Today is Dad's birthday, and so far we have spent most of it by his side. The hospital called us at midnight to say that Dad was bleeding profusely into his stoma bag, that they had given him four units of blood transfusion, but he just seemed to be bleeding it all out again. The source and cause of the bleeding are unknown, but the surgeon felt it wasn't advisable to take him into theatre and open him up to investigate; it was felt he would be too weak to survive the anaesthetic and the operation. So, basically they were expecting him to bleed to death within the next couple of hours and they were calling us to be by his side if we wanted to.
As we drove to the hospital in the cold, rainy night, I couldn't help thinking about the story told three times in the New Testament about a woman who had been bleeding for twelve years. She had been seen by many doctors, but they were not able to help her and she was growing worse rather than better. (Mark 5 vs 25 - 26) Right at the point where doctors had given up, this woman reached out to touch Jesus and the bleeding totally stopped. Jesus said that her faith had healed her. (Mark 5 vs 29 & 34) I knew that my Dad was in the same place as this woman: he was at the point where doctors were saying, "There is nothing else we can do for him." I knew that if Dad was to survive this latest setback, it would only be because of a miraculous touch from God, a touch that could stop the bleeding, even if doctors couldn't stop it and didn't even know its source. I also knew that, if this didn't happen, my Dad wouldn't have much longer to live; he would very probably die on his 83rd birthday.
Dad was awake and comfortable when we arrived at the hospital. "I don't think there's any hope," he told us. "They say they can't do anything to stop the bleeding." He also told us that he was at peace with the Lord, if it was time to go home, and he told my brother and me, "Look after your Mum, because she's going to miss me." Then he took Mum's hand, saying, "You'll be all right."
The doctor on duty asked to speak to us, so off we trekked again to one of the little private rooms where they break bad news to relatives. He told us that if Dad had continued to bleed as profusely as he'd been doing an hour previously, he would probably be dead within an hour or two at the most. But the bleeding had begun to slow down, and this meant that no one really knew how long Dad might still hang in there. It was going to be a heart wrenching waiting game and another night-time vigil by his bedside.
We sat with Dad for the first six hours of his birthday; sometimes he talked to us and sometimes he fell asleep for a while. By this morning, he had been off the ventilator and breathing on his own for twenty four hours - the longest stretch since going into intensive care five weeks ago. The nurse emptied his stoma bag a couple of times during the night, and reported that there was still some fresh blood in it each time.
We're back home now to get something warm to drink; Dad told us to go home and try to get some rest, while he also has another sleep. Medical staff say they don't know what the day ahead will hold. The original plan was for us to take all Dad's birthday cards to him in the afternoon, and to give the nurses a birthday cake that has his picture on it. At this point, we are still planning to do that. Thanks for remembering us, and Dad, in your prayers today.
