"You're always a day away"
And so is rehab.
I don't know what to think any more. Way back last Wednesday, I sat with dad and the Nurse Care Manager came into the room to tell us that due to the catheter that dad had, rehab at "Center A"was not an option. She pushed for "Center B". They had a bed. Yippee!
Now, a week later, and still no closer to rehab than the day he was brought to the hospital, we are told by a second Nurse Care Manager that "Center B" would not take dad with a catheter and "Center A" would take him and would be well equipped to handle his urinary issues.
Great! When do we go? We have the suitcase packed. Just give us the word.
No, really... give us the word.
please?
It is one issue after another. Catheter in. Catheter out. In. Out.
Nurse puts in, dad pulls it out.
He's not a good patient. Maybe the rehab centers heard about him. Maybe they don't want him and are stalling until we give up, hoping we find some other un-suspecting rehab center.
Dad is going in and out of his senses. A friend tells me this is typical for stroke / elderly patients. So dad is not in the hospital because he's crazy, he's crazy because he's in the hospital.
I come to the conclusion that things are not going to get better until he gets out of the hospital and into rehab. But he can't go to rehab until things get better.
"Hello? Is anyone else hearing this?"
I'm also coming to the conclusion that the person/people behind the camera that is following me is at times twisted... getting some sort of satisfaction out of prolonging this whole ordeal.
It is again Wednesday and Sue takes over for Lisa.
And things get much worse. Dad now has a fever, is shaking, projectile vomit (oooh, I am SO glad I'm not there today), and pretty much out of his mind.
I'm guessing no rehab today. Just a shot in the dark there.
Blood cultures will take three days... eh no biggie... we're really losing hope on the whole rehab thing anyway.
I wonder if the hospital would mind if we painted dad's room a different color. Perhaps a more cheery color? I mean, it is a bit drab. And if he's going to be there a while, it would be nice to spruce it up. I'm thinking some window treatments might do the trick?
Okay, so that's probably not an option.
So instead we'll just wait for tomorrow -
Annie started out this one... I think she'll help me close it out...
"When I'm stuck in a day that's gray, and lonely,
I just stick out my chin and grin, and say,
Oh
The sun'll come out tomorrow
So ya gotta hang on 'til tomorrow, come what may"
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Monday, October 24, 2011
Disappointment Begat Disappointment
Hope (and perhaps that pesky camera I swear is following me) is sometimes the only thing moving me forward. Without it (them), it would be hard not to just stand still... or better yet, stay in bed with the covers pulled over my head.
While Wednesday was full of disappointment, we all were holding out with hope that Thursday would bring terrific news and all would be moving forward in a positive direction with dad going to rehab.
Hope screwed us...
Wednesday into Thursday brought some definite set backs and with it, disappointment.
Dad woke up at some point in the night, and through some events we're unclear on, forgot about the catheter that was still in and when staff tried to help, he kicked one. Hard enough to send them to the ER.
And while part of me is kinda proud - dad still has some fight in him; and thrilled - to hear that he has some strength; I'm disappointed that it happened.
Because now we're into more set-backs.... apparently assaulting staff members leads to sedation and restraints. And apparently, rehab centers don't like those two things. I'm not sure why...
So while things are improving, dad sits and waits.
Sue's husband left in the wee hours of the morning to sit with dad...and make sure he didn't assault any one else. However, the sedation and restraints were kind of a guarantee that all staff members were safe. Regardless, it was good to have him there.
Sue drove up again in hopes that Friday would be the day. But Friday was just as disappointing.
If I were the hospital, I'd want to get rid of this patient pronto. I mean, he beat up one their employees. And yet, they are hanging on to him. Dragging their feet. Or so that's how it seems.
The family and I drive up Saturday afternoon. We head right to the hospital to give Sue a break. Not much of a break, really. We don't spend too much time before making an exit to allow privacy for bathroom usage. On one hand, I'm kinda tired of looking at these hallways, but on the other hand, the non-patient hallway is completely vacant, and it makes a nice raceway for the boys.
We check back. No movement, so we take a walk. We return only to have just missed the doctor.
Really? The ghost in the night doctor...the one we've all heard about, but have yet to see with our own eyes? And we've missed him because of poop? Really?
Okay, I exaggerate, but not by much.
I rush to the nurse's station to see if he might come back and speak to us so we know what's going on.
He does. And in his opinion, dad is ready to go to rehab. He wants him to go to rehab. But nothing moves on a weekend.
sigh.
We return to the "raceway". Sue returns and we fill her in with what little we know.
I have my lap top and I think I'll entertain dad with some pictures. We never get to it. There is too much going on in the room. And then dinner arrives. We herd the children out and head to the lobby.
We then head out for dinner. My trusty phone leads us to Red Robin where we enjoy a tasty beverage (or two). I don't want to talk about dad... I don't think any of us want to. It is nice to catch up with Sue. We never get to hang out. I suppose that's what happens when you live 4 hours apart.
The family and I head to dad's house to 'camp' for the night. We roll in and it is chilly. Inside and out.
