As I stepped off the train from the TFC game last night, there was a message from my sister that my dad had been taken to the hospital. The nursing home had sent him, only indicating he was feverish and unresponsive. What does that mean when it's someone who can't talk or even sit up?? My dad is living out a '50s horror movie where you have all your senses but can't talk or move.
I headed straight to Grace Hospital at Birchmount & Finch not knowing what to expect. The last time he was taken in, they told us to assemble the family (the non-catholic's equivalent of last rites). This time, I couldn't get ahold of Laurel but her voice on the message had been unrecognizable even with the call display. I hoped she hadn't called Ryan who was attending a friend's funeral in New Brunswick because it would be an unnecessary upset.
Scarborough Grace's emergency room was much less busy than Centenary and North York's (his last two ambulance destinations) and they knew exactly who I was there for when I approached the desk. I was actually surprised at his condition. I had prepared myself for the worst. Don't get me wrong, it was bad; he was bloated, jaundiced, heart rate over 125 but steady, feverish, blisters on his mouth and tongue, oozing ulcers on his shin and one leg was strangely floppy and limp. However, it was nothing near as bad as the last time.
My sister had called Ryan because she has a terrible throat infection and had hoped he could meet the ambulance at Grace. When he sent a text explaining where he was, she had responded that he shouldn't worry. I texted him with an update as soon as I left the hospital.
Just a couple of days ago when a friend had inquired how he was doing, I had commented that trips to the nursing home weren't so much visits as they were making sure they weren't killing him in one of a million ways... I said that I was feeling more human now that I wasn't going to the nursing home every day. Immersed in the decay, neglect and death. Now I'm back on the treadmill. I realized it this morning as I grabbed an extra large coffee and sesame bagel with cheese for breakfast...the same thing I grabbed for dinner last night as I rushed out from the train station. The drive starts out relaxed enough but not knowing what to expect, what's occured in the hours since I left him, etc. I become so stressed in the drive and I become such an a-hole, aggressive driver, it's surprising I haven't been pulled over. I convince myself that my dad will be dead before I can get to the hospital. Of course he's not. He's still in the ICU but the nurse I spoke to doesn't know if it's because of his condition or they just don't have the room for him. When I explained that they had talked about doing chest and hip x-rays she decided that must be why.

When I got back to PC, I decided I needed a paddle asap. Rachel E. was doing the learn to paddle program. I told her not to worry about me and to lock up when she left but she said not to worry - Dray was coming down to do it later. I went out and had a great 90 minute paddle. I felt much better as I pulled my boat out of the water. Unfortunately, a couple of C U Next TuesdayS (masters women, you know who the queen bees are) were just returning their boats from the chicken bowl in Welland and jumped on me immediately; why was the club open, why was there stuff everywhere, Dray should have been there precisely at 1:00pm to lock up... I was listening to my iPod and made the mistake of removing my ear buds when I saw their lips moving. I thought they were just saying hello. Anyway, I did my best to explain that everything was under control, Dray was probably detained somewhere, nobody died because the club was unlocked and unattended for 45 minutes and changed the subject by asking Tamlyn (who was there with them) how the worlds were. It was a relief when they left and the clucking stopped. I've never known any paddlers to stress the way self-important masters do - too bad they have to spread it around instead of keeping it to themselves. I was grateful to see Tamas P. there unloading boats as I left. He, of course, was normal and asked how my paddle was, no he didn't need help with the trailer and not to worry, he'd lock up.
Now I'm sitting at home with a cold glass of Santa Margherita pinot, a good book and listening to Remy Shand - I'll be fine.