Burn

New year’s resolutions—does anyone really like these? I have never been a fan. It creates pressure and stress for me, which eventually turn into some sort of failure. Who wants that hanging over her head? Not me. I gave up on resolutions long ago. There are things I would like to improve about my life and myself. I work on those things, but I don’t make them resolutions. Also, they tend to not be things that have an end. To me, resolutions are things you make for the year. I fully support resolutions for those people who they work for. That’s just not me.

Years ago, when I gave up resolutions, I embraced a new tradition. I call it “Burn, Baby, Burn.” We used to have an annual New Year’s Eve party that was always themed. There was an 80’s party where I dressed up as an 80’s mom and completely grossed out one of my in-laws. Oops. Oh, and my brother-in-law had the best costume that year. Check it out! 

Say Anything

There was the pajama party because, well, that just made sense. We had a “Very Swayze New Year” the year Patrick Swayze passed away. It was complete with classics like Roadhouse, Dirty Dancing, and Point Break. I also created a “Very Swayze” trivia game that we would play throughout the night. My personal favorite was the year we had a “Very Springer New Year.” People dressed up as Jerry Springer guests. We had a faux brick wall that people could have their picture made in front of. In attendance were strippers, hookers, and a variety of men from all walks of life. ;) We played a game called “Who’s Your Daddy?” I won’t go into details. If you were there, you know why! These were good times, and the partying was interrupted when I was diagnosed with cancer. I didn’t feel like much of anything during that time, and we just stopped hosting.

All is not lost, though! During all of these themed parties, we did have one tradition that I loved. We played “Burn, Baby, Burn.” Instead of resolutions, we would write down all of the things we wanted to leave behind that year. You could write down as many or as few as you like. Then we would wait until 11:59. Everyone would gather around the roaring fire we had built in the fireplace, and we would throw all of our nastiness into the fire and leave it behind. We started the year fresh. Baggage free! This doesn’t mean we still didn’t make it funny. In fact, even my dogs get in on the fun. Of course, I choose things for them because I don’t speak their language, and they have no thumbs to hold the pen to write anything down.

Funny dog notes

As another New Year’s Eve approaches, I am thinking about things I want to leave behind. Maybe some people? Maybe. As 2014 comes to an end, I will be Marching Fourth into 2015 with a few less things. Happy New Year, y'all!

Bypass

I woke up on a Saturday morning and realized I had forgot to ask my mom to pick me up some N.C. apples on her trip that day. Al and I were visiting that day and spending the night, so I wanted to make sure I got in touch with her. I called early. She answered and was upset. She started whispering. “Daddy’s really sick. He can’t walk. He’s been sick for over a week, and he went downhill fast last night. I don’t know what to do.” Let me explain. My dad has been to a doctor less than a dozen times since I have been alive. I don’t really know why, but it’s just something we were all used to—daddy doesn’t go to the doctor. I tried to get more information from my mom, but she was really upset. I got off of the phone and talked to Al. I told him we needed to get ready and get to their house pronto. I called my mom back, and she was almost in tears. “Daddy got up and tried to put his clothes on to go get apples. He laid down in the kitchen floor and told me to leave him alone.” I sighed and at this point was still unsure of how dire the situation would get. “Mom, you can’t let daddy lay in the kitchen floor and expire. I know he won’t get in an ambulance or let them treat him. Just get him in the car and to urgent care. We will figure something out. I’m on my way.”

We got ready quickly and piled the dogs in the car. I called my sister. She was taking my nephew to a play rehearsal and was on the road. I told her I was heading to town and would keep her updated. On the way, I finally got in touch with my mom. “They are admitting daddy to the heart center. He has lost a lot of blood from internal bleeding and needs a blood transfusion. They aren’t sure where the bleeding is coming from.” My mind was racing. Internal blood loss? Heart center? It wasn’t really adding up at this point for me. I was just scared, but I still felt that he would be ok. He’s so strong. I knew he had to really be in pain to go to the hospital. I was kind of shocked he was going.

I called my sister back and told her she better meet me at the heart center. She made arrangements. I rushed to the 4^th floor, and the elevator doors opened. There was my mother. It’s important to note that she’s 71 years old, but no one told her that. There she sat with her stylish hair, her red lipstick, and a black leather jacket trimmed in ruffles. The woman goes everywhere in style. I was in sweats and Uggs. I went to my dad’s room. He was so pale—almost translucent. He was in pain. My sister arrived shortly after, and we pow-wowed. Our daddy was not going to be ignored and left in that damn room. We were on those doctors and nurses, and I have to say that they responded calmly and well. They did exactly what they were supposed to do. I just wanted it done faster because I was starting to panic.