Yeah, it would silly to have heat left on... I mean who trusts those silly thermostat thingamabobs anyway.
"Hello? Is anyone else seeing this?"
We set to work, figuring out the complexity of dad's heating set up and try to warm up the house. We unload all our gear and head out to the store...I forgot towels. And dad really only has the beach towels from 20+ years ago. I know there are hidden cameras... I'm sure of it.
Actually, everything in the house is like going back in time to my childhood. The sheets on his bed are a mis-matched set that used to go on our little twin beds. I loved that daffodil printed sheet. I don't recall there being a fitted sheet to match, but I loved it none the less.
And the hand towel in the bathroom reminds me of our home in Upper Darby. It is so ugly, yet so comforting.
We play games, we make jiffy pop, we watch a movie. And settle in for our "camp out".
In the morning, we clean up. We rake leaves, mulch leaves, blow leaves, mow leaves... even bag leaves. Just for fun we even filled a couple of those jack-o-lantern bags...the boys love it. I'm pretty sure dad will hate it. But I do it anyway. Take that, hidden cameras!
There is still a giant pile of leaves. Noah is having a blast jumping into it... I figure, why not? And I go for it... Noah loves that I do.
"Hey, hidden cameras! Did you get that one on film? No worries... I'll do it again! Woo hoo!!!!"
We wrap up all that we can do in the yard, set the trash out. Jonah is melting down. I'm growing weary. Noah is a dirty mess. This is fun, right?
We head back to the hospital. Jonah is out cold. So Dan relaxes while Noah and I head in to see dad. Dad is out cold. So we sit.
Dad looks old. Really old.
Noah and I sit and chat while dad sleeps. When dad finally rouses, it's as though he'd rather us not be there. He's tired.
"Bedpan!"
sheesh.
"I need a bedpan!"
Every time I'm in the room, dad's roommate calls for a bedpan. I'm beginning to get a complex.
We decide to head out. Dad is tired (I'm assuming from the non-stop party that is a hospital after hours), and we need to get home and attend to our lives.
It's been a disappointing week/ weekend. We're all weary, but there's always hope.
And there's always tomorrow for rehab... right?
While Wednesday was full of disappointment, we all were holding out with hope that Thursday would bring terrific news and all would be moving forward in a positive direction with dad going to rehab.
Hope screwed us...
Wednesday into Thursday brought some definite set backs and with it, disappointment.
Dad woke up at some point in the night, and through some events we're unclear on, forgot about the catheter that was still in and when staff tried to help, he kicked one. Hard enough to send them to the ER.
And while part of me is kinda proud - dad still has some fight in him; and thrilled - to hear that he has some strength; I'm disappointed that it happened.
Because now we're into more set-backs.... apparently assaulting staff members leads to sedation and restraints. And apparently, rehab centers don't like those two things. I'm not sure why...
So while things are improving, dad sits and waits.
Sue's husband left in the wee hours of the morning to sit with dad...and make sure he didn't assault any one else. However, the sedation and restraints were kind of a guarantee that all staff members were safe. Regardless, it was good to have him there.
Sue drove up again in hopes that Friday would be the day. But Friday was just as disappointing.
If I were the hospital, I'd want to get rid of this patient pronto. I mean, he beat up one their employees. And yet, they are hanging on to him. Dragging their feet. Or so that's how it seems.
The family and I drive up Saturday afternoon. We head right to the hospital to give Sue a break. Not much of a break, really. We don't spend too much time before making an exit to allow privacy for bathroom usage. On one hand, I'm kinda tired of looking at these hallways, but on the other hand, the non-patient hallway is completely vacant, and it makes a nice raceway for the boys.
We check back. No movement, so we take a walk. We return only to have just missed the doctor.
Really? The ghost in the night doctor...the one we've all heard about, but have yet to see with our own eyes? And we've missed him because of poop? Really?
Okay, I exaggerate, but not by much.
I rush to the nurse's station to see if he might come back and speak to us so we know what's going on.
He does. And in his opinion, dad is ready to go to rehab. He wants him to go to rehab. But nothing moves on a weekend.
sigh.
We return to the "raceway". Sue returns and we fill her in with what little we know.
I have my lap top and I think I'll entertain dad with some pictures. We never get to it. There is too much going on in the room. And then dinner arrives. We herd the children out and head to the lobby.
We then head out for dinner. My trusty phone leads us to Red Robin where we enjoy a tasty beverage (or two). I don't want to talk about dad... I don't think any of us want to. It is nice to catch up with Sue. We never get to hang out. I suppose that's what happens when you live 4 hours apart.
The family and I head to dad's house to 'camp' for the night. We roll in and it is chilly. Inside and out.
Yeah, it would silly to have heat left on... I mean who trusts those silly thermostat thingamabobs anyway.
"Hello? Is anyone else seeing this?"
We set to work, figuring out the complexity of dad's heating set up and try to warm up the house. We unload all our gear and head out to the store...I forgot towels. And dad really only has the beach towels from 20+ years ago. I know there are hidden cameras... I'm sure of it.
