My dad finally went to the doctor’s office today, and after having his chest X-rayed, we’ve discovered that he actually does not have pneumonia or any chest infections thankfully, but he has excess water trapped in his lungs as a result of the surgery. This basically just means that he needs to increase dosage for a certain medication he’s taking to empty the lungs out so he can breathe properly and stop the violent coughing. I was really relieved.

However, I wasn’t that relieved to hear my dad say to me, “I’m just saying this (lowers his voice), but you could have cancelled your Australia trip this month to come home to help Mommy.” My dad doesn’t make random suggestions like this unless someone’s been feeding his head with gossip and bad mouthing — i.e. my mother. I told him that we booked this trip way back in the summer — long before we knew anything was even remotely wrong with him. “I came back for over a week and a half to help out last minute. Does that suddenly not mean anything anymore?” I asked. I felt so hurt. “It’s okay, Yvonne, my dad responded. “I understand.” No, you really do not.

Nothing is ever enough for her. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. I am always the selfish one, the one who never thinks about family. I am the one who never cares.

Last night, I felt the sickest I’ve felt since December 2012, when I supposedly got “allergies” when I went to Melbourne for the first time. This time, it was a different kind of “sick,” though — my entire body was in pain, my throat was sore, I hacked up all this phlegm, and I had a massive headache. I went to bed at 7:30pm and didn’t get up until 8am the next day. While I was in bed, I wondered what caused me to get this sick. Was it all the time I’ve spent flying in the last month — for work, then family, then vacation? Was it the terrible and uncomfortable hospital stays with my dad and the cold of my parents’ house in San Francisco? Or maybe, it’s all the above, in addition to all the unnecessary stress that my parents have imposed on me with their constant guilt tripping on my mom’s side and my dad’s stubbornness and laziness to get his persistent cough checked out by a doctor? I felt helpless last night and thought, I need to see my brother.

And so he came. He doesn’t always come when I ask, but this time, he came in the strangest way in a dream.

I was in my parents’ kitchen, and I heard a rustling from the porch through the back room of the kitchen. I opened the porch door, and in came Ed. “What are you doing?” I asked him.

He carried a stack of dishes into the house. “I was washing dishes outside with the rain water,” he responded. He explained that because of the drought in California, our mother had asked him to leave buckets of water outside so that when it did rain, we could save and reuse the water by using it to clean dirty dishes.

I was so struck by seeing him that after he put the dishes down, I threw my arms around him and hugged him tightly. I could feel his arms come around me, too. I put my mouth close to his ear and whispered, “Don’t do that again.” I kissed the side of his face, and I let him go. He walked out of the kitchen, and I started crying.

I thought about this dream on and off throughout today, and I realized that as nonsensical as this dream was, it was really representative of the lack of logic and stupidity that exists in our family. I have to deal with our dad ignoring potential symptoms of pneumonia that could potentially kill him, our mother blaming me for apparently not caring enough to be there with them 24/7, and their general stupid decision making when it comes to all things related to their health and happiness. As much as I miss Ed, with each day that passes since my dad’s surgery, I’m even happier that he isn’t here to deal with the crap I have to deal with now.

I haven’t been to the gym properly since before I left for San Francisco for my dad’s bypass surgery. Today, I finally went back, and it was so difficult. Just five minutes of running on the treadmill had me puffing, and it was so tempting to stop, but I decided that all the people around me gaining weight would be motivation enough for me to keep going and even faster. That sounds pretty mean, to use others’ shortcomings to motivate you, but if it works, then it works.

After my workout while I was in the shower, I thought about people I’ve known since middle school, high school, college, and what they looked like then versus now. Even for those I haven’t kept in touch with and have just stayed “Facebook friends” with, it’s as though so many are just letting go of themselves when it comes to their weight and bodies, and they haven’t even had children yet. We all make excuses and say we don’t have time to do things like go running or hit the gym, but as always, we make time for what’s important, even if it means dragging ourselves there, knowing it will be worth it in the end.

