“Failure to thrive,” was the EMTs’ initial assessment.
It was two days after the collapse, late afternoon, and I was standing in my father’s hospital room, after having taken a five-hour flight from Lima to Orlando, then a two hours’ ride by car to Gainesville. The bright florescent lights shone on the newly polished linoleum floor, some kind of heart monitor beeped in the background. My dad was propped up in bed, his face gaunt, an IV tube stuck in his arm.
His face brightened when he saw me. “Barb….”
“Oh, Dad, god.” I bent down to hug him. He felt bony – much thinner than when I had visited him at Christmas time a month earlier. How could someone change so much in so short a time?
“What happened?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” He blinked his watery blue eyes. “I think I was in my house.”
I walked over to the chart pinned on his wall. My dad was being given intravenous with glucose, vitamins and antibiotics. What were those for?Continue Reading