Dad's Heart Attack

Dad's Heart Attack

I adored my father.  It was a mutual admiration we shared.  A kind of love that was strong and dependable; that always made me feel safe and protected.  A love made to sooth and comfort from a skinned knee to a broken heart.  Love that made me laugh until I cried with the pure joy of sharing it.  Love when there was no conversation - just spaces of contentment rather than stoney silences. It was a love borne from more than one life shared together.  I knew it was a love that had seen us both through lifetimes of experiences, lifetimes of knowing another soul.  It was so true it couldn't be denied even though we were both still amazed when it happened.  It is hard to explain but this is what happened.

 

We were in the middle of one of those classic Queensland summertime afternoon thunderstorms.  It had been a very hot and humid day.  Oppressively so.  It was always a great relief when a storm broke and rain cooled everything.  Right now it was just a lot of flashing and crashing and my mother and I both found ourselves counting the seconds between the flashes of lightening and thunder claps.  One, two, three, four, five and there it was, that thundering sound of the grand piano being moved across the sky.  It was just five miles away from us and somewhere I thought, a tree or a house or maybe even a person was being struck by lightening.  I was amazed my mother was as calm as she was considering that she had been struck by lightening on three separate occasions.  She was careful to not go outside now in a storm if she could help it and not talk on the telephone during storms.  That was why when the phone rang on that late afternoon I answered it.



“Is that Mrs McDougal?” the scratchy voice said.  “It’s nurse Taylor here.” 

“No it’s her daughter here.  Please wait a moment,” I replied passing the phone over to my mother quickly.  I had a concerned look on my face and mouthed the name of the caller to my mother.

My mother picked up the receiver slowly and said “This is Mrs McDougal.”

She was frowning as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing, and as she dropped into a chair there were tears in her eyes.

“Oh no!  Pause. “When did it happen?”  Pause “Oh. Yes I see,” pause.  “How serious does he think,” pause.  “Will he be alright?"  pause.  “What do you mean you don’t know!”  frustrated pause.  "Well, can I speak to him or to his doctor?"  Pause. ..."but..." interruption.  "Please speak up I am having trouble hearing you..."  shaking the phone... "Are you sure I don't need to come!" long pause.  “Can you hear me?  Please answer me?” she said with exasperation. 

She clicked the received three or four times screaming into it. The phone was dead.



"What’s happened Mum?  Tell me… what’s happened...It's Dad isn't it?"  My voice trembled as  I looked for confirmation and information in my mother's eyes.  "Tell me!" I screamed.

Clearing her throat in an effort to regain her composure, my mother took my hand and led me to the kitchen table.  "Sit" was all she said.  As I lifted out the white wooden kitchen chair it caught on a piece of cracked lino under the table making the motion both awkward and noisy.  I looked at my mother apologetically casting my eyes down onto a small tea-stain on the checked tablecloth.  The table was half set for the evening meal, and soon my brother and sister would be home.  My mother glanced at the kitchen clock as if taking a mental note for future reference.  She checked the pots on the stove, stiring one and turning down the other.  She brought an ashtray and her cigarette case and lighter over to the table with her and sat down opposite me.



"Yes, it's your father," she said in a quiet controlled almost deadpan voice.  "He's sick in the hospital in Rockhampton."  She reached for her cigarettes and lighting one inhaled the curls of blue smoke greedily looking for courage to continue the story.  "There is no easy way of telling you this," she said in pained tone.  "I really don’t know how serious it is because the phone cut out as I was put through to the doctor.”

She put down the cigarette and pushed the ashtray away so the smoke cloud moved away from us like a distant volcano.  Resting her folded arms on the table she looked to me for some reassurance while trying to offer me the same. 

“I just don't know…the nurse said it was touch and go there for awhile but he is much better now.  I don’t know what to think.  Should I go or should I wait by the phone for more news.  It would take me over a day to get there. 

I agreed with my mother that somebody in the family needed to be there or at least find out more information.  It was a surreal experience neither of us could quite grasp or believe, and while we knew some decision needed to be made it was also a case of trying to get back in touch with the hospital to clarify just how bad things really were. 

“Right now I think its best for everybody to carry on as usual.  Go have your bath and when the other kids get home we’ll eat.  I’ll tell them what’s happening when they get in.” 

I was having a bath and I remember saying my prayer out loud to God so that I knew he would hear me.  The walls and tiled floor echoed my plea making me feel like I was in a cathedral.  The water dripped out a rapid beat in the background becoming louder in my mind, in tune with my own thudding almost deafening heartbeat.  I closed my eyes and begged God to save him.  I talked to my father and begged him not to leave us. 



Even though I was only seven years old then and my father was several hundred miles away lying in a hospital bed on the critical list I knew he could hear me.  That was the answer God gave me.  That he could hear me and he wouldn’t leave us this time.  I was so grateful I wept and let my salty tears dissolve away the past hour of anxiety and distress.  I heard my fathers voice in my head and he spoke very softly to me.  I wasn’t frightened at all.  I knew it was him.

“Now love, tell your mother its all going to be fine.  I’m ok and I’ll be home soon.  Tell her love.  Do this thing for me.”

“Yes Dad I will.  I’ll tell her right now.  I promise.  Please come home soon.”

He said he would be home on Thursday evening.  The day train if he was well enough or by plane if the doctor approved it. 

When I told my mother that I Dad had spoken to me she smiled.  She didn’t believe me I knew.  I pushed the point by saying that he wasn’t sure if he’d fly or catch the day train but that he’d be home on Thursday night.

Dad did arrive home on Thursday evening at 6.30pm and I was the one waiting on the front steps like I always did when the cab pulled up at the front of our house.  I was never so glad to see anybody in my whole life as I was to see my father that day. 

My father told us that he had been admitted after having a heart attack while visiting an old client of his who fortunately was a GP.  He immediately got an ambulance and went with my father to hospital ensuring he received the best possible medical care on the spot.  While being examined he had another more serious heart attack which required heavy sedation and support.  That was when the GP friend advised the nurse to contact us immediately. 

I can still remember sitting with my brother’s and sister’s at dinner that evening and saying grace.  We all bowed our heads and gave thanks for the gifts which we were about to receive.

I pushed back a scrap of wild curl from my face, the one that always fell in the middle of my forehead.  The one Dad used to play with and say..."there was a little girl, who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead, and when she was good she was very, very good, and when she was bad she was horrid."  It was a time I would always remember as being very, very good.