Actually, everything in the house is like going back in time to my childhood. The sheets on his bed are a mis-matched set that used to go on our little twin beds. I loved that daffodil printed sheet. I don't recall there being a fitted sheet to match, but I loved it none the less.
And the hand towel in the bathroom reminds me of our home in Upper Darby. It is so ugly, yet so comforting.
We play games, we make jiffy pop, we watch a movie. And settle in for our "camp out".
In the morning, we clean up. We rake leaves, mulch leaves, blow leaves, mow leaves... even bag leaves. Just for fun we even filled a couple of those jack-o-lantern bags...the boys love it. I'm pretty sure dad will hate it. But I do it anyway. Take that, hidden cameras!
There is still a giant pile of leaves. Noah is having a blast jumping into it... I figure, why not? And I go for it... Noah loves that I do.
"Hey, hidden cameras! Did you get that one on film? No worries... I'll do it again! Woo hoo!!!!"
We wrap up all that we can do in the yard, set the trash out. Jonah is melting down. I'm growing weary. Noah is a dirty mess. This is fun, right?
We head back to the hospital. Jonah is out cold. So Dan relaxes while Noah and I head in to see dad. Dad is out cold. So we sit.
Dad looks old. Really old.
Noah and I sit and chat while dad sleeps. When dad finally rouses, it's as though he'd rather us not be there. He's tired.
"Bedpan!"
sheesh.
"I need a bedpan!"
Every time I'm in the room, dad's roommate calls for a bedpan. I'm beginning to get a complex.
We decide to head out. Dad is tired (I'm assuming from the non-stop party that is a hospital after hours), and we need to get home and attend to our lives.
It's been a disappointing week/ weekend. We're all weary, but there's always hope.
And there's always tomorrow for rehab... right?
Friday, October 21, 2011
We wanted dad to go to rehab, but they said "no, no, no"
Lisa and Sue spent the weekend into Tuesday by dad's side. Sacrificing time away from their jobs and families. I had the ability to commute and only missed single days at a time from my family.
I head back up to the hospital early Wednesday morning. We're closing in on the end of the first week of this journey. It feels like a year since I received the call from dad's doctor last Thursday. But I am hopeful that today is going to be a great day. We are expecting dad to be moved to a rehab facility to begin his physical rehabilitation.
I enter the hospital a little before 10am. Dad's roommate is absent. yay!
Before I have a chance to sit down the nurse strolls in and says "John, did you tell your daughter what happened this morning?"
"Hello? Is anyone else hearing this?"
Had I known how the day would end up, I would have known this was an omen.
Early this morning, and by early I mean pre-4:00am early, I received a call from the hospital that dad had fallen. Nothing major, just tried to head to the bathroom on his own, and slid to the floor.
We don't dwell on it. No real reason to... or so I think.
I learn they catheterized him earlier today because he is having trouble emptying his bladder.
The Nurse Care Manager comes in and tells me that dad has been accepted at a rehab center nearby and she's arranging for his transport soon after lunch. We are excited. I peek in dad's suitcase and eye his newly purchased clothes from Sue and Lisa. It's oddly like buying new clothes to go on a trip... dad will be well outfitted for his holiday at rehab.
But today will not end up being that day.
Dad is having trouble urinating. And what he passes has blood. Not a positive sign.
They ultrasound. Decide how much urine they have to gather before they can allow him to be released and we wait.
And wait.
They decide to catheterize again. This time there is more blood. It looks bad to me. But then again, I went to school for Philosophy.
The PA from Urology arrives and assesses things. He's not too concerned with the amount of blood, but is concerned with clotting that may occur and cause further discomfort for dad. He talks to dad about symptoms he may have experienced before and in typical dad fashion, he never had things checked by a doctor. The PA decides a bladder irrigation is in order.
The Nurse Care Manager tells us that the local rehab facility can not take someone with a catheter. So that option has been ripped from the table. My heart sinks. I try to be positive for dad. I tell him that rehab is out for today, but they're going to get him fixed up and he'll be a whole new man when he gets out... ready to run a marathon. He chuckles.
After some confusion among the nursing staff and the PA, they set up to do the bladder irrigation. Which means catheter #3 of the day. I take a walk to give privacy.
I'm glad I did. My heart breaks. This has been a physically trying day for dad. He had tears in his eyes.
The roommate came back. The girl babysitting him this afternoon tells him she needs to bathe him because he's dirty. I can't help but smirk. And look for the camera. And you guessed it -
"Hello? Is anyone else hearing this?"
The afternoon seems to drag on. At one point I ask dad if he wants to watch TV. I show him how to work the TV control. He begins okay, then starts to be a little spastic with the on-off switch. on. off. on .off. In rapid succession. Finally, I try to re-teach the previous lesson... with a touch of patience. "You have to wait for the picture to appear." sigh... as I look for the camera.
I have checked out the cafeteria and the cafe; tested the limits of cell coverage in several elevators; played with the hand dryers in the bathroom - oh my gosh, they are so much fun! Posted to facebook, checked email.
