Busting Dad Out of Rehab

Dad probably wouldn't like the fact that I'm posting his picture on the internet, but Heavenly Father loves him and orchestrated a miracle for him. We got to be a part of that, so I wanted this to be my last post of 2017.

We woke up in Billings, Montana on Thursday 28 December 2017 with the intention of visiting Dad at a horrible place (where Mom was before she died) called Missouri River Center (it's a tiny bit better now than when Mom was there, but still horrible). Dad was in acute rehab there after being in acute rehab at another place after being in a hospital room after spending five days in ICU which all happened after his helicopter ride on Sunday 12 November 2017 when he was found unconscious on his bedroom floor. The diagnosis was a staph infection in his leg that had turned into sepsis. I flew up there that same day and had to leave him in ICU a couple of days later in order to get back to teaching. K met me there by car. Dad has no memory of us being there at that time, though he was talking to us and knew us by name.

So yeah, we wanted to see him for Christmas. I was terrified to proceed in the midst of a winter storm warning, but K felt like we could drive it okay, so after prayer and tears and phoning a friend for a road report, we headed to Great Falls. On the way I received a phone call from Dad's social worker at the center stating that miraculously, an apartment became available for him in another city and he could leave as soon as the doctor signed the papers! The following morning we were able to get Dad, stop off to take care of some of his business errands, and move him to his new place. That one act of faith (driving in the storm) turned into a wonderfully timed miracle.

When we got there on Thursday afternoon, Dad explained that someone had stolen all of his clothing except for what he was wearing. He was wearing a blue sweatshirt, black sweatpants, socks, and slippers. And the same pair of underwear, his only pair of underwear. The previous Friday he inquired about laundry procedures and they told him to put his stuff in a bag with his name on it and they would launder it. The clothes never came back. In fact, he saw another patient wearing one of his shirts. He filed a complaint and gave details such as brand names, sizes, colors, and costs. They said they would send a reimbursement check to him. They didn't care that he only had the underwear he was wearing! So off we went to Walmart that evening to guess at Dad's sizes: underwear, shoes, pants, shirt, and a few other things for his apartment (bedding, towels, soap, toilet paper, and so on).

I gave him my hoodie to put over his sweatshirt and he walked out of there, strong and confident. However, he did some very touching, Christlike things on his way out that I will always remember and hope to emulate. He stopped to say goodbye to Dale, a fellow in the hallway seated in a wheelchair. He wished him the best and told him it was a pleasure meeting him. They shook hands. I cried a bit. He thanked the nurses and other people who had assisted him. The CNA who walked with us to the car had the pleasure of my dad looking her in the eye and hearing him say, "You're one of the great ones!"

He said it was a fairy tale ending to a bad predicament (actually getting out), but that he wasn't feeling as happy as he thought he would. However, as we put more distance between us and that prison (he consistently used words/phrases while incarcerated such as walking around the compound, the guards, prison, rations, and other such jargon), he began to perk up, naming all the familiar places and telling stories. We stopped to grab a few things (in -23 degree windchill) and K brushed off his pickup to drive it to his new place for him. One of Dad's friends gave him a sturdier pair of shoes to wear since those slippers weren't going to last long in the snow and cold. We stopped at the post office to change addresses and then I drove my father to his new town and new digs, enjoying his reflections and comments about a great range of topics.

I warned him that we had to leave as soon as possible due to the storm and that I was so sorry we were literally dumping him off. We got him to his apartment (he noticed the dance floor had room enough for four couples) and then down to the dining area for lunch. He insisted on walking us out to our car so we hugged and kissed goodbye. And cried. Seeing those tears in his eyes just killed me so I ran back in, trailing him, so I could snap a couple of pictures.

My brave dad who has hunted lions in Africa and has endured so many things that life brings to one who has reached eighty, shut those tears down quickly and marched right into his new circumstance with a smile on his face. When I caught up to get a photo I heard him say to the people at his lunch table, "Hello, Folks! My name's Gary!"

And that's how it's done. That was a Gordon B. Hinckley move right there. Optimism in the face of the unknown. And you know what else? He worried about us all the way home.