His Tears

My grandfather had just died, but my father was in the hospital. He had an infection in the foot that he just had partially amputated due to gangrene. My father, ever proud and stubborn, had put off going to the doctor after an open wound had gotten infected. My father was a diabetic. The very last words we spoke as I jumped out of the truck were, “Take your ass back to the hospital. You are pissing me the f*ck off!” It’s difficult to admit that was one of the last real conversations we had.

He continued to get sick regularly after that. I was angry that he’d signed himself out of the hospital against medical advice to go to my grandfather’s funeral. He had no intention of listening to me and taking himself back to the hospital, where he belonged at that moment.

Soon after I married my ex, I got the call. My aunt told me I needed to get to Florida right away. My dad was really sick and not waking up. The hope was that my presence would wake him up. My then husband and I booked a flight and were there the next day.

Three days passed with me holding vigil at his bedside with my stepmother and brother. They did a test on his brain function. When I heard the words, “There’s no brain activity”, I immediately went into shock. I was unable to comprehend why his chest was still rising and falling, his hand moved every couple days and his eyes constantly darted around under his closed eyelids. We all saw tears falling from his eyes every day since I arrived. ‘How this is possible? He must be in pain.’ My heart was hopeless and ripped to shreds.

It’s so hard to believe with medical science that someone whose body is being kept alive with machines is never coming back. Shouldn’t there be some magic pill they give them to re-stimulate the brain activity? Your rational mind tells you it isn’t going to happen.

Watching my dad in that bed was the hardest two weeks of my life. Acceptance came quickly for me. My dad would never have laid n his bed without opening his eyes if he knew I was there. I don’t care how little brain function he had; he loved me more than I will probably ever understand.

As I sit here, Bobbi Kristina Brown’s family is feeling the same hopelessness and shock that I did the day they tested my dad for brain activity.

I am updating my medical directive again soon. I refuse to put my child through that tough decision. I will make it for her and explain that I’m saving her from a whole other level of pain she doesn’t want to experience.

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