Dad is being very patient today. He's allowing everyone to do their jobs. We talk about jobs he has had. Then the frustration begins. He asks me if I see the urinal. Can I get one for him. I tell him to just go, that he has a catheter. He's not understanding. I walk around to the other side of the bed just to be sure. Yes, dad, you're still hooked up. sigh.
His urine is running more clear with the irrigation. Things are looking up.
Dinner is served. I get dad situated and decide I should get going. I'm not looking forward to a rainy drive home.
I tell dad that Sue's husband Tim is going to come up tomorrow to spend some time with him. This brightens him. He tells me it will be good to see him.
Dad tells me to drive safe and I promise I will.
I step out into the dismal early evening. The sky is threatening. And I know it will follow through on its threats. It's dinner time, but I'm not really hungry. And I want McDonald's, but there isn't one on my route home.
Oh well. I'll turn on my Pandora station and sing at the top of lungs instead. See how I feel in a hundred miles or so.
I head back up to the hospital early Wednesday morning. We're closing in on the end of the first week of this journey. It feels like a year since I received the call from dad's doctor last Thursday. But I am hopeful that today is going to be a great day. We are expecting dad to be moved to a rehab facility to begin his physical rehabilitation.
I enter the hospital a little before 10am. Dad's roommate is absent. yay!
Before I have a chance to sit down the nurse strolls in and says "John, did you tell your daughter what happened this morning?"
"Hello? Is anyone else hearing this?"
Had I known how the day would end up, I would have known this was an omen.
Early this morning, and by early I mean pre-4:00am early, I received a call from the hospital that dad had fallen. Nothing major, just tried to head to the bathroom on his own, and slid to the floor.
We don't dwell on it. No real reason to... or so I think.
I learn they catheterized him earlier today because he is having trouble emptying his bladder.
The Nurse Care Manager comes in and tells me that dad has been accepted at a rehab center nearby and she's arranging for his transport soon after lunch. We are excited. I peek in dad's suitcase and eye his newly purchased clothes from Sue and Lisa. It's oddly like buying new clothes to go on a trip... dad will be well outfitted for his holiday at rehab.
But today will not end up being that day.
Dad is having trouble urinating. And what he passes has blood. Not a positive sign.
They ultrasound. Decide how much urine they have to gather before they can allow him to be released and we wait.
And wait.
They decide to catheterize again. This time there is more blood. It looks bad to me. But then again, I went to school for Philosophy.
The PA from Urology arrives and assesses things. He's not too concerned with the amount of blood, but is concerned with clotting that may occur and cause further discomfort for dad. He talks to dad about symptoms he may have experienced before and in typical dad fashion, he never had things checked by a doctor. The PA decides a bladder irrigation is in order.
The Nurse Care Manager tells us that the local rehab facility can not take someone with a catheter. So that option has been ripped from the table. My heart sinks. I try to be positive for dad. I tell him that rehab is out for today, but they're going to get him fixed up and he'll be a whole new man when he gets out... ready to run a marathon. He chuckles.
After some confusion among the nursing staff and the PA, they set up to do the bladder irrigation. Which means catheter #3 of the day. I take a walk to give privacy.
I'm glad I did. My heart breaks. This has been a physically trying day for dad. He had tears in his eyes.
The roommate came back. The girl babysitting him this afternoon tells him she needs to bathe him because he's dirty. I can't help but smirk. And look for the camera. And you guessed it -
"Hello? Is anyone else hearing this?"
The afternoon seems to drag on. At one point I ask dad if he wants to watch TV. I show him how to work the TV control. He begins okay, then starts to be a little spastic with the on-off switch. on. off. on .off. In rapid succession. Finally, I try to re-teach the previous lesson... with a touch of patience. "You have to wait for the picture to appear." sigh... as I look for the camera.
I have checked out the cafeteria and the cafe; tested the limits of cell coverage in several elevators; played with the hand dryers in the bathroom - oh my gosh, they are so much fun! Posted to facebook, checked email.
Dad is being very patient today. He's allowing everyone to do their jobs. We talk about jobs he has had. Then the frustration begins. He asks me if I see the urinal. Can I get one for him. I tell him to just go, that he has a catheter. He's not understanding. I walk around to the other side of the bed just to be sure. Yes, dad, you're still hooked up. sigh.
His urine is running more clear with the irrigation. Things are looking up.
Dinner is served. I get dad situated and decide I should get going. I'm not looking forward to a rainy drive home.
I tell dad that Sue's husband Tim is going to come up tomorrow to spend some time with him. This brightens him. He tells me it will be good to see him.
Dad tells me to drive safe and I promise I will.
I step out into the dismal early evening. The sky is threatening. And I know it will follow through on its threats. It's dinner time, but I'm not really hungry. And I want McDonald's, but there isn't one on my route home.
Oh well. I'll turn on my Pandora station and sing at the top of lungs instead. See how I feel in a hundred miles or so.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
And I get to see the fall foliage for the third time in a week...
