CRASHING OUT

Tuesday, May 7th 2013

(S-Day plus Two Weeks)

Returning to work after the long holiday weekend, my sister phones and we have a long chat about how things are, mum's general air of depression and whether my sister ought to return any time soon. My general feeling is that, with things seeming to be pretty "stable" at the moment, she might as well stay put if she wants to, as it's more useful to keep your powder dry when such opportunities are limited for when they might be more urgently needed.

However, as the day progresses, I have a significant downturn in my own spirits and find myself driving home on the very brink of despair, a mood that even sitting outside in the sunshine for half an hour watching the birds come and go fails to disperse.

I think this comes from a sense of abject fatigue and the feeling that, once again, I am in a daily routine of hospital visiting that shows no sign of ending any time soon, and which, if it did end, would probably be for the worse possible reasons and instigate a period of intense activity which might be even more of an ordeal to endure.

The problem is that, when I start feeling as if I'm approaching the end of my own rope like this, when all I really want to do is crawl away and hide under a duvet for a couple of months (not that I'd ever manage to sleep for anything like that long), I don't become much fun to be around. I can become increasingly tetchy, the slightest thing can set me off into a right old mood, my intolerance for just about anything begins to increase exponentially so that, to be honest, any and all of the banalities and inanities of other people's lives can become ever more unbearable to listen to, and, even if I do manage to get a decent night's sleep, it barely touches the sides of the pit of fatigue that I find myself languishing in.

And it's not as if I even feel as if I resent those hospital visits. At the moment I honestly believe that it's in mum's best interests that she does have a "proper" conversation for at least a portion of the day, even if it's with old Mr Grumpyboots who really doesn't have a lot to say that is of any interest.

Anyway, on Tuesday evening, we both go to visit which does at least add a little variety to the proceedings, and does at least mean that the "Black Dog" doesn't get another opportunity to gnaw away at me as I'm sitting in the car.

The visit itself actually ends up being rather brief, mostly because mum is so obviously very tired, despite having had a "very good" day once again according to the nurses. The beloved says that mum's looking a heck of a lot better than the last time she saw her a few days ago, but it's still always rather wretched to leave her at the end of the visit looking so lost, tired and bewildered.

The main incident of today's visit,the thing that means that it sticks in the memory slightly differently to all of the other times recently, was the moment when mum accidentally ripped out her cannula and poured blood all over the bed-sheets, the bed, and her own hands...

Still, at least nobody fainted, eh...?

She was trying to pull herself up into a more comfortable position when I noticed the blood and pressed the alarm button, and there then followed minutes of tinkering, but at least another one didn't need to be put in as the magnesium drip had already finished its work when this happened.