6 The Tightrope

Day 6 - January 25

One year ago, father's stretcher was wheeled into the operating room where the surgeon leaned in close, "You've been taking care of people your whole life, now it's our turn to take care of you."

He proceeded to implant a catheter into father's chest, a port for dialysis treatments.

The decision to say yes to dialysis was not made lightly. Dr. Kaplan explained, "It will prolong your life, but it will not improve it. Whatever problems you are having, you will continue to have, but you will not die from your failed renal system."

Father was sure he did not want to endure the three-day-a-week process for the rest of his life. He also did not want to interfere in any way with the possibility of God completely healing him. He was not interested in dialysis as an option. That is, until the kidneys actually did fail, and, since his heart was too weak to endure a transplant operation, the only other option was death.

In that moment he conceded, "Yes, I'll try it."

In answer to father's next question, Dr. Kaplan replied, "You can quit any time you feel like it." Father seemed relieved. Knowing there was more, Steven and I asked what happens if he decides to quit. The doctor simply stated, "You will die. You will have two to five days to put your affairs in order and say your good-byes."

I wish he had gone on to explain that this dialysis process is not an exact science when a patient also has congestive heart failure. I wish he'd said that it could take months of experimenting with the settings on the machine at each visit, and that even with the most finely tuned calculations and record keeping, his body's fluids would walk a tightrope.

For that matter, it is tightrope after tightrope: too much phosphorus, calcium, potassium, sodium, protein, and a list that goes on and on, or too little of any of those...too much fluid removed in a session, or too little removed...blood pressure too high and blood pressure too low! This promise for longer life is a continual balancing act.

Father pushes his walker through the double doors at 12:15 p.m., each time scanning the reception area for the women he greets with a huge smile. He learned to step away from the walker and weigh himself at the beginning and end of each session, gathering that critical information which reveals if he has consumed more than his daily allotment of one liter of fluids. His fellow patients tease him for speeding by with the walker on the way to "his" chair.

He greets each nurse, pleased to catch up since the last visit. He often brings his homemade baked goods for the office and medical staff. He inquires about their families and life outside the unit. I set his cough drops and crackers on the snack tray, remove his shoes, plug in his electric blanket and go for ice chips.

After many months, in spite of every fluid in his body flowing through tubes into a machine and then back into his body again, in spite of the last hour often pushing against his threshold of patience, in spite of feeling absolutely horrible for hours afterward, and in spite of the dread of returning to it all so soon, there is a certain kind of assurance in the act of courage required by this routine.

I'm not sure they ever do get it exactly right for him. There are sessions when it comes close, and because he feels so good he enjoys the next day dreaming of all the things he will do again like traveling and preaching and gardening.

This is one of those days. As we travel Rt. 390 toward Corning, to get home to Lima, even with January's snow on the fields, before his inevitable nap he eagerly realizes, "It's almost time to start thinking about our garden, Cher. Have you thought, yet, about what you'd like to plant this year?"