Sunday, June 16th, 2013
A day off.
I hear nothing from the hospital or from the family for a day. Instead I head off to Manchester so the beloved can have a haircut and we have a spontaneous breakfast in the extra hour we find ourselves having due to being given duff information about what time things open, and the planned lunch which we had booked.
We arrive home hot and sticky from the exertion of trudging around town on a hot old day and just in time for the rain-affected cricket match to begin, which keeps me entertained until well into the early evening.
Monday, June 17th, 2013
Some early morning bill paying for the emergency call button which is, of course, still not actually being used, but them's the breaks. Then I rang the family for a swift weekly update chat before getting on with my own life for a few hours.
By the time I arrive for the evening visit, and had managed to extract a chair from the locked room they were stored in, mum tells me that she's feeling a lot better than she did yesterday, and that she's had another Get Well card, and visitors both on Sunday evening and during the afternoon. The afternoon's visitor was her church minister who made a point of putting on plastic gown and gloves because of a perceived infection risk. Mum asked me if there was a notice outside instructing visitors to do this, but there wasn't, and it would have been too late for me by then anyway, even if there had. Not unsurprisingly, the idea of this immediately made me feel queasy and slightly headachy, such is the power of suggestion.
The biopsy has been brought forward to tomorrow rather than Thursday, which I think is more because of the availability of a slot than because of any other sinister sense of urgency. For reasons I have explained before, I tell her that I don't think that they suspect any "urgent" need to do so, even though it's what she now believes and is currently worrying about, perhaps needlessly. Of course, I have been known to be wrong before, so perhaps there's good reason to.
This leads to a mildly tetchy and all-too-familiar exchange about me "not asking" what's going on, ground that we've covered many, many times before, but, to be perfectly honest, I'm far too tired to argue.
Being in the side ward seems to have its advantages. She got her pills early and consequently went to sleep earlier the night before, but the "shouting" staff woke her three times, despite the fact that she claims to have slept well. She was also able to make "about a dozen" telephone calls to various friends of hers the previous day, which is a lot easier to do in relative privacy.
However, sometimes, she thinks, that they forget she's in there and so she misses out on her cup of tea, and it was her obsession about that which was filling her mind as I took the chair back, returned to say my farewells and drifted off into the hot evening air.
Tuesday, June 18th, 2013
Biopsy day. I hear nothing and make no calls but later on I'm told that "the procedure went well..."
Wednesday, June 19th, 2013
After an anxiety attack or twelve, I am determined to sort out this ongoing bill with the greetings card company and am, after a family conference call, at least, able to pay off a chunk of it without, sadly, being allowed to shut down the wretched account, so I guess that's just yet another piece of paperwork that I'll need to keep an eye on.
The day plods on and, eventually, after a brief visit to the supermarket, I trudge my weary way along the corridors once more to make yet another visit to my mother's bedside.
I immediately ask how it went yesterday, to which the answers are "Dreadful" followed swiftly by "It's just one thing after another" but we are able to have a lengthy discussion about mum's ailments after this prompt, and more details are gleaned from this. Like the fact that there is some fluid around her old operation scars, and that there have been no results from the Bone Marrow tests yet, which is, of course, only to be expected.
Mum is, of course, convinced that there is something "seriously" wrong, despite a lack of tangible evidence being available yet, but this leads to yet another recap of the events of that long, dark week in April. The "troubled" lady from the main ward has died since mum was moved to the side ward, so that's slightly unsettling of course, but mum seems most concerned about her anorexic friend who hasn't dropped by for a couple of days now, possibly (mum thinks) because of the bad news about the other patient.
Meanwhile, mum claims to be"not eating" (but, it transpires, will eat desserts, so her sweet tooth is still going strong...) and also claims to have "no energy" which I put down to the hot, muggy weather and the fact that her muscles are not exactly being over-used as she has been lying in hospital beds for months at a time. That is the point at which she announces that she is "too tall" for the bed she's in (which hasn't changed) not that I can do much about that...
She also tells me that there have been more visitors from church, although "sometimes" she's really not in the mood for visitors, which is an interesting thing for her to say, he thought, as he sat there visiting. She was also having some problems with feeling itchy but was frustrated because she has to wait 24 hours for a prescription for cream to deal with it to be dispensed. The wheels move very slowly, it seems. Meanwhile, she seems to want to sleep all of the time which is either significant or not, depending upon your point of view.
