Sometimes when it comes to writing a blog post, I don’t quite know where to start. When that’s the case, there’s only one thing to do. Begin at the beginning. So here we go.

Earlier this month, I dropped DorkyDad at Hobart Airport. He was heading off on his first solo travels in a long time: three weeks in North America, starting in Georgia and ending in Toronto, with a further five stops to see family and friends along the way.

It wasn’t a long goodbye. We hugged hard, mindful of the lane attendants and their zealous clock-watching.

“See you in 22 days,” I said.

“See you in 22 days and 16 flights,” he laughed. “Love you.” 

*

It started well. He eased into the trip with a night at the Melbourne Airport hotel, and called home that evening full of joy after bumping into the Wheelblacks – the New Zealand national wheelchair rugby team.

Then it was time for that long flight across the Pacific – Melbourne to San Francisco – before a shorter hop to Atlanta, and a night in another nondescript airport hotel. A chance to sleep, to stretch legs, to make time zone adjustments, before starting to have some fun. 

Savannah, first. Two nights with his sister and brother-in-law. A beautiful hotel in the historic district, great seafood, and a daytrip to Tybee Island where they used to go on holiday as kids. DorkyDad is carded in a bar, where a Tasmanian driving licence is deemed unacceptable ID and his beer order is switched for water. At home, hearing this, DorkySon and I cackle with laughter. We know he is a youthful seventy-something, but even so…  

After Savannah, it is on to coastal North Carolina – although not before DorkyDad has exchanged a book of his poetry for a new set of golf grips in the Uber ride to the airport – and a couple of nights staying with an old college roommate and his wife.

They play two rounds of golf, eat plenty of home cooked food, and share lots and lots (and lots) of laughter. When he leaves, I receive a photo by email – DorkyDad saying goodbye to Callie. She is a beautiful little terrier who will always hold a special place in our hearts for teaching toddler-age DorkySon that he didn’t need to be scared of dogs. 

We first met Callie when she was just a year or two old. She’s now 15, mostly deaf and partially blind, but still rolls over for treats and likes to sprint down the sidewalk given half a chance.

This is exactly what this trip was planned for. New memories are being forged, old ones are being turned over and polished smooth, like pebbles in the palm of his hand.

DorkyDad is off to the mountains of North Carolina, next, and the luxury of three nights instead of two. Perhaps even time to unpack a little, in the guest room of his oldest, most longstanding friends. 

They take short hikes and long naps, spend the evenings reminiscing over old photos. DorkyDad texts often to let me know how spectacular it is –  watching birds on the deck, sunrises from bed, soft fog settling in the valley. There are food texts too. One phrase with a happy exclamation mark. Fried chicken! Hush puppies! Baked grouper! 

The time passes too soon, and before we know it, it is time to pack for the next flight.

*

Here in Hobart, it’s about 11am on a Wednesday. I have woken that morning with a migraine, but there are deadlines looming and I’ve tried to work through it. I realise I’ve heard nothing from DorkyDad for a few hours, and wonder if he has had an early night, or whether it’s the opposite – a late one, cramming as much into their last evening as possible. It is unlike him to go to bed without messaging goodnight. 

Not long after, I’m walking the dog when a text arrives. It is from the friends that DorkyDad is staying with. They are on the way to the local hospital, following behind an ambulance. 

No-one wants to hear that their husband is on their way to the Emergency Room, but especially not when they are 15,000 kilometres away. I walk home quickly and sit back down at my desk, hands shaking with adrenaline, and a little bit of fear. There is nothing to do but wait for further updates.

A little while after, I get a call. It is a young doctor, using DorkyDad’s phone. I am told later that his name is Dr Maloney – Maloney to rhyme with Baloney, say the nurses – but in this first conversation he is too rattled for an introduction. 

He asks if I am familiar with atrial fibrillation.

“I’m not at all,” I say. “Explain it to me like I’m five.”

This becomes my stock phrase over the coming days. Explain it like I’m five. Assume I know nothing. Reassure me, please. 

Over the coming hours, a story becomes clearer. DorkyDad had gone to start packing his bags, and blacked out without warning. He was seen at the house by a medical team, and then whisked to hospital where he was pumped full of drugs to try and stabilise his heartrate. 

He needs to stay, but there are no beds. Not at the small local hospital, and not at closest regional hospital either. The same young doctor confesses that it has been this way since COVID kicked off, and has never settled down again. He explains to me, like I am five, that they will find him a bed somewhere, and will let me know when they do.

Text messages, emails and calls continue to fly continent-to-continent until late into the American night. By 1am on the East Coast, it is clear that the transfer will have to wait until morning. DorkyDad spends an uncomfortable night on the gurney he was brought in on. His friends head home for some rest. I pace around and wait for DorkySon to get home from school, so I can deliver the news in as calm a way as possible.

