Gina's dad is no longer among the living. Mind you, he's still alive ... just not living.
Gina's dad has been in and out of hospital care going on pretty close to a year now. It's been a slow build since we returned last July from Costa Rica.
First for checkups. Then he'd be checked in for a few days to get his body regulated, and then sent home. Then there was the car accident (when he shouldn't have been driving in the first place) that left him in the hospital for five days. And then home with a new set of instructions on how to better his life. I think the longest stay at home he's had since last July was three weeks (and that's being generous, I think).
His current hospital stay is going on six months. He has no home of his own to go to any more. He's on a ventilator. Has dialysis on a regular basis. He can't talk any more, and he's unable to hold a pen steady enough to write.
Six months of a holding pattern. Six months of nothing really. Six months of trying to get on with our lives, while in the back of our minds, that tugging guilt from not being able to do more.
This weekend, we got a call telling us that he was regressing. They said it might be time to get down there.
So, we drop everything and make the 60-mile drive from Colton, with a stop in Anaheim for babysitting, to Westminster. We get to the hospital just after they've moved him from a regular room back to the intensive care unit.
Where a few months ago, he could react to us by expressing emotion in his face ... that's gone now. He appears to have an infection in his eyes, and we're not sure if he can even see us. Or hear us. He's had dialysis for three days in a row in the hope that removing the toxins affecting his body will make him better.
We were there Saturday for a couple of hours. We went back Sunday after a morning call to the nurse's station said he was struggling more than he was yesterday. I took two days off. Gina took one.
But after our visit Sunday, we were left with the same feeling we've had for months. One of despair, one of guilt and one of hopelessness.
The problem is he's not going to get better. The doctor's have told us that. He won't ever be able to go back to any kind of life. He won't be able to go to his beloved horse track. He won't be able to have Shakey's pizza, mojos and beer. And there's nothing any of us can do about it.
We're torn, because you're not supposed to hope a loved one dies. You're supposed to hope that the doctors will cure them and you'll be able to have more time with them. You're supposed to have faith that things will work out.
But after six months of this, and another two days of making the 60-mile one-way drive with the thought that today might be "the day," and a combined three "sick" days away from work, what are we supposed to do? It's that holding pattern of guilt we're trapped in. We know he'll never "live" again, but shouldn't we be the good, dutiful children and be at his bedside day after day in case it is "the day"? Or should we go on with our lives? Have Gina go back to work -- another 60+ miles away in Palm Springs -- in the hope that he'll be fine until her next weekend?
Add in the stress that his family in Costa Rica is hanging on every one of our updates. They want to know how their son, brother and uncle is doing. They're thousands of miles away, why should I care about 60?
It's frustrating, because there's not much we can do. He has a do not resuscitate order, but as long as he's attached to the machines, he's going to stay the same. Alive, but a shell.
The reality is that even if we were closer to the hospital, there's nothing we could do that would help his lungs or kidneys heal, especially with the life he's led, with the constant drinking, gambling and smoking (until he quit to have more money to drink and gamble).
But that still doesn't make it any easier when you feel the weight of guilt coming at you from all sides, that no matter how much you do (or don't) do, it's never enough.
He's going to die. Likely soon. But maybe not. Until then, we're trapped.
