One year ago today, I was headed to CA with my brother and my dad. My dad wanted one last trip to CA after he was diagnosed with brain tumors. He had been in the hospital for a few days earlier in the week with diverticulitis. My brother and I didn't think he was going to be able to make the trip, but he decided that he felt up to it and the morning of July 2nd we were on our way.
We were having a great time, laughing and talking. We met one of my dad's old friends from high school in St. George for dinner. It was so nice for my dad to see this friend again as it had been many years since they had seen each other. After dinner, we headed on our way. Our destination was Las Vegas where Doreen, Jeff, Brandon, and Abigail were waiting for us. We made it to Vegas and got into our hotel room. We were all chatting when my dad felt a really bad pain in his stomach. He asked me to call the ambulance because the pain was so severe. This is where the nightmare started...
The ambulance arrived and took forever to get him out of the hotel. The EMT's were more concerned with getting his insurance information than helping him. By this time he was in an incredible amount of pain and it was horrible to watch him and be completely helpless to do anything to make him feel better. They finally took him and informed us that they were taking him to Spring Valley Hospital. Alan, Doreen, and I followed the ambulance to the hospital.
Now before I go any further, I want to say that I will never set foot in Spring Valley Hospital again. I wouldn't take my dog to Spring Valley Hospital. I have been in a lot of hospitals over my 40 years and this was the worst hospital I have ever seen. Patient care was horrible. If I am ever in Las Vegas and need a hospital, I will refuse Spring Valley...if it was the only hospital left in the city and I had two severed legs, I would crawl across the barren, hot ass desert until I reached another town!
The next 8 hours were unbelievable. After about 4 1/2 hours, I threw a huge fit, made a scene and demanded to see a doctor (we had not seen a doctor yet! 4 1/2 hours WTF?) The nurse was pissed at me because I told her that she was not going to lay another finger on my father until I saw a doctor. The following conversation took place...
Me: We have been here for 4 1/2 hours and the only thing you have done is draw blood, give him a CAT scan and load my dad up on morphine. I have given the nurse his history. I have explained that he was in the hospital at the beginning of this week with diverticulitis. It has been almost 5 hours and you haven't even seen him yet. It's not like you are super busy, you have been sitting at that desk for 4 hours. Does it take over 4 hours to get the results of a CAT scan?
Doctor: Ma'am I see a lot of patients everyday and
Me: This man is not just another patient! He is my father! You are not giving him the care he needs! (Now I am yelling and crying)
Doctor: I realize that and as I was saying, I see a lot of patients who are drug seeking and I think he needs to be admitted and...
Me: Wait, wait, wait (At this point, I think that Alan could see I was about to go postal so he attempted to calm me down)
Alan: Look, we have five hours to drive to get him to my house. If we drive those five hours and he ends up in the hospital there, then so be it. At least there, he has support from family and friends. We just need enough pain killers to get him home.
The doctor informed us that he didn't see anything on the CAT scan or in his blood work and had no idea why my dad was in pain! (Keep in mind the cause of death on the death certificate was septic shock due to diverticulitis). The doctor gave in and wrote a prescription for Lortab. We were finally released about 5 in the morning. Now, I am sure that the tumors in my dad's brain were causing the morphine to be extra potent. This is the only explanation I can think of because he was so confused and so out of it. His right side had started to shake and was not working properly. He couldn't get in and out of his wheelchair or in and out of the car.
When we got back to the hotel, we were exhausted, emotionally and physically. We got my dad to bed and Alan and I crashed. We got up the next day ( I should say afternoon) to finish the drive to Ventura. When we were saying goodbye, Doreen and I knew that this was their final goodbye. We didn't talk about it, but we know each other so well that we can communicate without even saying a word. She did tell me at a later time that she knew the tumors were bad because when he looked at her, his eyes had that same look that her dad's did right before he died.