I’m back in New York, back to the grind, and back to my parents and their never changing ways. Since coming home after his bypass surgery, my dad for the first time in my life has admitted that the house is absolutely freezing, and the heat needs to be kept on. He had massive coughing fits until we turned on the heat and allowed him to breathe in warm air. Before I left, I insisted to my parents that they keep the central heating on so that my dad wouldn’t cough. He’s particularly susceptible to getting pneumonia because of his limited lung capacity as a result of the open heart surgery.

The last two days haven’t been good for him. He’s been kept awake by his coughing spasms, at times staying awake from 2-6am just coughing constantly. I feared he had caught pneumonia and insisted he make an appointment to see his primary care doctor immediately. He said he would e-mail Dr. Tang.

“Why are you e-mailing him? We already discussed that you were going to change primary care doctors after the surgery. He’s not a good doctor, and he doesn’t care about you!” I said, trying not to raise my voice.

“Well, how do I know that there is a doctor in the Kaiser network that is any better than him?” he asked weakly. I told him that his anesthesiologist said that she had a number of recommendations for more proactive doctors, and I was going to call her to get their names so that he could switch. He said okay.

My parents’ laziness and stubbornness is coming out again, except this is a true matter of life and death because this is his health.. during his critical recovery period, and there’s no way I’m going to let them make lazy, bone-headed decisions regarding this.

Tonight, Chris and I are leaving for our Thanksgiving trip to Budapest and Hungary. We booked this trip with miles way back in February and solidified our accommodations shortly after, so I think fate worked out when my dad’s surgery happened to be about two weeks ahead of this trip. It allowed me to come home, take care of my dad and be a comfort to my mom, and also still go on this trip. However, my mom wasn’t too thrilled when she found out we were taking a European vacation just three days after I left San Francisco to go back to New York. “I really don’t think you should be going so far away with your father like this. But you clearly have made up your mind and have made your decision, so I hope you have a good time and be safe.” That’s my mother’s very polite but jagged way of saying, you’re selfish for taking a trip to Europe while I have to “suffer” taking care of your father every day.

To be completely rational, my dad is progressing amazingly well and can do almost everything by himself now, with the exception of bathing or climbing hills or running marathons. He’s barred from driving for at least six to eight weeks. But other than that, he is doing well for his stage of recovery. Because of this, I don’t feel bad that I’m going on this trip, but my mom wants to perceive and treat him like an invalid who needs to have eyes on him 24/7. In addition, I’m still going to call home from Austria and Hungary, so it’s not like we won’t be connected. I felt guilty for about a second, and then I realized it’s just her way of manipulating me to say all these things. Then, I downed two drinks at the lounge and boarded our flight.

I came back to the office after a week and a half of being in San Francisco. Some people were really happy to see me, some didn’t even realize I was away, and others knew why I was away but didn’t bother to ask me how my dad was doing.

I try to be optimistic about the world and about life, but sometimes, when people don’t even attempt to even be fake at wanting to know how you are doing outside of work, it makes me think that the world isn’t really getting any better. All we are – we’re just worker bees. We come in, do our job, and then we have to leave. What we do outside of that, it’s like some people really don’t care at all.

I’m spending another night at the hospital. My dad is feeling fine — his chest incision and areas of his legs where the surgeons took the grafts are healing normally, but now, he has an infection on his arm from the IV because it seems that his skin was so thick that the nurses had problems placing the IV into his vein. His arm swelled up to about one and a half times its normal size, and it got to a point where when the nurse took his blood pressure, the blood pressure machine cuff got so tight on his arm that my dad said he felt like his whole arm was going to explode — the woes of having a dad with literally thick skin.