Last Sunday we drove up to visit my dad. Dan was planning to fix one of dad's heaters and I wanted to enjoy the beautiful autumn colors in the Poconos and hopefully get some good photos of the boys.As we drove the last stretch of the trip up the turnpike, I soaked in the hues that only this area seems to offer. And I thought that it was kinda sad that this would be the last time this season I would be able to enjoy these views.
We arrived, and in typical dad fashion, we immediately went out to lunch at one of his favorites in White Haven.
We had a wonderful day. We all took a walk down to the lake. The boys and I explored behind the ponds and looked for animal tracks while Dan and dad took their time behind us. Dad is shuffling along as he has been for a few years now, but over all he was in great shape and we all enjoyed the walk. Dad and I sat on a bench and looked at the picture perfect lake and commented on how warm the day was. Everything was perfect.
One week later I am making the same drive up to see my dad, but things are drastically different.
This is the third time this week I have viewed the gorgeous fall colors... that is two more times than I ever imagined I would this year.
By the time I reach the hospital, I am so proud of myself... I barely needed to use my IPhone maps feature...I'm getting good at this.
I'm now an old pro at this hospital business. I know where I'm going. I turn into my dad's room and say hello to my sisters who are chatting with dad and giving him Dunkin Donuts and coffee. Dad seems much more alert and definitely more content.
I take a seat facing dad and get updates from my sisters and my dad... well, sorta.
Dad starts to tell us something about the walls and the wind and little black mice. And I'm finally able to ask "Hello? Is anyone else hearing this?" to an actual person. But I don't want to be rude to my dad. So I just give my sisters a look that I hopes conveys my thoughts. And the look Sue returns to me confirms that my message was received. Then I wonder what kind of drugs dad is on...
I get the necessary updates and Lisa and I head to dads house to clean. I've come prepared with a whole host of cleaning products.
Before we begin I try to call my Aunt Jean. I don't recall ever speaking to her before, or even meeting her although, it is possible I have. Having family on different continents is an interesting dynamic.
I find the phone numbers my dad has written out and set out to make an international call. I'm ill-prepared for this. I haven't made a call like that, well, ever! I have no idea how to go about doing this. So I dial '0' for operator. Isn't that what you do for an international call? Apparently not.
After much frustration, I decide to try my Aunt Pat. I dial the number and wonder of wonders I immediately hear the double ring from across the Atlantic. An absolutely pleasant sounding woman answers the phone. Not quite like Mrs. Potts from Beauty & the Beast, but she sounds just as cute.
We speak for a while and I tell her what's going on with her brother. She says she'll pass along to her sister Jean.
Lisa and I clean. And clean. And clean. I finish his bed room, while Lisa works on the kitchen. By the time we finish what we've worked on, it still looks like we should be starting to clean again. It is daunting.
"Hello? Is anyone else SEEING this?"
And now it's almost 2pm. We sweep the leaves off the deck and driveway.
We decide that I will drive back and relieve Sue from dad duty and she will go back and help Lisa.
I am grateful that dad sleeps the afternoon away. Unfortunately, his roommate does also...sorta. Dad's roommate is in much worse shape than dad. Dialysis, compression stockings, oxygen. The O2 sensor alarm constantly goes off. And I'm not sure of his mental state.
An hour or so into my watch, the roommate yells out "Bedpan, I need a bedpan!" I tell him to press the button for the nurse.
"Bedpan!"
Never mind, I'll press the button. I grab dad's nurse button and call the nurse's station. They are slow to answer.
"Bedpan! It's coming!" I go out into the hallway and flag down 2 nurses. They call in that they will be right over.
The nurse's station calls back. "We need a bedpan, please."
"Ooohhh, it's coming!"
The nurses come in and get him set.
They're not overly concerned with his privacy. They don't go to great lengths to close the curtain.
He finishes. He hollers to let everyone know. I press dad's nurse button again. This is getting old.
They come and clean him up.
Everything finally settles down. But because no one was really concerned with the roommates privacy, I now have a direct line of sight to him and his family jewels.
"Hello? Is anyone else seeing this?"
A few hours have passed and I am overly grateful that Sue left me her laptop. It did help a bit to keep from going bonkers (okay, completely bonkers). And they text and let me know they are both headed back over to the hospital. They offer to bring dad McDonald's and I think he is grateful... ravioli's are not his favorite.
Because of Sue's brilliance, we have a legal notepad that we are taking notes about dad's care. This is a way better option then relying on my/our brain/s. So I've kept up the notes while I was with dad. Things are looking good. Dad has gotten a lot of rest today. I'm hoping the rest is helping to heal his brain.
It's getting late, so I decide it's time to head home. I'm still not overly confident about my sense of directions and it would be nice to hit familiar territory in the few dwindling day light hours.
My doubt in myself proves unfounded - I arrive home, in one piece and without ever checking directions.
I'll have this down in no time.
We arrived, and in typical dad fashion, we immediately went out to lunch at one of his favorites in White Haven.
We had a wonderful day. We all took a walk down to the lake. The boys and I explored behind the ponds and looked for animal tracks while Dan and dad took their time behind us. Dad is shuffling along as he has been for a few years now, but over all he was in great shape and we all enjoyed the walk. Dad and I sat on a bench and looked at the picture perfect lake and commented on how warm the day was. Everything was perfect.
