Sunday, August 31, 2008
Got Away!
Through the day I've been in contact with Racheli, a school pal, with whom I studied some of the elementary, and a couple of the intermediary (high) school years. We remained close friends over the years, with various degrees of actually keeping in touch, but in recent years we really got closer. Well, I am now at her charming, and chaotic house in Zikhron Yaakov, on the hills overlooking the Mediterranean Sea, just south of Haifa. We just had a light supper on the porch, by the garden, lush with herb plants, some citrus fruit trees, peaceful, quiet part of the world. Magic. We reminisce about Zehava Germann, our old headmistress, now at the support clinic where my dad is staying, we talk about what ails us, our parents (always), and our plan for tomorrow. We are going to the beach, to introduce me to kayak rowing. Racheli has recently taken it up following a painful foot surgery as this was just about the only type of exercise she could take that doesn't impact her sore foot. I got here by leaving dad's car at Hertzeliya Station, then took a train going north to Binyamina. Racheli picked me up from the station, and we took a scenic route over some dirt roads through vineyards and orchards - too bad it was totally dark so we couldn't see much, but I'm sure it's all beautiful. Till tomorrow then!
Came for the Treatment, Stayed for the Laughs
The support clinic is its own microcosm. This is not lost on my dad, and he doesn't care for it. Once you're a familiar face, you are a part of this universe, a permanent case. True, most residents (or guests) seem to be worse off than him. He refers to them as sad, tragic cases, "not normal people, with normal life, not like me". His companion at the table in the dining room is a man in a wheelchair, to whom everyone refers as "the professor". He sits at the head of the table, arranging his "things". These are a magnifying glass, a magazine, usually Time or New Scientist, some press cuttings with an article he had published in the past, a thick, large medal which he moves around absently and uses as paperweight, a pair of sunglasses, never worn, never removed from the table, and a wicker basket for miscellaneous items, scrap paper etc. "The professor likes to find his things just the way he left them", tells me one of the staff. You can glimpse The Professor's corner at the table in one of the pictures here, the one showing my dad chatting with another man at the table. The professor has a bit of a temper, and he barks his demands of the staff without resorting to any pleasantries. "I want tea. No, put it here. I am going now. My girlfriend is at the next table. Bring my tea over" and so on. I amuse him by saying he won't get far calling on his lady friend with empty hands. No flowers? By George, he really rolled up and sidled up to a female resident the next table. Gosh!
Mrs. Germann is always there, reading the broadsheets mostly solitarily at her table. She scans the room with a severe, disapproving look (or is it me?). She can be heard occasionally being argumentative with staff, and I thought I heard her snap: "What for?" to a younger female visitor who said to her: "We'll come and see you tomorrow", but I suppose she may have been trying to be considerate and demure. Some residents are severely immobile, and at least a couple of ladies there have an advanced form of dementia. Dad hates being technically in the same condition: "care dependent". "I am most certainly not!" he hotly contests. I don't fully agree, but I am glad he feels that way.
Another gentleman, a soft-spoken, smart fellow, around my dad's age, comes from his flat up in the main building to see his wife, who is confined to a wheelchair, and has no mobility at all. He embraces her gently and kisses her cheek. "Mi amor", he says tenderly. He talks to her, and feeds her. She is unable to response or even show facial expression, yet other people there who are not visited as often look on in some envy.
On the maternal front still no change. In her defence I am very firm with her, and when she starts babbling I cut her short unceremoniously. When she's uncooperative to the point of being disruptive I "correct" her, and there she was, thinking her blue-eyed boy was coming over to be at her beck and call, no questions. Not so. At some point I said to her: I am not here for you or your whims, I am here for dad. So you see, it's not as though I am completely innocent. But hey, this is my blog, right? She can write her own if she likes. Still every meal, with no exception is greeted with no thanks or acknowledgment, but today during lunch (I made sweet potato soup for a starter) she commented it was hot (ok), could have been thicker had I cooked some kinoa in it. Another mantra of hers: "It's healthy" in Hebrew: "Zeh barri". Go on, say it, but roll your "R"s. Personally I'd like to kick hers. Then the chicken (yesterday's fare, reheated. In best tradition I made way too much) and the potatoes were too hot, or too cold, I forget. She got a rude "Just shut up and eat your food". Gawd, it felt good!
Mrs. Germann is always there, reading the broadsheets mostly solitarily at her table. She scans the room with a severe, disapproving look (or is it me?). She can be heard occasionally being argumentative with staff, and I thought I heard her snap: "What for?" to a younger female visitor who said to her: "We'll come and see you tomorrow", but I suppose she may have been trying to be considerate and demure. Some residents are severely immobile, and at least a couple of ladies there have an advanced form of dementia. Dad hates being technically in the same condition: "care dependent". "I am most certainly not!" he hotly contests. I don't fully agree, but I am glad he feels that way.
Another gentleman, a soft-spoken, smart fellow, around my dad's age, comes from his flat up in the main building to see his wife, who is confined to a wheelchair, and has no mobility at all. He embraces her gently and kisses her cheek. "Mi amor", he says tenderly. He talks to her, and feeds her. She is unable to response or even show facial expression, yet other people there who are not visited as often look on in some envy.