This will be his eighth night in the hospital. We were originally hoping he’d only have to stay here for six nights, but it seems it’s going on for eight or nine now. Part of me is a bit relieved that he will be staying because it means less care taking on my mom’s part and more for the staff here to do, but the other part of me just wants him settled back at home to be comfortable and in his own space. Because my time here is coming to an end, my mom is gradually hinting that I should extend my stay since she says “I can’t handle all this by myself. There is so much to do. How am I supposed to do all this myself?” The guilt tripping had to start at some point, so I guess that some point is now. In the beginning, I heard a lot of “thank you for supporting Daddy and me.” Somewhere along the way, it became, “I’m not going to be angry with you if you decide not to, but you really should stay here longer.” Thanks, Mom.

California DMV is a complete disaster zone. Why would someone who walks in somehow manage to wait for less time than someone with an appointment? I guess I shouldn’t complain because I ended up benefiting from this today to renew my driver’s license. I was in and out within an hour this morning.

It’s a pretty depressing place, though. Everyone is in a bad mood because they all know that they have to wait — first, just to get into the building (it was raining today, so that made this part even more fun than usual), and the second time, to actually get the real work done, whether that’s a written test, fingerprinting, an eye exam, and/or get your photo taken. I had to fill out a form, have my eyes checked, get fingerprinted, and take my picture. It’s been 13 years since I’ve had my photo taken for my driver’s license. I am smiling in the last photo when I was just 15, but in this photo, I am half smiling. I couldn’t bring myself to fully smile because I remembered the last time I really looked at anyone’s California driver’s license, it was my brother’s — the license he never got to use because he died before he had the chance.

It was sitting in his desk when I came home on July 24th last year. Ed had very recently sat in person at the DMV, waiting to renew like everyone else, because as per California’s stupid, inefficient law, you can only renew via internet or mail two times in a row; the next time, you have to go in person to renew. He had his number called just the way I did, and then had his photo taken. His photo was absolutely miserable. He looked depressed, with eyes as though they’d given up on the world because the world had given up on him. His lips were straight, almost frowning without even really trying. My eyes watered when I saw it.

His old license was in his wallet when our parents picked it up from the Marin County Coroner’s Office. That’s why the new one wasn’t in his wallet. And I had panicked on July 22 when my mom informed me that he was missing and said his driver’s license was in his desk, because I thought… oh my god, he doesn’t want to be found. That’s why he left his wallet behind.

Life really sucks when even a visit to the DMV reminds you of your brother who committed suicide.

My dad is in his own private regular room, away from the constant noise and lights of the Cardiovasular Intensive Care Unit, and he’s looking and sounding better each day. Today, he was having an irregular heart beat, so he had to slow down his walking a bit. A few of the nurses have commended us for always being there and taking turns spending the night with him. One of them was remarking how pretty and loving I am with my dad. “You just have one daughter?” a few of them asked my mom. “Yes, just one child,” my mom said, half smiling weakly.

I felt so angry when I heard the words come out of her mouth. I know that this is the only easy response to nurses and medical professionals who we will likely (fingers crossed, no offense) not have to see again, but I felt hurt anyway. I’m an only child now? I’m not an only child. I have a big brother. He may not be living, but he still exists.

I don’t want my brother to be forgotten. The idea that anyone would forget Ed angers me to no end. I know my parents won’t forget about him and will think about him constantly each day, but I hate the thought that we have to act “normal” as though he doesn’t exist around strangers. I won’t forget Ed. It’s not even the slightest bit possible. And the funny thing is… now, I think of Ed in a different way… because I am thinking about him in the context of leaving me alone in this earthly world to care for our aging parents by myself. It’s a lonely feeling, a terrifying responsibility. I have no one else in the world to lean on except myself.