One week later I am making the same drive up to see my dad, but things are drastically different.
This is the third time this week I have viewed the gorgeous fall colors... that is two more times than I ever imagined I would this year.
By the time I reach the hospital, I am so proud of myself... I barely needed to use my IPhone maps feature...I'm getting good at this.
I'm now an old pro at this hospital business. I know where I'm going. I turn into my dad's room and say hello to my sisters who are chatting with dad and giving him Dunkin Donuts and coffee. Dad seems much more alert and definitely more content.
I take a seat facing dad and get updates from my sisters and my dad... well, sorta.
Dad starts to tell us something about the walls and the wind and little black mice. And I'm finally able to ask "Hello? Is anyone else hearing this?" to an actual person. But I don't want to be rude to my dad. So I just give my sisters a look that I hopes conveys my thoughts. And the look Sue returns to me confirms that my message was received. Then I wonder what kind of drugs dad is on...
I get the necessary updates and Lisa and I head to dads house to clean. I've come prepared with a whole host of cleaning products.
Before we begin I try to call my Aunt Jean. I don't recall ever speaking to her before, or even meeting her although, it is possible I have. Having family on different continents is an interesting dynamic.
I find the phone numbers my dad has written out and set out to make an international call. I'm ill-prepared for this. I haven't made a call like that, well, ever! I have no idea how to go about doing this. So I dial '0' for operator. Isn't that what you do for an international call? Apparently not.
After much frustration, I decide to try my Aunt Pat. I dial the number and wonder of wonders I immediately hear the double ring from across the Atlantic. An absolutely pleasant sounding woman answers the phone. Not quite like Mrs. Potts from Beauty & the Beast, but she sounds just as cute.
We speak for a while and I tell her what's going on with her brother. She says she'll pass along to her sister Jean.
Lisa and I clean. And clean. And clean. I finish his bed room, while Lisa works on the kitchen. By the time we finish what we've worked on, it still looks like we should be starting to clean again. It is daunting.
"Hello? Is anyone else SEEING this?"
And now it's almost 2pm. We sweep the leaves off the deck and driveway.
We decide that I will drive back and relieve Sue from dad duty and she will go back and help Lisa.
I am grateful that dad sleeps the afternoon away. Unfortunately, his roommate does also...sorta. Dad's roommate is in much worse shape than dad. Dialysis, compression stockings, oxygen. The O2 sensor alarm constantly goes off. And I'm not sure of his mental state.
An hour or so into my watch, the roommate yells out "Bedpan, I need a bedpan!" I tell him to press the button for the nurse.
"Bedpan!"
Never mind, I'll press the button. I grab dad's nurse button and call the nurse's station. They are slow to answer.
"Bedpan! It's coming!" I go out into the hallway and flag down 2 nurses. They call in that they will be right over.
The nurse's station calls back. "We need a bedpan, please."
"Ooohhh, it's coming!"
The nurses come in and get him set.
They're not overly concerned with his privacy. They don't go to great lengths to close the curtain.
He finishes. He hollers to let everyone know. I press dad's nurse button again. This is getting old.
They come and clean him up.
Everything finally settles down. But because no one was really concerned with the roommates privacy, I now have a direct line of sight to him and his family jewels.
"Hello? Is anyone else seeing this?"
A few hours have passed and I am overly grateful that Sue left me her laptop. It did help a bit to keep from going bonkers (okay, completely bonkers). And they text and let me know they are both headed back over to the hospital. They offer to bring dad McDonald's and I think he is grateful... ravioli's are not his favorite.
Because of Sue's brilliance, we have a legal notepad that we are taking notes about dad's care. This is a way better option then relying on my/our brain/s. So I've kept up the notes while I was with dad. Things are looking good. Dad has gotten a lot of rest today. I'm hoping the rest is helping to heal his brain.
It's getting late, so I decide it's time to head home. I'm still not overly confident about my sense of directions and it would be nice to hit familiar territory in the few dwindling day light hours.
My doubt in myself proves unfounded - I arrive home, in one piece and without ever checking directions.
I'll have this down in no time.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
The first step is always the hardest...at least that's what I'm told
The first step is always the hardest... or so I'm told. I sometimes don't realize I'm taking that "first step" until I've already walked a mile.
And so begins my journey.
I am not alone in my journey. No, not by far. My family and friends are almost always with me, and even when I'm alone, I can't help but wonder if there is a hidden video camera joining me during every waking moment. Which is why I stop frequently throughout my week and ask "Hello? Is anyone else hearing this?" Some days I am convinced that I am being filmed for some comedy show in the making.
My most recent 'journey' began last Thursday with a call from my dad's doctor. Before I realize, I am at the ER 115 miles from my home trying to convince my dad to allow the doctors to do their job. How in the world did I get here? How did I miss that 'hardest' first step?
