Except the emergency room.
I’m fine. Hubby’s fine. His dad? Not so much. Don’t worry, it’s nothing life-threatening, at least, not immediately.
Yesterday afternoon, I took a shower, got all gussied up with my new scarf draped around my shoulders, ready to have a romantic birthday dinner, just me and Hubby. That, however, was not to be.
I knew there was a possibility we’d have to take his dad to the hospital, even as I was getting ready, because earlier that day, my father-in-law had had difficulty urinating. Before that, he’d been having some issues with his kidneys and “blood in his pee,” according to Hubby.
Perhaps that was not the correct choice of words to communicate the urgency of the situation. I was imagining a slightly orange tint. What he should have said was, “Holy shit! My dad’s peeing blood!” I didn’t witness this until hours later, when we were in the emergency room, and they asked for a urine sample. What he brought back from the bathroom was a pitiful amount of blood-red liquid.
Fifteen years ago, Hubby’s dad had prostate cancer. They removed the prostate, and thus, any chance of the cancer returning. Or so we thought. He now has a tumor in the same spot, one that’s much more aggressive than the typical prostate tumor, and it’s interfering with his urinary function.
We spent more than five hours in the ER last night, my fat little birds and World War Z in tow, before he was finally admitted to urology.
Meanwhile, we saw several guys who’d been in motorcycle accidents, scraped up, carrying their helmets under their arms or, occasionally, still wearing them; an old man having a seizure and then coughing up something yellow; and a young woman who looked like death warmed over. We heard screams of pain, crying family members, and everywhere people speaking a language I don’t understand. And the smells. I don’t even want to think about the smells.
Today, he had surgery to find and repair the source of the bleeding and remove part of the tumor. Hubby and I saw him afterward and stayed in his hospital room for a couple of hours while his catheter bag filled with scarlet. The nurse said this was common after surgery, but it didn’t look any different than it did last night, before they determined he needed surgery in the first place.
I’m worried about him. I’m worried about Hubby, who is now trying to figure out if he can arrange to stay another week. I’m worried about his brother, who, no matter what happens in the short term, will be responsible for taking care of his dad after we leave.
Part of me wants to tell Hubby we should just move here. Like, now. Job or no job. Just to take care of his father. Part of me wants to return home tomorrow, where I have the luxury of being able to forget about it for a while. But he’s not my father. I know Hubby doesn’t have that luxury.