After a few hours, the blood transfusion began. That kept my panic at bay a bit. Daddy started complaining of chest pains, and for some reason it finally hit me. He was having a heart attack. There wasn’t anything they could do because of the internal bleeding. If they gave him the types of drugs you give people having heart attacks, then his blood would thin and he could bleed out. We sat in that tiny room and watched my father suffer a heart attack. There was nothing else we could do. He was talking to us, and he kept insisting that on a scale of 1-10 that his pain was maybe a 3. Bullshit. I had a hair appointment in town that day, and he was insistent that I go. So, I did. Al sat with me, and I alternated between just being able to talk and silent tears rolling down my face. My stylist was finishing up, and my phone rang. It was my sister. “You need to get here now. Right now. We are on the 2^nd floor.” Al rushed me there. The cardiologist had done a heart cath. My daddy had three major blocks. Emergency open-heart surgery was a must. The cardiologist was grim. “He may not live through the night for surgery.” That’s what he said. He was admitted to the critical care unit, and we waited to see him. As we were waiting, we ended up being able to talk to one of his nurses. My mother, who never really shows much emotion and hadn’t that day, spoke up to the nurse. “I like him. Please save him.” It was so simple and so sweet. And, it just seemed more powerful than I love him. He’s her friend, and she needed him.

We went back to spend some time with him. Visitation was limited because of his condition. My sis and I just stood there talking as silent tears rolled down our faces. He was in so much pain. His surgeon came in and explained what would happen. If he made it through the night, then open-heart surgery would be first thing in the morning. If he started to lose him in the middle of the night, then he was going in no matter what. It was the surgeon’s version of a hail mary. He had no idea if my dad was still bleeding internally or where it was coming from. He just knew that if he opened this man up and performed open-heart surgery with all of the blood thinners he would have to use, then he could lose him. My mom, sister, and I stood at the end of his bed and prepared to say goodnight. We knew it was more than that. My dad smiled. He raised his hand in a small wave to us. He said, “Well, it’s been a good ride. I love you all.” It was sweet. It was wonderful. And, it was so, so painful and scary. I had come to a place in my life where I had to possibly hear my daddy’s last words to me. We headed back to my sister’s house.

We opened the door, and I saw Al. I lost it. I sobbed. I screamed. I snotted up the entire joint. My 11-year-old nephew wrapped his arms around me from behind. He has always called me MizAnt and spelled it that way. He said, “MizAnt needs some support.” And he just held on. I had Al wrapped around the front of me, and I had my nephew wrapped around the back. My sister and I tried to lie down, but we were up all night. She knocked on the bedroom door at 6:00 a.m. I panicked. She immediately said, “Daddy’s alive. He’s going to surgery soon, and we need to be there at 7:00 to see him.” He had made it through the night. Was it going to be ok?

We bundled up and picked up my mom on the way. She had wanted to be by herself the night before. We got there, and he looked the same. He wanted to live. I could see it in his face. He wasn’t giving up. This was good. Very good. We spent about an hour or so with him and talked about old movies we liked. We talked a lot about The Quiet Man. We both love the visuals in that movie. He would lay there and wince in pain, but continue to feed me quotes from the movie. Everyone began to gather in his room and get him ready. We had to say goodbye again.  And we waited.

One hour in and there was an update. The bleeding was from 3 ulcers. It had stopped on its on. No bleeding going into surgery. This was the best news we could expect at this point. Two hours in and another update. Surgery going well. Yes! Over three hours had passed, and here came the surgeon. “It went very, very well. It looks good. I did three bypasses, and it looks good.” I am not a hugger, but I jumped up and latched on to that man. My sister did, too. My mom took a minute. She still wasn’t showing much emotion, but I knew something had to be going on in her. We grabbed something to eat while they got him out of surgery and in his room. We spent the next three days waiting on him to be strong enough to wake up. We would go for our limited visits that we were allowed and just talk to him and touch him. I think somewhere in the state he was in that he knew we were there. On the third day, I rounded the corner to his room and there he sat. In a chair. And staring angrily at some grits that he deemed, “Bad. These aren’t like my grits.” He was still very out of it, and I don’t know how much of it he really remembers. I know he would get emotional at the quality of care he was receiving from his nurses. He just couldn’t believe that they would take such good care of him. I really had no idea what they do either until I witnessed it. They sat on a chair at the end of his bed and tended to all of his needs. They never left his side.

He was transferred out of critical care, and he came home days later. Home.  He was fixed. His first order of business was a shower, and then he gave a soliloquy on how hell was a Hill-Rom adjustable hospital bed. He didn’t like the hospital bed. Today, he is getting back into his walking routine. Before the heart attack, my dad ate a well-balanced diet, didn’t smoke, didn’t drink, wasn’t overweight, and he walked 7 miles a day. It was just genetics. He couldn’t control it. He’s going to live. This experience has changed all four of us in so many ways. Probably in ways that I will never even really comprehend. I just feel the ways. My daddy is different. My sister described the change best. “He’s still daddy. He’s just his best self.” And he is. And he’s here—Marching Fourth.