That Every Minute Together Is a Gift
by Leslie Robarge
Nearly four years ago, during my family's yearly summer vacation on Cape Cod, I watched my dad almost die. One second he was sitting eating steak at a silvered wooden picnic table with my mother, brother, sisters, aunts, uncles and cousins, and the next time I looked up, he was slumped over his plate, not even gasping for air. I thought to myself, Dad's drowning.
The barbecue turned into a terror scene. Lots of shouting. Kids crying. My brother, Jeff, tried the Heimlich to dislodge what was choking him. It didn't work. By that time Dad had turned purple -- really, he was the color of an eggplant. The only thing we could do was give him CPR to keep his blood circulating while we waited for the paramedics (endlessly it seemed, though I'm told it was only eight minutes). I wish I could say that I sprang into action, but I was paralyzed. I sat with my mom as she buried her face in her hands. She thought she was watching her husband of 41 years die.
The EMTs arrived just in time for one to stick a medical tool down Dad's throat and, with an expert swoop, pull out the piece of steak. It wasn't until later when we were able to see Dad in the emergency room, stretched out on a bed with a breathing tube down his throat, that we knew he'd make it. His brain was probably fine, the doctors told us. He had fluid in his lungs and severely bruised ribs from the CPR, but he'd live.
During the four days he was in the ICU, something very strange and lovely happened to our family. For the first time in years, we did everything as a group. We caravanned to the hospital; huddled in the dark visitors' lounge, nibbling on doughnuts; took quick walks for fresh air along the Hyannis harbor. My sisters and I even took trips to the hospital bathroom together.
