STATUS QUO

May 2nd, 2013

And so, after the crisis of last week, things settle back down into a now more familiar routine of daily morning telephone calls for updates, where I find out whether mum's "comfortable" or has "slept well" or is "settled" (on the morning of the 2nd, she "slept right through the night" apparently...), longish conversations with Cornwall about the latest updates, financial jiggery-pokery in order to sort out the bills, and the like, and regular evening visits where the silences speak volumes even though the actual words don't seem to add up to anything much at all.

Nevertheless, we all know that we have (at least temporarily) dodged a bullet here, although we're always reluctant to "tempt fate" or "count our chickens" just yet...

For the moment, the visits remain amicable enough, even though I'm desperately trying to dredge any kind of conversation from the barrel-scrapings of my mind... and mum remains vague and tired and repetitive and so on, and so on, but resolutely and absolutely still here...

In part, at least...

The old antagonistic version of my mother seems to be gone at the moment, and has been replaced by a less certain, less confident and slighter figure who seems bemused by much of what is going on around her.

Perhaps we'll be more certain that she's getting better when the more familiar autocratic tetchiness returns...

Either that, or there'll be a relapse...

We cannot, after all, rule out the possibility of that unfortunately...

I know that, in many ways, we've been very lucky (even if sometimes it doesn't feel that way) that she's managed - or "been allowed" - to have any sort of "recovery" at all.

Meanwhile I stagger on, trying to maintain the balance, the equilibrium, the status quo, despite the fact that my fatigue has returned in spades and the relaxing glimmer of my recent weekend off is already fading and feeling like a figment of my imagination that somehow burst its way into my waking world, and that "real world" moments like the fact that it's polling day, kind of briefly puncture through the bubble but only get dealt with if I actually get the chance.

I meant to do the paperwork last night, but I was too tired... I meant to do it again when I got up this morning, but felt too tired... I meant to take it with me to work but then I forgot it...

I could, of course, start to visit less.

To be honest, in her present state of mind I don't suppose she'd really notice if I didn't turn up for a day or two but, given that engaging in conversation seems to improve her lot and that otherwise she'd be just sitting there feeling lost and confused, I rather think that I am rather bound to make as much effort as I can which is, in all honesty, probably not all that much in the great scheme of things...

Still, after being a splendidly warm spring day, Thursday evening's visit starts with me knocking over mum's water jug as I unwisely try and move her table out of the way so that I can talk to her more easily. This leads to a complete change of the bedding, which does, at least, reduce the number of minutes that I have to try and make conversation in, as I am ushered from the room so as not to become party to the secrets of the dark arts of hospital corners.

When conversation resumes it's all pleasant enough, and mum is keen to point out that she doesn't expect me to go every day, but I tell her that we'll have to see about that. Meanwhile, the nurses appear and are plotting to install another cannula in order to start pushing the deficient magnesium again, but they decide to leave this until after I have gone so as not to disturb the visit.

Mum struggles to get comfortable, even though someone has been kind enough to comb her hair and deal with some other minor cosmetic touches to make her feel more "presentable", so I fiddle about with pillows and the electrics of the bed, but I still fail to set her up in a more comfortable position. Instead I tell her about the news, specifically the shaming of Stuart Hall, who she remembers because his mother ran a nearby bread shop when my mother was a little girl.

As I depart for the evening I am able to have a brief chat with today's nurse "Hayley" who tells me that, from a nursing point of view, they are very pleased with her progress, that she is now on a stage three diet, and that mum is having physiotherapy each morning but that two weeks in bed is bound to have weakened her muscles so that she is struggling to walk very well.

Whilst this might sound alarming, everyone is still very aware of just how poorly mum was last week, and so this is generally regarded as good news and, whilst they are planning further assessment next week, things are certainly far better at the moment than they could have been.