Unplugged and still ticking

Here it is only February and the year is already crazy. I guess calm just isn't part of our world. Whatever. We deal with it.
So... on Wednesday, January 23rd, my dad had a doctors appointment that landed him in the ER. He wasn't well. He hadn't been well. We all knew this but no one knew to what extent. Not even him.
Long story shorter, I decided I needed to get to Kansas City and got on a plane Saturday morning. As I landed in KC, I learned that my dad was on a ventilator, unable to breathe on his own.
Terrifying.
I think the most terrifying part was knowing he was alone. Just not something you want for someone you love.
Or someone you hate.
A dear friend of mine picked me up at the airport and whisked me away to the hospital. Thank God she was with me because I wasn't quite prepared for what I saw.
It was my dad in a way I never envisioned. Lifeless, breathing with each push of the machine, not moving. Such an odd sight and a horrifying realization that he may never piss me off again. I wanted him to sit up and say something to piss me off. But he didn't.

I spent the next three days at his side. I had a crossword puzzle but usually got lost in the motion of the machine making him breathe. And waiting to see what he could do (or couldn't do) on his own. With each trial of removing the ventilator, it was obvious he was not able to breathe without these tubes. And each doctor that entered the room seemed to paint such a dismal situation. And with each passing hour, I knew that this was not what he would want.

His brothers and sisters, my sister and I all discussed and knew what needed to be done. I made arrangements with Hospice and got the information on who to call once that last breath was taken. I made many phone calls to many different people letting them know the situation.
Many tears were shed.

Wednesday morning we were all to gather at the hospital. I arrived extra early, like I had been doing. He was awake and semi alert. They sedations had been minimized in order to increase his chances of being able to breath on his own. He followed me with his eyes.
I asked him if he wanted the tubes out, he nodded his head yes. I asked him if he knew he may not be able to breathe without them, he nodded his head yes.
Then something peculiar happened.
He made a gun with his pointer finger and his thumb. Since his arms were restrained (common for patients on vents), he leaned a bit to the side with his "gun" aimed at his chin. I was horrified but asked him if he wanted a gun. His eyes looked deep into mine and he made his gun again and did this motion yet again. And again. And again.
I was devastated at what he was asking but also felt he knew this was the end.
Then I looked at him again and saw frustration on his face. And then it hit me.

"Daddy. Do you have an itch?"

Yes. That's it. An itch on his chin. Of course. The man isn't asking for a gun, his asking for someone to scratch his beard we've told him needed trimmed for years.

I scratched his beard, laughed and slowly realized this outcome might not be what we are all thinking.

Fast forward three hours.

My dad was tube free, breathing on his own, sitting up, watching the History channel and asking if the nurse would scratch his ass and angry we weren't bringing him a diet coke.
And he had already managed to piss me off.

Hospice backed off and the transplant team that was on hold for his eyes were notified. He later apologized for this in his smart alleck way.

It's been almost two weeks since we unplugged my dad. He's now in a rehab facility with a good chance of returning to his apartment or perhaps an assisted care situation. Regardless, he's not dead.

He is sick and does have a long road ahead of him. He has several lung ailments on top of his Congestive Heart Failure. But that was not his time to go.

I'm hopeful he will eventually be able to make a trip down to our new home and see where we have settled ourselves. He would love it here. The peace and quiet, the country, the animals and the closeness to the ocean would all make him quite happy.  Hopefully he'll be here soon to see everything. For now, he needs to get stronger.
I ask him how he is feeling and he says "Pretty good for a dead guy."

And he also reassured me that I should not make a career out of caring for terminally ill patients and that I suck at charades. Doctors has said he wouldn't remember a lot but of course he remember this.  That's ok.

 He doesn't remember me cutting his moustache or nose hairs. Touche' old man.