Still, all-in-all, we had a nice enough chat, and the hour passed swiftly enough and without too much in the way of irritation, even when I mentioned that I might be without transport over the weekend, depending upon how the car gets on at the garage. The occasional nurse popped in to drop off menu options or to ask about urine, which is all part of the day-to-day institutional routine that mum seems to have slipped so very easily into.
I arrived home and got an immediate telephone call from my mother, irritated that she had forgotten to give me the washing. Another call, this time from her former work colleague informed me that she intended to visit again tomorrow to give me another night off...
Thursday, June 20th, 2013
A favourite actor, James Gandolfini, has died at 51. Sometimes life feels really unfair for other people, too.
I don't hear much from the hospital today, although the telephone does ring almost as soon as I walk through the door anticipating a quiet evening at home watching (perhaps appropriately) "Despicable Me".
It's mother. She's on the brink of having her evening meal delivered to her, but has taken a moment to ring to tell me how she's feeling much better now having been "dreadful" that morning, about which I was, of course, oblivious. She's had visitors and made a few telephone calls but her meal arrives before she can elaborate, but she does want me to get cards and stamps so that she can write a few notes to people, even though I point out that I might not have any transport this weekend if the garage run true to form.
Friday, June 21st, 2013
Midsummer's day.
Nearly half a year of this... HALF A YEAR...! (and now the nights are drawing in...)
Still, after a mildly complicated day of working from home and dealing with an ultimately mild car problem, I stir myself and head to the hospital for yet another evening visit. I stop on the way at the supermarket for the only pack of note cards they sell, one which is, unfortunately, rather disappointingly in its design, and a pack of what will be described as "far too many" stamps when I deliver them.
It's an odd visit. Her leg hurts a lot, but that might be due to having spent most of the last three months in bed, I suppose. There have been no biopsy results that she can remember, but then her memory is showing signs of slipping away, especially at times when I ask awkward questions like "Why don't you write it down?" to which the answer is that she "can't be bothered..." In the end, it's far easier to say that she "doesn't remember" because that then becomes a stick to beat me with for "not taking any interest" unlike my "saintly" sister who "will ask these questions" and, more importantly, "understands..."
The gossip is that mum's doctor has gone on holiday back home in Romania after telling her that he suspected that the antibiotics that she's on might be what's causing the unfortunate side effects in her digestive system. Nevertheless, she remains on the side ward to avoid the spread of infection and this isolation and the sense that she gets "forgotten about" and, perhaps, the worry that she is "always going to be like this" and her growing depression is beginning to cause her curmudgeonly unpleasantness to resurface.
Luckily, for once it's not directed at me (except for the bit about switching on the main light which I suspect is unnecessary at that time and dare to say so), but the laser beams were honing in on me at about the time I chose to depart, so I escaped the worst of it, perhaps because her incessant itching was focussing her rage more towards the staff who were unfortunate enough to have other thing to do that meant that they couldn't "snap to it" immediately and apply the soothing cream.
I ponder that my mother might have enjoyed working in the old days of the British Empire with that attitude, but then she surprises me by telling me that she wishes she'd been a nurse, but that her mother wouldn't let her...
Now that would have been interesting...
Today's "obsession" was about ordering flowers. An ordert for her late, lamented gentleman friend's family in August, and, more alarmingly, another order for the ward staff...
"Don't people normally do that after they've gone home?" I asked, unwisely.
"Well, I don't want to do it like everyone else..."
In other words, it's that old familiar family habit of trying to buy your affection, and hoping to be told how wonderful you are and bolster a sense of your own self-importance...
Well, that's what I grew up thinking... Perhaps it's just a nice thing to do...?
Other chat involves a familiar agenda involving a lack of visitors, a lot of sleep, a missed phone call (the doctor was in so she didn't answer it), an "exhausting" trek around the bed to put a toiletry bag away, the fact that she's not eating (unless it's a pudding) but that she's not prepared to mention to the staff that she might eat the food supplements they could provide.
Most annoying seems to be the fact that the staff haven't taken away her food plate and her obsession with order ("It drives me mad things being in the wrong place...") does make me suspect a little O.C.D. might be surfacing which I accept is about "control" but only triggers more irritation about the modern tendency towards acronyms.
Ah well... Things were starting to get a little tetchy, so I bid my farewells and headed home brooding and had received a long, long night of insomnia for my trouble.
Saturday, June 22nd, 2013
A day at home, thankfully.
I tried last night to ring my sister about this "flowers" thing, but got no answer, so that was still on my "stuff to do" list as I staggered wearily into Saturday, as was the washing up, and sorting out mum's washing, both of which I'm doing as the phone rings at 8.15.
