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This is the night that we had to call 911 for Pop.
At about three in the morning, I am awoken by Kay crying out somewhat hysterically that something is wrong with Pop. This isn’t a big surprise. I have been expecting this to happen. I just hoped we had more time. I rush into Pop’s bedroom, wondering what horrific scene waits for me.
It looked like my worst fears realized. Pop is in bed. His eyes are open and is breathing and alive, but he has zero responsiveness. I try to shake him out of it, but at most I provoke his reflex to swing his arm out, as though fending off a threat. I am afraid that this is a stroke, and if he does not die, he will be a vegetable, and I start wondering if I can really shoot myself.
Before I pick up the phone, I get reassurance from Kay that this is the thing to do. After all, we will be troubling professionals and it will cost a good bit of money, and we really don’t know what is going on. But she agrees, and I shoot the flare up into the sky, “Help, help!”
I suppose they were here in five minutes, though a minute at such instances drags and drags. They came in two trucks, which seemed strange, but it wasn’t something to think about at that time. They start streaming liquids directly into his veins. Glucose, I think. I am surprised and relieved when Pop starts coming to within a few minutes. He is clearly woozy and disoriented, but it is clear that he has not suffered real brain damage. It’s going to be alright.
His blood sugar was down into the twenties, which is deadly low. They insist that Pop eat something. One of the techs actually makes him a sandwich, as I hurriedly get him a glass of orange juice and help him drink. Things get a little comical at this point. Here we were frightened for Pop’s life, and now he gets fussy about what he is eating. He says he doesn’t like turkey. I tell him that it’s chicken, but he doesn’t care for the sandwich at all. He says he isn’t hungry. The techs make it clear that if he doesn’t eat something, they will have to take him to the hospital, and Pop definitely doesn’t want that. They say his blood sugar will plunge back down in another couple of hours if he doesn’t get some real food into his system. He says that eggs would be alright. Seeing that Kay is not going to get up and make them, I rush to the kitchen and start firing up a couple of eggs. Kay then comes to help. I microwave a sausage for good measure, though Pop will only take a baby bite of that.
The techs leave and life renormalizes quickly. But for how much longer?
At about three in the morning, I am awoken by Kay crying out somewhat hysterically that something is wrong with Pop. This isn’t a big surprise. I have been expecting this to happen. I just hoped we had more time. I rush into Pop’s bedroom, wondering what horrific scene waits for me.
It looked like my worst fears realized. Pop is in bed. His eyes are open and is breathing and alive, but he has zero responsiveness. I try to shake him out of it, but at most I provoke his reflex to swing his arm out, as though fending off a threat. I am afraid that this is a stroke, and if he does not die, he will be a vegetable, and I start wondering if I can really shoot myself.
Before I pick up the phone, I get reassurance from Kay that this is the thing to do. After all, we will be troubling professionals and it will cost a good bit of money, and we really don’t know what is going on. But she agrees, and I shoot the flare up into the sky, “Help, help!”
I suppose they were here in five minutes, though a minute at such instances drags and drags. They came in two trucks, which seemed strange, but it wasn’t something to think about at that time. They start streaming liquids directly into his veins. Glucose, I think. I am surprised and relieved when Pop starts coming to within a few minutes. He is clearly woozy and disoriented, but it is clear that he has not suffered real brain damage. It’s going to be alright.
His blood sugar was down into the twenties, which is deadly low. They insist that Pop eat something. One of the techs actually makes him a sandwich, as I hurriedly get him a glass of orange juice and help him drink. Things get a little comical at this point. Here we were frightened for Pop’s life, and now he gets fussy about what he is eating. He says he doesn’t like turkey. I tell him that it’s chicken, but he doesn’t care for the sandwich at all. He says he isn’t hungry. The techs make it clear that if he doesn’t eat something, they will have to take him to the hospital, and Pop definitely doesn’t want that. They say his blood sugar will plunge back down in another couple of hours if he doesn’t get some real food into his system. He says that eggs would be alright. Seeing that Kay is not going to get up and make them, I rush to the kitchen and start firing up a couple of eggs. Kay then comes to help. I microwave a sausage for good measure, though Pop will only take a baby bite of that.
The techs leave and life renormalizes quickly. But for how much longer?
