The Road Trip, Part 3: It's Gonna Be Alright

He had a pulse. It was faint but there. The doctors had revived my grandfather from cardiac arrest and urged us to get to Little Rock as quickly as possible.

He had been without a pulse for at least 20 minutes and the outlook for recovery was bleak. To have the brain go so long without blood was certain disaster. Somehow, I heard my dad recount what the doctors had told him over the phone but my faith never wavered. It wasn’t time for my granddaddy to leave me. He’d be ok. Of this, I was sure.

Hours earlier he had answered my Auntie Lois when she asked him if he could see her. “Yeah” he said, stretching both feet back and forth in the way he always did when lounging in bed. His eyes were unusually glassy so she wasn’t sure his vision was intact but his answer to the affirmative gave us all hope. The day before that he repeatedly pulled his feeding tube from his throat with his right hand; the hand that had been paralyzed just days earlier. He had regained 90% of the strength in his right hand and the doctors were making plans for physical therapy. He survived his ship being torpedoed in WWII and he’d surely survive this.

Taking two cars, the Lake clan made the hour and a half drive to the VA in the pouring rain. My expectation was to find my grandfather on life support. I’d get the opportunity to speak to him, hold his hand and will him to recovery. His spirit would recognize my presence and opt to stay on this side of eternity with his youngest grandchild.

The drive was mostly quiet with occasional lamenting of my grandfather’s refusal to take care of himself in his old age from my father and Uncle Robert. He’d rather lay in bed and be waited on. He thought it his right to be totally taken care of despite having relatively good health. He didn’t think he needed to walk to the mailbox or fix his own bowl of cereal. Sometimes it seemed he was searching for sympathy or attention with phantom illnesses. He’d been blessed with remarkably good health for almost 90 years and it seemed he was in a “use it or lose it” situation. He refused use it so it seemed he was finally losing this battle with his body.

Together, all seven of us boarded an elevator and headed to the Intensive Care Unit. My aunt picked up the phone to alert the doctor we were there. There was silence. No one said a word. We all stood in the hallway waiting what seemed an age for the doctor to let us in.

Finally the doctor walked out. She was a short white woman with glasses. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and I was shocked that she looked to be about my age. She looked my aunt in her face and said, “I’m sorry. You’re father has passed away.” Silence. We all just stared at her. “We tried everything we could. We revived him three times but the last time he just faded away.”

My aunt seemed to try to protest in disbelief. “But he spoke to me today! He was moving his feet. They were setting up his physical therapy.” Behind her and to my left, my 6-foot-4 Uncle Robert let out a guttural cry of anguish. My Uncle Grozzel walked away to weep. I moved toward my father to hold his hand and to cry on his shoulder.

My dad wouldn’t move; not even to hold my hand. His hands remained in his pockets as he stared straight ahead. I interlocked my arm with his and rested my head on his black leather jacket. My tears ran warm and fast and he finally spoke: “It’s gonna be alright.” I wasn’t so sure and neither was he, as we stood in the hall and waited to view the body.

He had been without a pulse for at least 20 minutes and the outlook for recovery was bleak. To have the brain go so long without blood was certain disaster. Somehow, I heard my dad recount what the doctors had told him over the phone but my faith never wavered. It wasn’t time for my granddaddy to leave me. He’d be ok. Of this, I was sure.

Hours earlier he had answered my Auntie Lois when she asked him if he could see her. “Yeah” he said, stretching both feet back and forth in the way he always did when lounging in bed. His eyes were unusually glassy so she wasn’t sure his vision was intact but his answer to the affirmative gave us all hope. The day before that he repeatedly pulled his feeding tube from his throat with his right hand; the hand that had been paralyzed just days earlier. He had regained 90% of the strength in his right hand and the doctors were making plans for physical therapy. He survived his ship being torpedoed in WWII and he’d surely survive this.

Taking two cars, the Lake clan made the hour and a half drive to the VA in the pouring rain. My expectation was to find my grandfather on life support. I’d get the opportunity to speak to him, hold his hand and will him to recovery. His spirit would recognize my presence and opt to stay on this side of eternity with his youngest grandchild.

The drive was mostly quiet with occasional lamenting of my grandfather’s refusal to take care of himself in his old age from my father and Uncle Robert. He’d rather lay in bed and be waited on. He thought it his right to be totally taken care of despite having relatively good health. He didn’t think he needed to walk to the mailbox or fix his own bowl of cereal. Sometimes it seemed he was searching for sympathy or attention with phantom illnesses. He’d been blessed with remarkably good health for almost 90 years and it seemed he was in a “use it or lose it” situation. He refused use it so it seemed he was finally losing this battle with his body.

Together, all seven of us boarded an elevator and headed to the Intensive Care Unit. My aunt picked up the phone to alert the doctor we were there. There was silence. No one said a word. We all stood in the hallway waiting what seemed an age for the doctor to let us in.

Finally the doctor walked out. She was a short white woman with glasses. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and I was shocked that she looked to be about my age. She looked my aunt in her face and said, “I’m sorry. You’re father has passed away.” Silence. We all just stared at her. “We tried everything we could. We revived him three times but the last time he just faded away.”

My aunt seemed to try to protest in disbelief. “But he spoke to me today! He was moving his feet. They were setting up his physical therapy.” Behind her and to my left, my 6-foot-4 Uncle Robert let out a guttural cry of anguish. My Uncle Grozzel walked away to weep. I moved toward my father to hold his hand and to cry on his shoulder.

My dad wouldn’t move; not even to hold my hand. His hands remained in his pockets as he stared straight ahead. I interlocked my arm with his and rested my head on his black leather jacket. My tears ran warm and fast and he finally spoke: "It’s gonna be alright." I wasn’t so sure and neither was he, as we stood in the hall and waited to view the body.