The Curious Gift of Following your Intuition
Trigger Warning: Bodily Injury, Illness
The aggy feeling I woke up with in Brooklyn when I thought of my dad disappeared when I arrived so I knew I made the right choice in following my intuition. I was in Santo Domingo less than 2 weeks when my dad’s health began to decline. I correct people when they say what luck I am here because it has nothing to do with luck; I answered a call and organized my life to follow through with it. What was on the other side of the call is up to God.
I barely knew my way home or how to navigate the numerous locks on the door. It started with a condition treatable with dietary changes and medication. And then one day, it was different forever. Somedays I play the following in my head over and over again like I can create a formula to create a different outcome.
My dad went out to play the lottery, a habit he would honor in a hurricane. He clutched the metal gate to the apartment door, calling me to open the door. I was unaware how disoriented he was until I got to the door, which took me a beat because I was annoyed he was given me something to do he could easily do himself. And what was his obsession with locks anyway? I didn’t find the key in time.
He fell back on his head like he was diving backward in a pool.
A passerby might think he was asleep and not bleeding internally. The sound of his skull hitting the ceramic floor is like a machete hitting a fresh coconut, which makes me dislike coconut water even more. I screamed for help and before I could open the door, the neighbors carried him down three flights of stairs and drove him to the nearest hospital.
In that flash of sounds, my father and I descended down a tight and uneven spiral staircase into dark waters.
What followed was two months of intensive care units stays, sunrise in waiting rooms, searching the capital for pints of blood for transfusions, the hope that comes with hospital releases only to experience the dread of having to go back, pacing waiting for diagnoses, navigating an unkind medical system, an advanced cancer diagnosis, planning on getting him on the first thing smoking to Sloan Kettering, the dejection of my dad saying he wouldn’t survive the trip, searching for second opinions, along with managing private health care expenses.
There are things my senses would never like to experience again: the metallic smell of blood, the rancid combination of old plumbing and bleach, the hard balls of restraint I had to swallow in order to not rage out on desensitized doctors. No matter how many times I retrace my steps down the staircase the result is the same: my dad went from cooking me dinner every night to bed bound in a moment.
I am navigating the role of sudden caretaker with reluctant resolve, wonder mixed in with some fits of anger. In my adult life, I have only had one plant that didn’t die so how the hell will I keep him alive? Some days I am unclear of my role: Am I fighting for my dad’s health or ushering him into a dignified death, the latter of which I swat away like the 4am mosquitos in my ear until he brought it up one night.
“No doctor is going to tell you or me, but I’m dying,” he said with eyes closed.
For a while, the statement hung heavily in the air. I held my breath, hoping in the next moment it would be gone.
My dad operates in blunt realities and I inherited the same penchant for straight talk some categorize pessimistic, but I think the truth is the best foundation for a positive result. Tell me straight all I got is 15 cents so I can focus on how to make it a dollar.
Being blunt doesn’t always produce stellar results. My dad will tell anyone who will listen about his military experience and the day he met the new team of oncologists was no different. By coincidence, he served with the uncle of the head oncologist. Without reserve, he says “He was a whiz at mathematics, but was an idiot in every other aspect.” I wasn’t sure if I wanted to disappear or laugh. This is probably not the best jumpstart to a relationship with the person in charge of your meds.
In the midst of difficulties, there is laughter, small wins that build on each other, and even pleasure.
There is the hilarious ongoing saga of my hillbilly uncle who refuses to properly coral his cows to keep them from eating the harvest of nearby farmers (stubbornness is a honored family tradition). There is the incredible support of family members who send me money without being asked and the community of neighbors who want to see my dad get well. There is the pleasure of a good book I enjoy while waiting for doctors or a trip to the beach. What was once mundane takes on a texture so silky I slow down and savor it. Even being in the co-working space near the hospital drafting this article has a newfound joy. There is incredible growth in the result of life squeezing you like two pairs of Spanx.
And yeah, it’s been 85 days and I still hate bachata.