Let me begin by briefly introducing you to my dad. He's a 77 year old transplant from London. He's either the most pleasant and fun person you'll ever meet or the grouchiest son of a gun...depends on the day, or maybe it depends on who you are. I still haven't figured out the rhyme or reason to that one. He's stubborn. And currently he is in the hospital due to suffering a stroke.
Which brings me to Friday 11am when I walk through the doors to the ER to find my dad sitting in bed and eating pancakes. And being grouchy...to say the least. He tells me things he thinks are important...they're not. He doesn't like the nurse... I don't either, really. He didn't like the MRI... I understand. He's refusing any more testing... now I'm grouchy.
"Hello? Is anyone else hearing this?"
Really? You're not letting them test? Okay, where's the camera?
I understand now that his brain was traumatized and rational thought couldn't be expected. But in that moment... wow.
I convince him to let them test. They're easy tests... in fact, pregnant women love the kind of tests he needed - ultrasound! Granted, his wasn't going to be on his belly, and the only life involved here was his own, but you get the idea... easy tests.
The neurologist arrives, tests dad's strength then shows me his MRI and the ugly white slug that indicates a stroke. I'm caught between this being the coolest moment I've been involved with in months, and the sick realization that this is real and my dad is not well. The hospitalist joins our little party and discusses vague plans for rehab once more testing is done.
Dad likes the neurologist. She's pleasant and he likes her smile. With that knowledge, I feel better.
Reflecting on that, I wonder if he was mirroring my reaction to her.
Either way, he 'felt' better and was going for those easy tests. And I suddenly felt the need to be useful. So I packed up dad's dirty clothes, my 3 year old, Jonah's back pack and headed out to find a laundromat.
Well, we step out the ER door and it's pouring. yay.
And there is a woman in a wheel chair clutching a hospital issue barf bag (that's the technical term, I'm pretty sure). She's using her foot to push her way aimlessly around under the roof of the entrance area. I'm on the phone with my husband, hoping the rain will let up for a moment or two. And I'm watching the woman. She is struggling. She wants her coat on, but is unable to accomplish this feat. Still on the phone, I help her into her jacket... still clutching the partially full barf bag. Now settled into her jacket she asks me for a cigarette.
"Hello? Is anyone else hearing this?"
Really? you want to follow up puking with a cigarette? Not to mention there are signs posted everywhere about it being a smoke-free campus. sigh.
Now I'm driving around a town I am unfamiliar with, trusting my iPhone maps feature to get me where I'm going. I'm trying to stay in contact with my sisters and my husband, successfully navigate this town, all while being attentive to my 3 year old Jonah.
What was that about the first step being the hardest?
But we did it. And by 'we' I mean my family and that pesky camera that I know is following me.
I return to the hospital to find the ER room empty - they have moved him to an actual room. yippee!
It's a quiet room. Pleasant, if you can use that term for a hospital room.
I find dad unsettled.
He needs to use the restroom. I tell him I'll get a nurse to help. No.
The next two hours continue like this. The floor is slippery. He wants to wear his sock and shoes.
"Dad, they have socks with 'grippys' on the bottom for you to wear." No.
He wants to get dressed in his own clothes.
"Dad, let me help you." No.
So for 45 minutes my father who is dealing with a traumatized brain, tries unsuccessfully to dress himself. So he sits in just his socks and shoes listing this way and that with effort to dress himself. And he eventually allows himself to slide to the floor to continue trying.
I wonder where the cameras are briefly before it dawns on me that this could be a permanent situation for us all.
Until this moment it hadn't crossed my mind that he wouldn't fully recover from this. Even with his traumatized brain, there were moments of complete lucidity that proved the 'old' dad was still there.
Dad is as settled as he is going to be. Dinner arrives and it doesn't look half bad. I try to talk it up to dad, sell him on the rolled roast beef and cute little baby potatoes. He tries to get started eating, but has trouble with the utensils that are enclosed in plastic. I offer help and he says "No." Go figure.
It breaks my heart to see this happening.
Again, what was that about the first step being the hardest?
It's time for me to drive home. I tell dad again that Lisa and Sue will be by tomorrow and I will be back on Sunday. We go back and forth about his car (for what seems the 50th time in a 4 hour period - "No dad, Dan isn't going to move your car... Sue will be here tomorrow and she will take it back to your house"). I reiterate that he needs to let the nurses and doctors help him. He tells me to "Stop mothering me".... sigh.
I give dad a kiss and Jonah and I head out the door.
We head towards dad's house to check on things. Jonah is asleep in his car seat before we hit the turnpike. And remains that way as I park in dad's driveway.
I wander around the house taking everything in. I so badly want to stay and clean up, but it is too daunting a task to begin this late in the day. And I'm ill - prepared.
With a brief stop for gas and McDonald's, Jonah and I make the 100 mile trek home.
And I am exhausted.
And so begins my journey.
I am not alone in my journey. No, not by far. My family and friends are almost always with me, and even when I'm alone, I can't help but wonder if there is a hidden video camera joining me during every waking moment. Which is why I stop frequently throughout my week and ask "Hello? Is anyone else hearing this?" Some days I am convinced that I am being filmed for some comedy show in the making.