It's mum, calling as she waits for her breakfast to be delivered. She's "feeling a lot better" than yesterday, apparently, but had forgotten that I was working from home today, which also meant that she'd forgotten that it was a Saturday.
Still, at least she didn't wake me up, eh...? Fat chance of that...
I don't hear much from the hospital today, although the telephone does ring almost as soon as I walk through the door anticipating a quiet evening at home watching (perhaps appropriately) "Despicable Me".
It's mother. She's on the brink of having her evening meal delivered to her, but has taken a moment to ring to tell me how she's feeling much better now having been "dreadful" that morning, about which I was, of course, oblivious. She's had visitors and made a few telephone calls but her meal arrives before she can elaborate, but she does want me to get cards and stamps so that she can write a few notes to people, even though I point out that I might not have any transport this weekend if the garage run true to form.
Friday, June 21st, 2013
Midsummer's day.
Nearly half a year of this... HALF A YEAR...! (and now the nights are drawing in...)
Still, after a mildly complicated day of working from home and dealing with an ultimately mild car problem, I stir myself and head to the hospital for yet another evening visit. I stop on the way at the supermarket for the only pack of note cards they sell, one which is, unfortunately, rather disappointingly in its design, and a pack of what will be described as "far too many" stamps when I deliver them.
It's an odd visit. Her leg hurts a lot, but that might be due to having spent most of the last three months in bed, I suppose. There have been no biopsy results that she can remember, but then her memory is showing signs of slipping away, especially at times when I ask awkward questions like "Why don't you write it down?" to which the answer is that she "can't be bothered..." In the end, it's far easier to say that she "doesn't remember" because that then becomes a stick to beat me with for "not taking any interest" unlike my "saintly" sister who "will ask these questions" and, more importantly, "understands..."
The gossip is that mum's doctor has gone on holiday back home in Romania after telling her that he suspected that the antibiotics that she's on might be what's causing the unfortunate side effects in her digestive system. Nevertheless, she remains on the side ward to avoid the spread of infection and this isolation and the sense that she gets "forgotten about" and, perhaps, the worry that she is "always going to be like this" and her growing depression is beginning to cause her curmudgeonly unpleasantness to resurface.
Luckily, for once it's not directed at me (except for the bit about switching on the main light which I suspect is unnecessary at that time and dare to say so), but the laser beams were honing in on me at about the time I chose to depart, so I escaped the worst of it, perhaps because her incessant itching was focussing her rage more towards the staff who were unfortunate enough to have other thing to do that meant that they couldn't "snap to it" immediately and apply the soothing cream.
I ponder that my mother might have enjoyed working in the old days of the British Empire with that attitude, but then she surprises me by telling me that she wishes she'd been a nurse, but that her mother wouldn't let her...
Now that would have been interesting...
Today's "obsession" was about ordering flowers. An ordert for her late, lamented gentleman friend's family in August, and, more alarmingly, another order for the ward staff...
"Don't people normally do that after they've gone home?" I asked, unwisely.
"Well, I don't want to do it like everyone else..."
In other words, it's that old familiar family habit of trying to buy your affection, and hoping to be told how wonderful you are and bolster a sense of your own self-importance...
Well, that's what I grew up thinking... Perhaps it's just a nice thing to do...?
Other chat involves a familiar agenda involving a lack of visitors, a lot of sleep, a missed phone call (the doctor was in so she didn't answer it), an "exhausting" trek around the bed to put a toiletry bag away, the fact that she's not eating (unless it's a pudding) but that she's not prepared to mention to the staff that she might eat the food supplements they could provide.
Most annoying seems to be the fact that the staff haven't taken away her food plate and her obsession with order ("It drives me mad things being in the wrong place...") does make me suspect a little O.C.D. might be surfacing which I accept is about "control" but only triggers more irritation about the modern tendency towards acronyms.
Ah well... Things were starting to get a little tetchy, so I bid my farewells and headed home brooding and had received a long, long night of insomnia for my trouble.
Saturday, June 22nd, 2013
A day at home, thankfully.
I tried last night to ring my sister about this "flowers" thing, but got no answer, so that was still on my "stuff to do" list as I staggered wearily into Saturday, as was the washing up, and sorting out mum's washing, both of which I'm doing as the phone rings at 8.15.
It's mum, calling as she waits for her breakfast to be delivered. She's "feeling a lot better" than yesterday, apparently, but had forgotten that I was working from home today, which also meant that she'd forgotten that it was a Saturday.
Still, at least she didn't wake me up, eh...? Fat chance of that...
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