My dad was in the ER and I got a little better too.

Visiting, midwestern-style

Yesterday my dad was back in the ER again. (Spoiler: He’s okay and already home.) It’s about the fifth or sixth time since I last mentioned here that he was in the hospital. Maybe the tenth? I’m losing count.

He had hit something on the sidewalk and fallen out of his wheelchair for the first time in all these years, hitting his head on the pavement. Thank goodness he was basically fine, despite having banged himself up pretty good.

Different day, different visit, same vibe. ©Liz Gumbinner

The hospital guard handed me a name tag, gave me his bay number, and asked whether I needed directions.

I’m good, I said. We’re all VIPs by now.

Honestly, I think it’s high time the hospital gives us some sort of frequent visitor VIP punchcard, good for one pillow upgrade or a slightly nicer pair of grippy socks. At minimum, I’d take a free crappy coffee from the Panera Express down the hall.

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I’m starting to know which nurses are the gentlest with the IV needle, and which aides are likely to ask me if I’d like something to drink too. When he’s admitted, some of the floor nurses look up to see me and say, “Well hi!” because “Welcome back!” probably isn’t in the handbook.

Yesterday turned out to be a wonderful visit.

I’m using “wonderful” relatively of course, because all things being equal, I’d rather visit my dad nearly anywhere but in an ER.

And I’m using “visit” in that lovely midwestern way that I learned from Jon. We don’t “hang out” when guests come over, we “visit for a while.” Visiting isn’t just reserved for the guest; the “visitation” is a shared one — “we visited together.” So score one for midwest idioms, because I think that concept is beautiful.

Over our day together, my dad shared some of his favorite MadMen-era war stories, like the big-name celebrity actress he was in love with until he worked with her. Or the time he walked in on his boss with his secretary in a hotel room. (She yelled half-undressed from the bed, “It’s not what you think!” He said, “It’s exactly what I think!” as he hurried out the door.

We talked about the best taglines today, and the worst clients we ever had. I told him about my favorite campaigns I had written that never made it to production. We talked — again — about why he, a man on the other side of 80, will never understand the insurance ads with the emu.

"Dad! They’re not written for you!”

At one point we briefly discussed the horrors of the current cabinet nominees, then both admitted that we hadn’t turned on live TV news since the election.

That was the only time we brought up politics, really.

I allowed myself in those hours to be entirely present, which is hard for me.

I didn’t check email (much). I didn’t make calls.

I focused on little things in my control:

Finding a way to fit one small armchair beside his bed. Switching his room-temperature water for a cold one. Helping him download an app so he could fix his ringtone. Answering questions about the grandkids. Texting updates to my stepmother. Jotting down BP and O2 readings. Making jokes about which hat would best cover up the wounds on his forehead for Sage’s performance this weekend, and how it’s too bad he had just gotten his hair cut.

Knowing my dad was going to be okay, giving me one non-life-threatening, non-world-changing crisis to focus on was…I don’t know. It was kind of…good? I struggle to find a word that doesn’t sound callous.

Then I remembered the wonderful line Dr. Christopher Willard used when we discussed mindfulness on my podcast. He called it psychological first aid.

That’s exactly it.

My dad got the treatment he needed. I got the psychological first aid I needed.

Honestly, I’ve been losing sleep thinking about what the next administration’s policies will do to healthcare, to Medicare, to the options for families like ours. But yesterday, there was nothing I could do about that.

I was just one person, sitting bedside in the ER, helping another person she loved find a straw for the apple juice.

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