I’ve been doing a lot of research in the last few days on artery blockages, bypass surgery, and this treadmill stress test that ultimately indicated that my dad needed an angiogram to identify his artery blockages. I’ve spoken with both his surgeon and his anesthesiologist at length to learn more (both of whom were incredibly patient, listened, and answered all my questions thoroughly), and I’ve also discussed this with others who are familiar with coronary artery bypass surgeries because they know people close to them who have had them. What I have found is that as common as bypass surgeries are, treadmill stress tests are just as common, if not more common, and are done regularly on people who are at high risk of heart disease, as indicated by family history. The American Heart Association recommends this as the #1 test for anyone with a history of heart disease in the family. It’s not a secret, and I don’t need to be a doctor to know this. It’s all available online for anyone to see and learn. They are done on people as young as their 20s and 30s who have indicated a family history of heart problems. Even Chris is one of these people, as he had this test done two years ago.

So you can imagine how angry I got after thinking about this whole chain of events. Why did my uncle have to tell my dad to ask his primary care doctor for the stress test — after his own stress test, which showed my uncle had a blockage? Why did my dad’s doctor not proactively recommend it to my dad, knowing my dad has heart issues already as well as high blood pressure and a family history of heart disease? Every person before my dad on that side of the family has died of a heart attack. My dad is very honest and open about discussing these issues and has made this all very clear to his primary care doctor. I posed this question to my dad’s surgeon, who paused and said, “That’s a very good question — one for your dad’s primary care doctor to answer.”

I scheduled some time with my dad’s primary care doctor to chat tonight. Needless to say, the conversation did not go so well. When he called me back, he was very curt and seemed confused as to why his patient’s daughter would be calling him. yet when I spoke with the other two doctors, they completely empathized and understood immediately why I would call — because I’m a concerned daughter. I explained to him my thoughts, and when I asked him point blank why he never recommended this specific test to my dad and had to wait until my dad asked HIM if he could do it, that was when the drama began.

He immediately started interrupting me, claiming I had “misinformation” and “misinterpreted” what I was reading and what I heard from the other two doctors. He said my dad exhibited no chest pains or tightness. To this, I insisted that this test is supposed to be preventive, not reactive — it certainly can (and should) be done reactively, but I thought the whole point of having a primary care doctor is to prevent problems, not just treat them after you are already ill? He insisted he was right and I was wrong, that I didn’t have the proper training to understand any of this. It was a lot of condescension, with him constantly raising his voice at me. Not one to be outdone, I made sure he knew I was not going to back down and just raised my voice even louder. And I told him to stop interrupting me. Here’s a hint: if I tell you that I’m not done speaking, it means you should probably shut up and let me speak. That doesn’t happen often, but when it does, I mean it. It became quite a shouting match in the end. I told him, I guess we’ll need to agree to disagree here. He laughed and said, “There’s nothing to disagree about. This is all very clear.” A few more back and forths, and I said, “This is going nowhere. This conversation is now over.” And I hung up.

While he was rude, condescending, and everything opposite of calm and empathetic, the worst part was when he actually told me that “family history” of any disease, whether it’s heart disease or cancer, is defined NOT by the family members before you such as your father, your grandfather, etc., but by those in your current generation, so your brother, sister, cousins, etc. I’d never heard anything more ludicrous in my life. “So you’re going to tell me that just because my father’s father and my great grandfather both died of heart attacks that this indicates nothing about my father’s risk for getting heart disease or a heart attack?” I asked him in complete shock.  He said yes — that’s how “family history” is defined by those in the medical profession. Oh, and I think he completely forgot my dad told him that his older brother died from a massive heart attack at age 65. That was over 14 years ago.

There’s a reason why the American Breast Cancer Foundation advocates that women whose mothers or grandmothers have had breast cancer should get tested earlier — because that’s how family history is defined – by anyone in your blood line. The same goes for anyone else.

I’m deeply dismayed at the fact that there are doctors like this who exist and can still practice medicine. Clearly, being proactive is not a valued or strong suit here. And this man, Richard Tang, is supposed to be the director of the Phase Clinic for Prevention of Heart Attack and Stroke at Kaiser in San Francisco.