My most recent 'journey' began last Thursday with a call from my dad's doctor. Before I realize, I am at the ER 115 miles from my home trying to convince my dad to allow the doctors to do their job. How in the world did I get here? How did I miss that 'hardest' first step?
Let me begin by briefly introducing you to my dad. He's a 77 year old transplant from London. He's either the most pleasant and fun person you'll ever meet or the grouchiest son of a gun...depends on the day, or maybe it depends on who you are. I still haven't figured out the rhyme or reason to that one. He's stubborn. And currently he is in the hospital due to suffering a stroke.
Which brings me to Friday 11am when I walk through the doors to the ER to find my dad sitting in bed and eating pancakes. And being grouchy...to say the least. He tells me things he thinks are important...they're not. He doesn't like the nurse... I don't either, really. He didn't like the MRI... I understand. He's refusing any more testing... now I'm grouchy.
"Hello? Is anyone else hearing this?"
Really? You're not letting them test? Okay, where's the camera?
I understand now that his brain was traumatized and rational thought couldn't be expected. But in that moment... wow.
I convince him to let them test. They're easy tests... in fact, pregnant women love the kind of tests he needed - ultrasound! Granted, his wasn't going to be on his belly, and the only life involved here was his own, but you get the idea... easy tests.
The neurologist arrives, tests dad's strength then shows me his MRI and the ugly white slug that indicates a stroke. I'm caught between this being the coolest moment I've been involved with in months, and the sick realization that this is real and my dad is not well. The hospitalist joins our little party and discusses vague plans for rehab once more testing is done.
Dad likes the neurologist. She's pleasant and he likes her smile. With that knowledge, I feel better.
Reflecting on that, I wonder if he was mirroring my reaction to her.
Either way, he 'felt' better and was going for those easy tests. And I suddenly felt the need to be useful. So I packed up dad's dirty clothes, my 3 year old, Jonah's back pack and headed out to find a laundromat.
Well, we step out the ER door and it's pouring. yay.
And there is a woman in a wheel chair clutching a hospital issue barf bag (that's the technical term, I'm pretty sure). She's using her foot to push her way aimlessly around under the roof of the entrance area. I'm on the phone with my husband, hoping the rain will let up for a moment or two. And I'm watching the woman. She is struggling. She wants her coat on, but is unable to accomplish this feat. Still on the phone, I help her into her jacket... still clutching the partially full barf bag. Now settled into her jacket she asks me for a cigarette.
"Hello? Is anyone else hearing this?"
Really? you want to follow up puking with a cigarette? Not to mention there are signs posted everywhere about it being a smoke-free campus. sigh.
Now I'm driving around a town I am unfamiliar with, trusting my iPhone maps feature to get me where I'm going. I'm trying to stay in contact with my sisters and my husband, successfully navigate this town, all while being attentive to my 3 year old Jonah.
What was that about the first step being the hardest?
But we did it. And by 'we' I mean my family and that pesky camera that I know is following me.
I return to the hospital to find the ER room empty - they have moved him to an actual room. yippee!
It's a quiet room. Pleasant, if you can use that term for a hospital room.
I find dad unsettled.
He needs to use the restroom. I tell him I'll get a nurse to help. No.
The next two hours continue like this. The floor is slippery. He wants to wear his sock and shoes.
"Dad, they have socks with 'grippys' on the bottom for you to wear." No.
He wants to get dressed in his own clothes.
"Dad, let me help you." No.
So for 45 minutes my father who is dealing with a traumatized brain, tries unsuccessfully to dress himself. So he sits in just his socks and shoes listing this way and that with effort to dress himself. And he eventually allows himself to slide to the floor to continue trying.
I wonder where the cameras are briefly before it dawns on me that this could be a permanent situation for us all.
Until this moment it hadn't crossed my mind that he wouldn't fully recover from this. Even with his traumatized brain, there were moments of complete lucidity that proved the 'old' dad was still there.
Dad is as settled as he is going to be. Dinner arrives and it doesn't look half bad. I try to talk it up to dad, sell him on the rolled roast beef and cute little baby potatoes. He tries to get started eating, but has trouble with the utensils that are enclosed in plastic. I offer help and he says "No." Go figure.
It breaks my heart to see this happening.
Again, what was that about the first step being the hardest?
It's time for me to drive home. I tell dad again that Lisa and Sue will be by tomorrow and I will be back on Sunday. We go back and forth about his car (for what seems the 50th time in a 4 hour period - "No dad, Dan isn't going to move your car... Sue will be here tomorrow and she will take it back to your house"). I reiterate that he needs to let the nurses and doctors help him. He tells me to "Stop mothering me".... sigh.
I give dad a kiss and Jonah and I head out the door.
We head towards dad's house to check on things. Jonah is asleep in his car seat before we hit the turnpike. And remains that way as I park in dad's driveway.
I wander around the house taking everything in. I so badly want to stay and clean up, but it is too daunting a task to begin this late in the day. And I'm ill - prepared.
With a brief stop for gas and McDonald's, Jonah and I make the 100 mile trek home.
And I am exhausted.
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