5th Dimension

There's an all too rare event in life that is as prized and time-sensitive as spotting an exotic animal in their natural habitat or seeing a celebrity out of context. Such an event can be as memorable as watching Barack Obama be sworn in or as lackluster as seeing Sarah Jessica Parker smell her hair in Adam's Morgan. (Yep!). Many of us have been both the eager audience with popcorn in hand awaiting the anticipated event only to become lead actor in the show at a later date.  The show, in this case, usually occurs just after undergoing anesthesia or taking some other sleep-inducing agent.

It's hit or miss what might happen post-anesthesia and if you wait too long, it's likely you'll miss the antics altogether. I may still hold the crowning title for theatrics in my family after having my wisdom teeth removed. After nearly biting a nurse's leg, Jill took me home and used the childproof lock to keep me in the car as she made a round for whatever liquids I could drink at a local convenience store. As she was at the checkout counter, I somehow broke free, shuffled up the ramp and into the store. With blood slightly falling from my lips, I cracked a broad grin and, in a sing-song voice, declared to the store, "I got ouuuut".  Yes, clearly.

Once home, I broke into more than a few rounds of the 5th Dimension's "Aquarius"--in slow mo. Of course, Dad and Craig were my captive audience for this slowed down version of reality. Apparently, all I needed was a pole to complete the show. It wasn't long before I was vomiting in the family's familiar orange spit up bucket, while everyone else helped move my sisters and I into our first "college" home.

Jill and Craig were resident duds when they had their respective surgeries years later--Jill, appendix; Craig, kidney. Jill essentially dealt with her near-ruptured appendicitis issue on her own until I flew in late on the night of her surgery. Any silly business had long worn off. Craig suffered extreme nausea and dizziness after his nephrectomy, so much that we stayed in the family waiting area and kept our patient room visits to short 15 minute intervals. Any movement and noise triggered his nausea; the fact that he shared a room with Mr. Noisy van Can't-hear-a-thing and his blaring TV didn't help his condition.

I found a kindred spirit in Mom after her brain surgery when she'd break into the 5th Dimension's "Up, Up and Away in my beautiful, my beautiful ballooooon" or "There's a hole in the bucket, in the bucket, in the bucket..." in reference to removing her brain tumor. (It's quite uncanny we both sang Fifth Dimension songs, particularly since I'm not a big fan. Apparently, the apple did not fall far from the tree.) But, all too quickly, the anesthesia wore off, the electrolytes fell further off balance and the swelling increased; before long, Mom couldn't recognize us let alone sing a song from the '60s. 

Fast forward a year and a half and we're here in Dad's "5th Dimension". For the first time in our lifetimes, we find Dad hopped up on something other than a sugar high (or crash, as it were). I called Dad a few hours after his surgery when he was able to talk. Instead of singing or, our favorite, vomiting, he simply spoke--a mile a minute! Stream of consciousness takes on a new meaning at 100mph. How he was able to stream along sentences so quickly or coherently after what resulted in a major surgery complete with intubation was beyond me. He even paused momentarily to comment on his scratchy throat, but not in an effort to take his leave, drink water, or suggest we hang up. He was merely making an observation similar to "Hey, look! A bird", and then resumed talking about his concerns. A "stress of consciousness", if you will.

Dad is teaching a course this semester and was convinced his students have been robbed of a superior education due to this gall bladder setback. God bless him for believing it's that deep, and that student's these days give a damn. I tenderly reminded him that he'd only miss a week or two of classes and most students don't care as long as they are given the information that might appear on a test. He has competent colleagues who can pinch hit for awhile as he recovers from this freak surgery. Yet, Dad's a perfectionist and has perfected the art of ruminating even when hopped up on drugs. 

As much as it made me laugh to listen to him, I sensed a vulnerability that I wished so badly I could help, or at the least be there with him to keep him company. Seeing and hearing Dad sick makes it ever apparent how small our family has become-down to a dad and his daughters. We were fiercely protective as a unit of six. Now, that fierceness holds a hint of desperation.

~E