Grandpa's Grandkids

They were both teenagers, out-of-town grandchildren, a girl and a boy, spending several weeks of their summer vacation visiting with Grandma and Grandpa. They had been doing it for years. It was tradition.

It was their first time to our ER. An unplanned visit, of course. For all the summers and all the weeks spent in our town, never once did either teenager or their grandparents have to visit us. No lacerations. No broken bones. No typical summer injuries that required our attention.

They were sweet, this girl and boy. Despite their tired and worried faces, they smiled and spoke kindly to one another. And to us. They showered their attention on their grandparents, clearly comfortable and unabashed in showing their deep love and respect. The way it should be.

Their Grandpa was sick. They hadn't planned on Grandma and Grandpa waking them in the middle of this night. But Grandma did wake them, right after she had called the ambulance to have Grandpa brought to us. Pillow creases etched their innocent cheeks, their yawning but feeble attempts to wash their tiredness away.

Their Grandpa had awoken from his sleep with severe and sudden abdominal pain. He hadn't eaten anything unusual, nor had he been ill. No fever. Never had anything like this before. But Grandpa did have hypertension, adult-onset diabetes, and hypercholesterolemia. And his blood pressure readings were dangerously low. Most alarming, Grandpa had diminished leg pulses when compared to his arm pulses. This was serious.

Grandpa had a ruptured abdominal aortic aneurysm. A life-threatening diagnosis

I performed a quick ultrasound to confirm the problem, all the while giving Grandpa aggressive IV fluids, low doses of pain medication, and starting blood transfusions. The cardiothoracic surgeon was called in emergently and the OR was prepared. We worked quickly and efficiently, time not our friend.

Tenderly but urgently, I spoke with Grandma and Grandpa and the two grandchildren about my concerns with Grandpa's symptoms. I explained that a dissecting abdominal aortic aneurysm is life-threatening and, similar to a sprung leak in a water dam, Grandpa's abdomen was filling with blood leaking from the ruptured wall of his aorta, our body's biggest oxygen-delivering vessel. That time was of the essence. That this leak would only get bigger until it ruptured, without emergency surgery. That Grandpa's life was at stake.

Grandpa's grandchildren, with Grandma, stood in the corner of the room, their faces transforming before me, their innocence circling the drain after being bathed by the harshness of reality. Grandma held each of their hands within hers. Eyes began to glisten as tears silently filled their corners, spilling over. Prayers were whispered.

I offered the grandchildren the option to step out and be comfortable in the family room, maybe something to eat. Just a few minutes away from the commotion. They declined, opting to remain in the comfort of Grandma and Grandpa's presence, in spite of the circumstances, rather that keep company with a floral-print love seat and seafoam painted walls. The right choice.

"But," stammered the younger of the grandchildren, the boy, "I don't understand. If Grandpa's this sick, how can he still talk to us? How come he is still awake?"

My heart was heavy as I watched this boy's hopeful eyes. His older sister stepped up to his side, wrapping her arm around his shoulder.

I reassured the boy before explaining to him, as well as the rest of the family, how we were fighting hard for his Grandpa, how we were giving him IV fluids, blood transfusions, and other medications. How these things were helping Grandpa temporarily. How we all wanted his Grandpa to do well and were using everything in our power to make that happen. "But," I said, cautiously and honestly, "there will be a point where we can no longer keep up with the blood he is losing from his leaking aorta, and that will be the scary moment. That is why we are hurrying to get him to the operating room."

They nodded their understanding to me before embracing one another, leaning over the cot's rail to include Grandpa, who was getting visibly weaker. Grandma tenderly stroked his scalp, front to back, as she whispered in his ear. He smiled from her words. The grandkids caressed his hands. He smiled from their touch. I walked out of their room, quite affected by their expressions of love. Especially in the midst of their pain.

Usually, when death is an imminent danger and time is precious, I make it a point to express to the family to share their emotions and thoughts, share those words and feelings that may have been assumed or bottled through the years. Share their love. Watching these grandparents with their grandchildren, though, I felt no need for that. Clearly, they had been sharing their love all along. Right to the end.

Grandpa lost consciousness on his way to the OR. CPR was started in the elevator. Emergent intubation was performed in the hallway that lead to the OR (this had been held off in the ER because the family had requested as much time as possible to talk). Blood transfusions were continued. Pulses, heart rate, and breathing remained fragile.

Despite each of our best efforts, Grandpa lost his life in the middle of that awful night on the OR table.

Damn it all.

At some point, as we expected, his aortic wall just gave out and there was nothing further that could be done. His small leak had progressed to a full rupture, and he essentially bled-out from his aorta into his abdomen.

When I think back to those grandchildren on that fateful night, I still hurt for them. Imagine spending a nice summer day with your grandparents and, at the end of the day, climbing into a quilt-covered, lumpy bed to go to sleep. In the middle of your sleep, you are urgently awoken to accompany your sick grandfather to the hospital. And there, you watch him die an unsettling death. Talking one moment, and gone the next.

I remember the grandchildrens' faces the most. Their pitiful expressions. Their caring. Their pain. Their disbelief. Their worry. Their tears. Their sadness while watching their grandfather grow weaker. I can only hope that those faces are smiling again. That time has been kind. That their good memories have survived, sprouting wings to fly above the breezes of the bad.