The next 5 + hours were awful. We kept my dad drugged up. To give you an idea of how sick and out of it he was, he wanted to move to the back seat of the Excursion, so Alan pulled over and it took us 20 minutes to get him into the backseat. We finally made it to Ventura and should have went straight to the hospital, but we went to Alan's house and put him to bed. I was up all night giving him meds and woke Alan early on the morning of the 4th and told him he needed to call the ambulance.
The sixth floor of Community Memorial Hospital is where my dad would spend the last 20 hours of his life. He was coherent enough to tell the doctor that he didn't want anything done to try and make him better. He wanted to be kept comfortable and he wanted them to let him die. I am very thankful that he was able to tell this to the doctor because it did make his wishes easier to follow.
For the next 20 or so hours, Alan and I stayed with my dad. There was no way I was going to leave. As the end was getting near, his breathing slowed and we knew it wouldn't be long. I told my dad it was okay to go, that mom was waiting for him. Alan kissed my dad on the forehead and said goodbye. My dad opened his eyes (for the first time in many hours), looked up at the ceiling, smiled, closed his eyes, and took his last breath. I like to think that he was looking at my mom who had come for him. It was one of the most peaceful moments of my life.
The day of the funeral, I practiced and practiced and finally got through my eulogy without crying. But, of course when I began reading it at the funeral, I cried like a baby. Most people have heard it or have read it, but I am going to post it again anyway.
I cannot believe that it has been a year since I said goodbye. I miss you so very much and would love nothing more than to share one more pot of coffee with you, or listen to you scream at the TV. Life is not the same without you here, but I know you are so much better off and that gives me comfort. I do have a small request though. If its possible, could you maybe put an idea in the Big Guy's head about getting rid of skunks and seagulls? I'd really appreciate it!
Eulogy for George S. Ballinger
When I was asked by my brother to speak today, I sat and thought about what I could say about my dad. I could tell you that he was one of the most loving, kind hearted and generous men I’ve ever known and that his family and friends were the most precious things in his life, but you already know that.
When the doctor told my dad that the MRI showed tumors in his brain, he had a great attitude about it. He was hoping the tumors came from his lungs and not his colon because he said it would make all those people right that called him shit for brains all those years. He was quite relieved when they found a spot on his lung.
He told me that he wanted to take one last trip to California and see some family, old friends and the ocean. We arrived in California and my dad was immediately admitted into the hospital. He was in a room on the sixth floor of Community Memorial Hospital in Ventura. I only mention this because at the end of the hallway was a huge window with an amazing view of the palm trees, green hills and the ocean. It was absolutely beautiful. As I stood there realizing that this was it, the time was coming, I thought of my dad wanting that last trip to the beach and felt sad that the trip he wanted so badly wasn’t going to happen. You see my dad and I had a special relationship with the ocean.
When I was in kindergarten, he would pick me up every day on his motorcycle and our routine was the same. I would climb in front of him and hold on. I would always yell, “Faster daddy, faster. He would head directly to the beach where we would swing on the swings and take a walk on the pier. I would look at the ground through the opening between the boards on the pier as we walked. When I could see the water underneath me, dad would have to carry me. I was afraid of the water and knew that if the pier collapsed, my dad was holding me so I would be safe. We would walk out to the end of the pier and on the way back I would let him put me down when I could see the sand beneath the pier once again. I don’t remember how long this daily ritual lasted, but I can tell you that I remember it like it was yesterday.
It is extremely special to me that when the time came to let him go, the tables had turned and it was me holding him, telling him he was safe and that it was okay to let go. It was one of the most precious moments of my life and I will cherish it forever.
Thank you all for coming today. This last week has been a roller coaster ride. I am in awe of the support and love that my family has been given through this difficult time. I am proud of my father and the many lives he touched throughout his life. I refuse to say goodbye because I will see him again. Maybe when my time comes he will pick me up on a motorcycle and once again I can say to him, “Faster daddy, faster.
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