay until it was more urgent to stay
in this country than go back. That is: my
life had changed: I was married with a child. But my parents had no intention
of making such a big move; therefore they remained in their beloved homeland,
Finland. I visited them as often as I
could.
All was
well with my parents until a particular morning in 1983 when my mother found my
father unresponsive. He was admitted to a hospital. She telephoned me every day and told that his
condition, a stroke, was not serious, and that my flight to Helsinki was not
necessary. However, after a few days my
father developed severe abdominal pains and was operated on. The whole outlook changed when his bowel was
found to be necrotic. I flew immediately to Helsinki. During the flight I was
in constant fear that I would not arrive on time. I also felt guilty that doctors
might try to keep him alive and prolong his suffering for my sake.
My arrival
in Helsinki was ominous then. This
country, from which I am part of and which I love so much, had changed somehow. The slim fir trees looked unusually dark and the
powdery snow on the ground symbolized death for me. Nobody was meeting me at
the airport. That is: my father was not
there. I remembered this frail man, who
walked “funny” due to a knee injury and who was so skinny to hold, but always
had a friendly, all-loving and all-forgiving smile. He had always met me at the airport, having
driven there in his Citroen. This time Finland did not seem to be completely
mine any more.
I met my
mother at our house. She was crying, but
that was not unusual. She always cried when she saw me after a long absence or
when I left her. The taxi waited while I dropped my bags at home and then we
continued to the hospital. We did not
speak much during the ride, a sign that things were not OK. In the luxurious new
hospital, nicknamed “Hilton”, we went to my father’s room on the 11th
floor. Two other patients were in the
room. My father’s bed was closest to the
window, from which one could see part of the city. I was apprehensive seeing my father so ill; I
knew that the most difficult experiences of my life were now ahead of me. However, I was determined to go through them
no matter what. Here he was, my handsome
father, lying in bed, his slender body suddenly mutilated by disease and treatments. His face was beautiful, quite unlined, with a
rosy color. I noticed the lovely bone
structure of his face and a high forehead.
His eyes were closed. His hair
was brown with some grey in it. His
beard had grown to stubble. A tube went
through his nose to his stomach and it was connected on the bedside to a
plastic bag full of foul-smelling, dark brown liquid. He had been intubated and a small respirator
was connected to a tube that came out of his mouth. He was also connected to a
cardiac monitor, which showed a fibrillating rhythm, around 100 beats per
minute. In addition, the urine output
was being monitored and a transparent bandage was covering the operating wound
on the abdomen.
I knew that
my trip had been a race against Death. I
had used airplanes and doctors had used modern medical instrumentation on my
behalf, but Death had used devious ways.
Who had beaten whom?
I stroked
my father, kissed him and I told him that I was with him and that I loved him.
He opened his eyes, but I don’t know if he understood me. I also told him that my son Ari wanted to be
there too but couldn’t. At that point he
made a grimace; he might have been in pain.
The doctor told me later that earlier on that day my father had been conscious.
He was then told that his daughter was
on her way to see him. At that point he had opened his eyes and tears came out.
Then I believed that he must have heard me when I talked. Everything could not be dead yet.
My mother
and I stayed a couple of hours with him until the doctor, who cared for him,
came. He was a young blond man with a
handsome cherubic face. His manner was a
little bit like that of a funeral director, nice with a certain insincere touch. We discussed the present treatment. Should my
father be on a respirator? I felt that
it was not necessary, but that he should receive his antibiotics and a pain
medication. After the surgery he was not
receiving anticoagulants any more. Then the
doctor removed the respirator and my father continued to breathe on his own
while receiving oxygen. His breathing
was labored. The doctor said that he was
hyperventilating in an effort to correct the metabolic acidosis caused by the
necrotic bowel. At that time the doctor
was able to arouse him by loud commands.
He then received 3 mg morphine intravenously. Following that he did not
seem to feel pains. After a few more hours
my mother felt very tired and sick watching him suffer. She went home. I decided to stay till the end. I felt that if my father must suffer the
agony, I could at least watch him. I could
not escape by going away. Besides, I did
not want him to die alone. Maybe he
could feel me being there, as I was squeezing his hand and kissing him.
Watching
him did not turn out to be unbearable. I watched his cardiac monitor and I was
happy about every beat. It meant that he
was still alive, here with me. It gave
me joy. Then I felt remorse thinking
that every heartbeat, every breath only prolonged the agony, his bowel being in
necrosis and black liquid draining from his stomach. There was nothing I could do to lessen the
final struggle. His heart did not want to quit, it went on fibrillating. He kept on breathing as if there was some hope.
My mother
had told me about the discussion the two of them had had on the night before he
fell ill. He had said that when he dies,
he hopes to go back to his mother. It
was as if all his life he had had a “love affair” with his mother, who had been
a loving, gentle soul like he. I had a feeling
that I wanted to give him back to his mother, to the person, who had given
birth to him. I was imagining that she
was waiting for him in this room. Then
suddenly I felt like I was his mother, him being so helpless in his bed. I had
been transformed from his daughter to his mother.
Then another
patient in the room became aggressive. A
nurse came in and gave him an injection. Gradually everything quieted down. The nurse rolled in a narrow cot for me to sleep
on. I rested and fell asleep for one
hour.
Then my
vigil started again. My father seemed to
have pain. I asked for morphine for him.
The situation remained stable for a while and I wandered out of the
room. I found a psalm book. I looked up a topic of preparing for death. I read
those psalms. Then I read some of them to
my father. I prayed as I could,
Lutheran, Jewish.
At 6:30 in
the morning the nurse gave me breakfast consisting of juice, yogurt, bread and
coffee. I had not eaten anything since I
came to Finland. I realized that my
father couldn’t have anything. Why
should I?
I went back
to him. His pulse rate was now slow, 60
- 50 beats per minute, the blood pressure was 60/40 mmHg. His respirations were shallow. The two other men in the room slept deeply. I was happy that they did, leaving me alone
with my father. His pulse rate dropped
to 20. I was holding him. I said I loved him. I prayed.
Suddenly he had like an electric shock.
He was vibrating. I was holding
him tight. Then there was no more
breathing. The cardiac monitor recorded a straight line. The color disappeared
from his face, which became greyish. It was still beautiful. The time was 7:19 am.
His death
had been quiet. He had not bothered anybody. I went to tell the nurses and they sent a
physician to pronounce him dead.
I had
thought that I could never stand this moment. Now it was over.
Author Biography:
I
became interested in writing in my teens after reading some fantastic,
compelling poetry and fiction, like those of the English authors
Somerset Maugham and A. C.
Cronin (both physicians). Sinclair Lewis has also deeply influenced me.
In addition, many Russian, French, Swedish and Finnish authors have put
an imprint in my mind. What about my own writings?
I have always kept diaries and I have written poems. The piece,
which I am submitting for the Creative Writing Exposition was written,
because I had to “talk” to somebody to help me go through the loss of my
father.