You know what most reassures me to think that this family is fine? That they have survived and moved on? It is the simple truth that Grandpa had loved his grandkids. And they had known. Their final moments together reflected this love. Grandpa could give them no greater gift than this, a gift that, I hope, they will carry with them through their life's journey.

A grandfather's love for his grandkids. How privileged was I to bear witness during their darkest hour?

As always, thanks for reading. Next post will be on Monday, March 15. See you then...and watch out Hilton Head, here we come!

Pass The Clicker

In the spirit of this Thanksgiving holiday, a humorous peek into my home life...

I'm a typical guy who, if given the chance, will sit on my leather sofa with TV remote in hand and slowly meld into the cushion, oblivious to the fact that I am watching for the third time the same episode of "Trading Spaces" or that I may not have changed my underwear in two days. With this in mind, my wife and I made a decision about four years ago to cancel all but our most basic cable channels.

Who am I kidding! If I'm going to be honest here, she made the decision. I had no say. I still get teary-eyed thinking back to that awful day.

To complicate matters, the cable company screwed up our cancellation. Yes, they lowered our bill from $50 to $16, but they kept forgetting to reduce our cable plan to the basic package. As a result, we continued to get all the big package channels. All for the fantastic price of $16! Can you imagine how frustrating it was for me to hear my wife call the cable company ten times, requesting them to come and "fix the problem."

I saw no problem. We were getting a hundred channels for $16. Where's the problem?

"The problem is that it's dishonest," she replied.

I think her honesty may be the death of me.

Now, though, with the kids growing older and outgrowing PBS (our only kid-friendly channel among our huge selection of 12 channels), we were faced with another dilemma. What could they watch? We were stuck between "SpongeBob SquarePants" and "CSI." There was no gray zone of good television for our kids.

Low and behold, we discovered our favorite television series on DVD. We made trips to Walmart, Target, and Best Buy and were frequent visitors on Amazon.com. We snatched up "Little House on the Prairie," "The Waltons," "Happy Days," "Laverne and Shirley," "Leave It To Beaver," "Gilligan's Island," and "The Brady Bunch." There's more, but these were the shows that made the biggest impact.

Our kids were in heaven. If they liked Season 1 of something, we moved on to Season 2. And Season 3. And Season 4. I'm going to be honest here--I thoroughly enjoyed revisiting these classics. Probably more than the kids.

I discovered that I did not attain much personal growth traveling from my childhood into adulthood. I still liked Mary more than Laura. I rooted for Jan over Marcia, Marcia, Marcia. Laverne made me laugh, but Shirley held my heart in her hand. Did I really think Richie Cunningham was cool? And Mary Ann versus Ginger? Let me tell you, if you put your hair in pigtails and wear a red-checkered shirt and tie the bottom in a knot around your waist, I'll eat the scraps from your plate.

Mrs. Cleaver remained my fantasy mother. Just once I wanted to wake up and find my own mother, awesome though she was, serving me breakfast in full makeup and an evening gown! I remember Mom rolling her eyes when I asked her to play along with me on that. Nope, it didn't happen.

And how could I not mention Eddie Haskell, my idol? I got tired of my friends and family mentioning that I was his twin, but he did teach me that good manners and sincere politeness could take you far. Thank you very much. And by the way, did I mention how nice you look today?

I could not let this moment pass without mentioning how much I still love Grandma Walton. Not for the physical reasons, mind you, but just for the fact that I had never known someone who was so moody and sour. It was a new experience to watch such a crotchety character. I was so thankful she wasn't my grandma. I can only imagine what kind of mood Grandma Walton would be in the first time her bladder didn't hold out. Can you even imagine her shrilling voice? "John Boy, get over here right now and change my diaper!" Ugh. Keep writing, John Boy, and get yourself out of that house. Because up on those mountains, my friend, you wash the diapers by hand. In the cold creek.

The biggest hit for my kids, though, was and still is "I Love Lucy." Although I didn't see this one coming, my wife did. My daughters, 13 and 8, love everything about Lucy. And my son, 11, cheers right along with the girls. The candy factory line, the grape-stomping, the vitameatavegamin commercial--you know what I'm talking about. We all have our favorites--are you thinking of yours right now? Just hearing my kids gut-busting laughter from a show that is 50+ years old is a miracle in and of itself. It's hard to believe, but the episodes only seem to have gotten funnier.

We recently traveled to Hilton Head and instead of playing music overhead in the car, my wife and I listened to the episodes that the kids were watching. Better than music, I tell you, better than music.

And I know what you are thinking--NO, we are not pathetic!

I think a visit to Lucy's museum in her hometown of Jamestown, N.Y. is going to happen someday soon. I just need someone to promise me that it won't be a bust.

Okay, so maybe that's a little pathetic. But they just might have a picture of Lucy in pigtails wearing a red-checkered tied-at-the-waist shirt. Then who's going to have the last laugh?

Now, pass me my clicker. Peter's just about to say "Porkchops...and applesauce."


Thanks for reading...next post will be Monday, November 30.