A set of double doors open and we are inundated with various beeps and intercom pages. There are so many monitors hanging from the ceiling, the sight puts an airport lobby to shame. The patient’s vitals are in the place of the arrival and departure times. I want to stop and look for Dad’s name, but Journey continues at a fast pace before stopping abruptly at the nurses’ station.
“Can I help you?” A nurse asks as we rush by the central nurses’ station.
“We’re here for Harold Quinn," Journey asserts. “He’s in room 304.”
The young nurse in front of us has short blonde hair pulled into a low stumpy ponytail, the loose strands of her hair frame her empathetic eyes and enhance her blushing cheeks. She offers a slight smile as she stands from her chair and places her light pink manicured fingers, which match her complementary-colored scrubs down on the countertop where Journey is white-knuckling the edge from the other side. "Are you both family members?"
"Yes, we’re his daughters," I speak out.
"Okay," she says, sounding breathy but upbeat at the same time. "The doctors are checking him over and running a few tests, but I can let you in to see him very shortly. He’s in good hands."
"So, he’s still alive?" I ask. I don’t think I should ask this, but it’s the only question I have.
"Yes, he’s alive. We will take good care of him. There is a waiting room on the other side of this wall," the nurse says, pointing in the opposite direction of which we came. "If you want to have a seat in there, someone will come to get you when you can visit."
"Thank you," I offer, hardly making a sound through the tightness in my throat.
Journey and I make our way around the corner, finding Mom in the waiting room, in the farthest chair, near the windows. She's staring through the wall as if it's a window rather than a solid fixture. Mom appears lost by the lack of focus in her eyes. I don't think she even notices us walk in or sit down next to her, so I place my head on her shoulder and take her hand in mine.
"I’m trying to be strong," she utters. "I know it’s what your dad needs and what you both need, but I’m losing this battle."
"You don’t have to be strong," I tell her. "No one can expect us to be strong right now."
"That’s what he needs—your father," she continues.
"What happened, Mom?" Journey asks, kneeling in front of Mom’s bouncing knees.
"He said he had to use the bathroom. I tried to help him get up from the couch, but once he was up, it looked like all the blood drained from his face and he fell to the ground. I’m thankful he missed hitting the coffee table, but it was only by an inch."
"Maybe he’s just weak," I offer as a hopeful response to what happened. There is no hope. He’s a ticking clock without a time.
It feels like we have been sitting in this cold empty waiting room for hours without a word. I keep telling myself: no news means good news, but then I remember the truth.
We have taken turns checking in at the nurse’s station, but they don’t have an update.
Every time a doctor enters the waiting area, my stomach twists into a knot, then he or she walks right by us. This time, the doctor has made eye contact with Mom, though. She’s walking toward us.
"Are you the Quinn family?" She looks like a different type of doctor. While still wearing a white coat, but she’s also professionally dressed beneath, complete with heels. Her dark hair is in a tight French twist, and she’s wearing a bright shade of lipstick, making her eyes appear bright and cheerful.
"Yes," Mom says, her voice choked.
"I’m Dr. Lynne." She reaches for a chair, lifts it and places it in front of Mom before taking a seat. "I know you are all aware that your husband—your dad—hasa timeline, and I’m sure you have been told that every case we treat is different as it’s hard to predict how long someone has left," she says, taking a breath to pause. "Until particular symptoms present themselves."
This is it. The timeline, whatever it was before ... it shrunk.
"What does this mean?" Mom asks, trying to sound put together and hopeful, regardless of the negative responses we will likely hear.
"He’s showing signs of dyspnea, which means he’s having a hard time breathing. This has caused him fatigue and the weakness you may have noticed over the previous few weeks. As of now, we must keep him on high levels of oxygen, but also keep a close eye on him for the next few days to make sure further ventilation methods aren’t necessary."
I want to understand everything the doctor is saying and pretend like the outcome will be in a few days when they can send him home with an oxygen tank like I’ve seen people walk around with. "If the oxygen works?" Journey says. "Can he go home in a few days?"
I guess we have the same thought.
"It’s hard to say. Dyspnea can be a precursor to other issues, which is why we want to keep a close eye on him right now."
"Can we see him?" Mom asks, crossing her hands over her chest as if cradling her poor heart.
"Yes, of course. Harold is in room 625. If you have questions, please contact me," she says, handing Mom a business card.
