Dad Went Home

This last Saturday, my dad was scheduled to go home after two months in the hospital, and my wife and I were gearing up to handle it.

The end of his last hospital stay, a year ago, things had gotten ugly. After being stuck in a hospital room for six weeks, he just wanted to leave. Unfortunately, the hospital staff bungled his discharge and they had to keep him there an extra week until they straightened everything out. That was enough to turn him into an angry son of a bitch. When it was time to take him home, he was pissed as hell and very demanding.

This stay was even longer—in part because it was extended two weeks when he caught a hospital infection—so my wife and I were preparing for a long and tiring day.

When we got to his room, the staff were just preparing to shave him and wash his hair. I went down to the pharmacy to pick up his discharge medicines, and by the time I got back he was ready to go. We took him downstairs and loaded him in the car, tucked in under a hospital blanket to keep him warm.

We drove dad home in silence, and he just stared out at the new world outside the hospital. It was a beautiful Spring day. The trees were filled with new leaves, the grass was all lush and green, the lilacs were in bloom. Somehow I hadn’t noticed this happening while I was visiting him every day in the hospital.

He had to struggle to make it up the stairs into the apartment, but once he got inside, he grabbed his walker and made his way to the bedroom. Despite the disturbing episodes of delerium in the hospital, now that he was home he had very little trouble remembering how his world worked. We helped him out of his street clothes and into bed. In a few minutes, he was napping comfortably.

It couldn’t have gone better.