Sunday, June 9th, 2013
I don't know whether the tightness I felt in my chest overnight was from a sudden realisation of the weight of responsibility, some new insights into mum's financial situation, or just because of some horrible infection I've somehow managed to acquire from constant exposure to that wretched place, or none of the above (it is, after all "pollen season..."), but I woke up and faced Sunday with a growing feeling of deep depression and the sense that I've finally hit some kind of an emotional wall and just don't want to go back to that bloody building for a while, and certainly not today.
This is awkward, because, well, having skipped yesterday, I'm almost duty bound to go today, no matter how much I am simply dreading another tetchy and pointless hour of bitterness and bile sucking away the limited free time available to me.
But then, during the afternoon, I went anyway and, surprise, surprise, it was not my finest hour. Perhaps the lousy traffic on a hot sunny day didn't help... Who can say?... But it turned out to be a very difficult visit of the old school variety...
Mum had been moved from the side ward and was now in another alcove. next to the window. This would have been fine, what with the cool breeze and all, but i woke her as I tried to cram the chair into a far too narrow gap at the bedside and her first words were not "Hello" but "Move that TV out of the way..."
Not the best of starts, and it kind of went downhill from there... The new spot is quite noisy - nobody's fault, but there are one or two patients having "issues" - which doesn't help with my concentration or my mood as I am given my "orders". Mum seemed happy enough that she'd been given a shower and washed her hair, but that was rather a high point and I managed to make those high spirits crumble quite rapidly.
None of her 'missing" items have appeared, and the purse parade the nurses show me fails to discover the missing one, and one of mum's many pairs of spectacles seems to have gone walkabout, too. Meanwhile she has developed something of a dry cough that she doesn't want me to mention to the staff because it will complicate things, she fears.
However, when it comes to the staff, and my not asking them questions, a spark is ignited because I quite obviously don't care (because I've never been in hospital - my sister would understand, apparently... "So move to flaming Cornwall then...!") and it becomes apparent that I can't be trusted to do the right thing. She claims not to be back on the Warfarin, despite the "intense discussions" about how much of it she's being given last week, and a doctor - or someone, she can't remember who - has told her again that she didn't have a stroke (which rather contradicts what the consultant has been telling us) and is symptomatic of my "never" asking for the results of things like the bioppsy which "could have been cancer" (but clearly wasn't...)
The main topic is my refusal to bring chocolate (for obvious, laxative, reasons) and after that particular bone of contention has been gnawed for half an hour, I decide that enough is enough and decide to give up and go, exasperated, a flashpoint that actually helps us to have a relatively friendlier twenty minutes or so before I do actually leave, feeling rather sad and miserable about the whole sorry experience and our relationship - or lack of one - in general...
Monday, June 10th, 2013
Going purely by the wave of depression that has hit me over the past 24 hours, I'm beginning to suspect that I might have reached breaking point.
Again.
Certainly, I'm being advised that perhaps I should cut back my visits even more for the sake of my own well-being. After all, five months is a hell of a long time to be doing such a thankless task. But, if I do that... Well... Who else is there to pick up the slack...? And the emotional barrage that I'm likely to face if I decide to do that, will no doubt only expedite the compound levels of mutual misery...
I used to care, but now I'm finding it more and more difficult to give a damn, which is not a healthy place to be, but, when all I ever seem to get is what I haven't done, or what i ought to have done, or how much better than me everyone else is, is it really all that surprising that, do you know what, I'm absolutely sick of it...?
Consequently, I arrive home from work in a mental state that leaves me barely bloody functional and in the mood to "just give up" on pretty much everything else that I do in my life just to have the slightest hope of continuing to be able to cope with my professional responsibilities.
This means that, when the telephone rings at 6.40pm and I am greeted by my mother saying "What are you doing home at this time?", I am really not in the mood for her tales of the rotten day she's had and details of enemas, and aborted endoscopic rectal examinations, and the ongoing infection that she either does or doesn't have, or the probability of yet another week of hospitalisation and I grunt back at her and sign off with a non-committal "We'll see..." when she asks "Will I see you tomorrow?"
And then I hate myself all over again for being so selfish when things are quite obviously very grim.
Tuesday, June 11th, 2013
The mood is no better at 4.45am when I get up and start writing this, but I get through most of the day before I receive the phone call requesting that I bring a replacement bottle of cordial and asking me whether I'm visiting today, which makes me realise that any plans that I may have to reduce my visits and relieve the stress will probably come to nothing.
I'm in a more mellow mood by the time the evening rolls around and I head down to the hospital on a very muggy and sticky evening. The car park ticket machines conspire against me, so I have to make quite a hefty walk to find one that's actually working, but it's better than risking an (unlikely) clamping and does delay my arrival at the bedside by a few minutes, which I finally do whilst having to avoid catching the eye of the nurse who caused us so much trouble a couple of weeks ago and who is back on duty and dispensing her particular understanding of the truth to anyone who asks her and wants to listen.
The whiny neighbour across the bay is still very whiny, which makes conversation difficult and is something less than a "barrel of laughs", but, as it appears that her condition is terminal, and that she is not taking it at all well, perhaps this is understandable. My mother is, apparently, turning her considerable powers of tact and diplomacy towards this wretched creature (God help her), which prompts a short round of "It's only you that thinks I'm horrible... Everyone else says I'm a good patient..." to come my way.
My own mother's day has been uneventful. Her "tummy is still off" and she was allowed to stay in bed and sleep for much of the day. The Magnesium is still being pushed every other day and she can't see herself going hoe until they have at least removed the cannula. There's another batch of washing for me to take, and mother, apparently, caused "quite a stir" by wearing her silk nightie and being told how "glamourous" she looked at one point...
She's also requested her copy of Hymns and Psalms from home for something to read, which should be taken as a positive sign, I suppose, just as long as she doesn't decide to start singing...
All-in-all, however, and despite the negative prospect, it turned out to be a peaceful enough visit, with little in the way of disagreement, and I went on my way in a happier mood than last time...
Wednesday, June 12th, 2013
Whilst I was out visiting on Tuesday evening, there was a message telling me that mum's former work colleague would be visiting today, so, apart from having to visit the flat to grab the mail and the hymn book, I was able to have something approaching another "day off..."
It all felt rather strange, being in the flat once again after so long, however briefly, but I was at least able to grab the book, even though it was next to another one with a very similar title (so I'm bound to have picked up the "wrong" one) before heading on my way with a pile of letters to go through and an even bigger pile of junk mail and catalogues to throw away.
How all of our lives still accumulate "stuff" even when we're not at home to deal with it...
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