My Father

I hope he died a happy man.

About 2 weeks ago, I received a phone call from the hospital one morning, informing me that someone discovered my father passed out on the streets and called 911. He was then admitted into St. Luke's hospital and treated for an infection on his ankle and his diabetes. Things weren't too serious. He was talking and walking--even singing--when I visited with my mom.

This past Thursday morning, my mom headed out to Chinatown bright and early, hoping to cook up another tasty meal for my dad. But the food never made it to his mouth. It awaited me on the dinning table when I returned home that night, after my mom found my dad lying cold and unconscious in the Intensive Care Unit on the 11th floor.

I noticed the fear, sadness, and frustration in my mom's voice as she shared the news. But neither one of us really grasped the gravity of the situation or understood what had happened.

After days of visits and family drama, my father is still unconscious in the ICU and does not seem to be improving.

Today, after hours of waiting, I was finally able to speak with the doctor.

Apparently, about 2am on the night of September 17th, the nurse unexpectedly found my father lying in bed without a pulse. It took 15 minutes for the doctor to resuscitate him and cool his body to minimize damage from the lack of oxygen.

After extensive tests, why or when my father stopped breathing remains an enigma. There was nothing wrong with his heart or arteries. The doctors are baffled, but think the whole incident may have been precipitated by phlegm that obstructed his breathing. As absurd as it sounds, my dad's death may have been caused by an unsuccessful struggle to clear his throat.

Somehow we are not satisfied with this explanation, which is not much of an explanation at all. At the end of the day, we are left with many questions and "maybes," and nobody or ailment to blame.


Right now, my father has tubes all over and is sustained by the drones of a respirator. Every once in a while, he opens his eyes or twitches his leg and we think perhaps he will finally wake up!

But the nurse tells me that these bodily movements mean nothing. His eyelids may flutter open for a few seconds (he even sheds tears), but his eyeballs remain stagnant. He may look, but he cannot see or recognize us.

The doctors think his brain has sustained too much damage from the lack of oxygen. My father may never be able to live on his own again. I will never hear him speak or laugh or cry.

He is alive and yet he is dead.