*

The next morning, a bed is found at a regional hospital about an hour away from the first. It is clear DorkyDad is not going to be boarding any aeroplanes that day, so I go ahead and cancel his next two flights, and share the news with the dear friend in Newport News who he was due to be visiting. 

Virginia is struck off the itinerary.

For now, until we know a little more, New York, New Hampshire and Toronto remain. 

Now that DorkyDad has been fully admitted to a hospital, things get easier. And harder. He has a bed, which is a good start. His friends stop by with pyjamas and a toothbrush, so he can change out of the previous day’s clothes. He is subjected to a gauntlet of tests and medicine changes, and is finally allowed to eat and drink, which means the food related texts resume.

‘Heart-friendly lunch!’ he writes. ‘Pork and gravy, chocolate pudding and a can of Pepsi!’

DorkySon and I wonder if perhaps the heart-friendly lunch is a stress test in disguise, or whether this is merely that famous Southern hospitality. DorkyDad tells us that it is the latter, that he avoided the Pepsi, and that he has not being called Honey so often for many, many years. 

On this side of the world, I rifle through folders of years-old paperwork, looking for the Medicare number that we thought he would never need. I make calls to our GP, to our insurance company, and to our travel agent – asking him to be on standby to cancel the next round of flights and accommodation. I try to quieten the fluttering that has started in my own heart at the mention of five-figure hospital bills. 

*

It is decided that DorkyDad will need a third night under observation. He was all set to be discharged, papers in hand, when his heart rate spiked again and he was rushed back to bed. Perhaps there was too much talk of money owed within his earshot too. 

At this point – Friday morning in Hobart – it becomes clear that the rest of his trip needs to be called off. 

That means the baseball game at Yankee Stadium is off. The reunion with his Grade 6 classmates is off. The Manhattan River cruise is off. The poetry reading – back where it all began – is off. So too are the countless lunches, drinks, and dinners, and the weekend of watching his great-nieces and great-nephews play sport. 

Well, hell. 

It’s all just too sad for words.  

And yet. We know, we both know, there is nothing more important than looking after your health. An early return to Australia is the only thing that makes sense.

*

All of that – all of this – has happened in the last fortnight. 

DorkyDad was eventually discharged after three nights. I wake up, Saturday morning in Hobart, to a photo of him and his best friend, arms around each other, grinning at the camera. I cry happy tears and know that he will spend a quiet weekend recuperating with his friends, before starting the epic journey home. 

We have managed to rebook him from Asheville to Denver, Denver to LA, LA to Melbourne, and Melbourne to Hobart. 30 hours of travel without a break. 

Even there, a little drama was injected into the proceedings, when he sat on the runway in Denver for two hours and watched a fearsome storm roll through. He landed in LA well after the flight to Melbourne should have departed… but there were other passengers in the same position, and the Captain had made the decision to wait for them. Thank you, United. 

I will not bore you with the details of the co-ordination it has all taken. Perhaps the best illustration – which will make you laugh if you know me well enough to understand how much I hate talking on the phone – is my call log, which shows 73 calls made and received in six days. 

We are not done with jumping through hoops yet. There are still US hospital bills to be paid and travel insurance claims to be made. 

There are still doctor’s appointments back home here in Australia, to ensure that this is not something that ever happens again. Since getting home a week ago, DorkyDad has seen his GP; had an xray on his elbow that we think he must have banged on the way to the floor; and met with a cardiologist who tweaked the medication he was prescribed in the US. 

Next week he is seeing a second cardiologist, who will determine if he’s a good candidate for the surgery that can tackle the root cause of AFib, rather than just calming down its effects. 

For different reasons, we are both exhausted. 

But we have emerged from this experience with two fundamental truths. 

The first is that everything is easier to deal with when we are together. There is nothing else like the reassurance, stability and calm that comes from standing alongside the person you love – and I have rarely felt relief like the moment I saw DorkyDad walking towards me at Hobart Airport. With that taken care of, with him back beside me, I trust that everything else will find its way.

The second is that we have a renewed appreciation and gratitude for the thoughtful and caring community that holds us. 

We are grateful that this happened when DorkyDad was staying with people he knew and loved, and not when he was alone in a hotel room. 

We are grateful for the messages of support we have received over the last two weeks, for the gentle check-ins and the abundant kindness, for the discreet offers of financial assistance to get him home, for the connection and distraction and reassurance and advice and biscuits you have all provided. 

We are grateful for the doctor friend here in Hobart, who patiently talked me through a list of medications and contraindications at 7.30am one Sunday morning; for the Scottish friend who checked in daily with DorkySon to see how he was going; for the US friends who are familiar with the healthcare system and have helped us – and indeed continue to help us – navigate its complexities. 

You have made this difficult little experience much less overwhelming than it could have been. 

Thank you. Thank you so much. 

 

*

Photo by Towfiqu barbhuiya on Unsplash