My Son is a Fighter

I spoke to my son on the phone last night. He’s 42, a retired US Marine with a family. He lives in Hawaii; I live in Florida. That’s not unusual except that a week ago, he had a massive brain hemorrhage.

My son and his family in Hawaii.

The call we got from his wife early last Sunday morning was devastating. It was midnight in Hawaii when she found her husband, lying in bed, unconscious, with vomit trailing from his mouth. She couldn’t wake him. Terrified, she called 911.

A CT scan showed a brain bleed. At first, it seemed like a minor bleed, possibly from an aneurysm. A second CT scan showed a much more aggressive bleed. More than an aneurysm, but what? Doctors couldn’t determine where the blood was coming from, but there was a lot of it. He required emergency treatment to live.

From 4700 miles away, his mother and I got the news that his prognosis was grim. A craniotomy was required. A specialist was called, but the wait for the surgeon was interminable. The ER doctor said he needed a “Hail Mary” to survive. We were instructed to prepare for the worst.

The anguish of having a loved one thousands of miles away, near death, during a pandemic while travel and hospital visits are severely restricted is an impossible situation. Time stood still. We were helpless to act; our only option was to wait for the next phone call.