Where There’s Smoke …

Here’s this week’s reflection. I hope it resonates with you and ask that, if you enjoyed, please comment and share on your social media. Heartfelt thanks for all your support!

Keeping the light on for you,

Carol

“My legs won’t work,” Dad answered as we suggested he move out of direct line of campfire contrails. The breeze had shifted as we settled in for the start of our weekend in the Great Outdoors. With tents pitched and kids ready for bed, we had been decompressing with beverages in hand, mesmerized by dancing flames. Dad was perched on a bench, his back against the picnic table.

“What do you mean your ‘legs won’t work,’” I casually queried as I cradled my wine glass, settling further into my comfy camp chair. Dad was a well-seasoned jokester, but his tone was now a bit curious, adding “I’m not sure I can stand – my legs feel weak, like they could buckle.” My husband and I rose, taking places on each side of Dad attempting to assist him out of the smoke. As surmised, he could not bear his own weight. Snapped out of our reverie, Hubby and I exchanged surprised looks and a collective, “OH SHIT!” We gently, yet urgently placed him supine on a hastily retrieved cot.

My mind was racing. Despite being a critical care provider for many years, I was already one cathartic glass of red wine in for the start of what was supposed to be a relaxing weekend. Through a Cabernet lens, I was now weighing options for emergency care, fearing Dad was having either a transient ischemic attack (TIA) or the start of a of a full-blown stroke. He had been a vascular nightmare for years, succumbing to a litany of life-threatening events and their associated lifesaving replumbing. He seemed to have been stable for a while, so we felt it safe to inch beyond our usual locale.

There were, however, a few not so wee issues. 

Aside from our obvious imbibing, we were in a different county from home, forty miles from any hospital, with a family member (and type of patient) best cared for by professionals already familiar his with medical history. An ambulance screaming into a quiet campground, heading to an unfamiliar hospital with providers completely out of the loop of his complex past, was NOT what my healthcare brain thirsted for this eve, despite the obvious urgency at hand. And I knew how much precious time an unfamiliar hospital and staff would waste. 

After a few minutes of back and forth, my husband and I decided –since Dad was awake, alert, and oriented and I wasn’t completely gobsmacked– that my husband would stay behind with the girls and I would drive Dad back to his own hospital and doctors. 

We strapped Dad into the passenger seat of my minivan, reclining it as much as possible to maintain some semblance of safety and accessibility should the worst occur. My plan was simple: a (relatively) straight trajectory to our own ER as quickly and safely as darkened terrain allowed. 

As we roared out of the campground into the pitch black, I prayed hard to the Almighty, then instructed Dad: “Your job is to stay awake and talk to me. One lapse in consciousness and I’m pulling over and calling 911. Got it?” He nodded, occasionally uttering a few “Jesus Christs!” as I took a few turns a bit too sharply in the darkness. Thankfully his arms were strong as he held on, not so ironically, for dear life. I asked if I was scaring him, to which he chuckled and replied: “Only slightly!” “Good,” I answered, “then you have no choice but to stay awake!” 

Fueled by adrenaline and lit by high beams (not Cabernet), I continually repeated terse inquiries as to Dad’s status. He calmly and consistently maintained he was feeling okay. I dismissed the niggling thought that perhaps he was simply placating me in case my driving  would worsen out of haste. 

Finally reaching the emergency room entrance, we both heaved a sigh of relief: me for having gotten Dad where he was best served, and him for surviving the wild ride.

The next few hours were filled with the usual litany of tests and interrogation. Perplexed, our nurse kept commenting: “I’m catching a whiff of wood smoke …  where is it coming from?”

I was feeling quite sheepish since, as a healthcare provider, my Captain Obvious advice to ANYONE else in the same situation would have been to simply call an ambulance. But too many times navigating health care for complexly ill, aging parents informed my response that would, fingers crossed, save time and frustration.

The neurologist looked at me over lowered spectacles, flatly asking: “So… you actually drove him yourself?” 

Sensing accusation, I nervously stammered out my (what I felt compelling) rationale for such a potentially dangerous decision: Dad was fully oriented, had no progression of his weakness, and (blessedly) did not develop slurred speech or other characteristic symptoms. With the frustration of having had to recite Dad’s historical narrative so damn many times in the past, I finished with a breathless: “Yes, I know it was stupid and I should have just called EMS (emergency medical services).” Seeing the end of my rope with what I hoped was total clarity, the doctor simply replied, “No – I completely get it. I don’t blame you at all.”  I could have hugged that man. 

Dad was subjected to an unfortunate hospital incarceration for a few days of testing. His leg weakness fully subsided a couple hours after admission and, despite his extensive work up and some medication changes, nothing new was added to his already quite soiled medical laundry list. He was discharged home in surprisingly good spirits, even asking when we could go camping again. Hubby and I, however, did not share his excitement. 

After the dust settled, we agreed to return to that campground a few more times in Dad’s later years, holding off on any alcohol consumption until fully certain of everyone’s intact range of motion. As time passed, Dad’s camping diagnoses were less medical and more hygienic in nature. He seemed to greatly enjoy both time away from home AND away from the shower (or clean clothes for that matter). He maintained that this acquired personal musk of wood smoke, perspiration, and heaven knows what else, reminded him of hunting camp from a bygone era. We would smile as we watched him routinely turn in early –contentedly crawling into his tent with his trusty sleeping bag and cot– as a welcome respite for his aching back and tired soul. Once ensconced in his petite nylon chateau, my husband and I would raise a glass to the man who loved the simple things, and who refused to let his ailments (or his personal funk) get the best of him. We also counted our blessing to not have to share a fragrant bunk with him.

With the kids now in college, camping trips are infrequent. Campfires, however, frequently still hold their magic in our backyard fire pit. As we continue to worship this primal attraction to heat and light, Dad will always come to mind, not only for the story he generated for family archives, but for his willingness to get out there despite his maladies, pressing on to enjoy life much as possible, smoke, stench, and all.