On the maternal front still no change. In her defence I am very firm with her, and when she starts babbling I cut her short unceremoniously. When she's uncooperative to the point of being disruptive I "correct" her, and there she was, thinking her blue-eyed boy was coming over to be at her beck and call, no questions. Not so. At some point I said to her: I am not here for you or your whims, I am here for dad. So you see, it's not as though I am completely innocent. But hey, this is my blog, right? She can write her own if she likes. Still every meal, with no exception is greeted with no thanks or acknowledgment, but today during lunch (I made sweet potato soup for a starter) she commented it was hot (ok), could have been thicker had I cooked some kinoa in it. Another mantra of hers: "It's healthy" in Hebrew: "Zeh barri". Go on, say it, but roll your "R"s. Personally I'd like to kick hers. Then the chicken (yesterday's fare, reheated. In best tradition I made way too much) and the potatoes were too hot, or too cold, I forget. She got a rude "Just shut up and eat your food". Gawd, it felt good!
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Headmistress
I was taken aback when we got back from the Meir Hospital to the support clinic at the sheltered housing, because my sister pointed out the room opposite our waiting area. The door bore a ceramic plaque with the name Germann, Zehava. That's our elementary school headmistress, isn't it? Between 1961 and 1965 it was my school. The lady in charge was a formidable matron, held in awe by all. She was a tough, strict womwn. My memories of her were not fond ones. I remember being sent out of class once over some misunderstanding. Feeling wronged, I hissed under my breath without actually saying something, and the teacher thought I had used some obscenity. She suspended me from school, summoned my parents, I was grounded for a while, and through it all I wasn't told what I was (presumed to be) guilty of. I forget, or perhaps never found out how it was resolved, but I did have to go to Mrs. Germann's office to plead my innocence soon after my mum finally mustered the courage to repeat to me the offending words I was accused of uttering. It was a scary, unpleasant experience, but not the worst one. That was after I dressed up as a girl for the festival of Purim, at the age of 10 or 11 (my school friend's sister dressed me up, and I was assured it was just great). I thought it all went well at the school party, but a day or two later I was naughty - talking at class, and for some reason the headmistress was asked to come along. She stood me up in front of the class and declared that to dress up as a woman might be all right for him, but that didn't mean he ought to chatter on like a woman at class or generally in life. I could feel my face burning with the humilliation. I hated her for it. I was glad we were to move to another part of the country, so I would go to another school.
Now, old and frail, she resides at the clinic, uses a wheelchair but otherwise seems to have all her faculties. And the years haven't dulled that gimlet-like stare in her eyes. She gazed upon me at some point, and I thought, for a split-second "oh, no, am I in trouble again?". You know, it took me two days to psyche myself up to speak to her, and then in the company of a friend of my mother's, a girl who was a few years above me at the same school, who came to visit. Mrs. Germann couldn't remember who I was. I would have felt relieved if that happened 37 years ago, but now I felt awful for not dwelling a little longer.
Now, old and frail, she resides at the clinic, uses a wheelchair but otherwise seems to have all her faculties. And the years haven't dulled that gimlet-like stare in her eyes. She gazed upon me at some point, and I thought, for a split-second "oh, no, am I in trouble again?". You know, it took me two days to psyche myself up to speak to her, and then in the company of a friend of my mother's, a girl who was a few years above me at the same school, who came to visit. Mrs. Germann couldn't remember who I was. I would have felt relieved if that happened 37 years ago, but now I felt awful for not dwelling a little longer.
Today's Post Script or You Have to Break Eggs to Make an Omelette
Just now, after saying goodnight to my dad mum and I went up, and I had a nice arab-style salad with tahini sauce, omelette with fried red onion, toasted cheese sandwiches... She first said: I could have enjoyed a hard-boiled egg. I said: well, an omelette is what I'm making. Then, at the table when I served the omelette she said: Couldn't you have made fried eggs? This time I was firm with La Fille mal gardée, and I said: You eat what's on your plate and say thank you or ask me to take it away. And next time you can ask for something if you want it, not wait till it's too late. She shut up, thank God (and again, no thank you, no comment on the food, but no negative criticism, so I guess we can call it a marked improvement).
Now I am too tired to go out!
Dad is to be seen by a doctor tomorrow... Mum isn't. Can I?
Now I am too tired to go out!
Dad is to be seen by a doctor tomorrow... Mum isn't. Can I?
Saturday Delight
The usual scenario: I cut a simple salad, make toasted cheese sandwiches and set some dairy products for breakfast. I also serve Mathias fillets cut in small strips (mum: "salty. Sara gets me better ones from the market"). My "bon appetit" is met with the usual silence (I have resisted commenting on it so far), and the only conversation I get is something negative. "Why cut it this way? I don't like this type of yoghurt, I always take that one". Throughout my life I was taught by that same person I should never fail to thank her for every meal, and woe betide he who failed to praise it over-enthusiastically (a practice she always found vulgar with all others who indulged with it). After breakfast: "I'll wash it up". Sure.
While she is down with dad I prepare and roast some potatoes with whole cloves of garlic, onions and a blend of olive oil, honey, mustard and other spices. Later I fetch her so dad can have his lunch with the professor. I reheat some of yesterday's chicken paprika on a low heat. She adjusts it. I turn the oven on again to give the potatoes a final boost. "What for?" I serve it up. "Bon appetit". Nothing. She gobbles her food. "It's hot (as in spicey). What have you put in it that it's so hot?" I forget there's some English mustard powder in it, although very little and I certainly do not feel too much spice. Again no thanks forthcoming. Now what to do with the left-overs. I say "leave it in the dish, it can cool off in the oven". "Not a good idea, the oven is still hot" she contradicts me. I know she is right but my feathers have already been ruffled. "So leave it out of the oven covered with some foil". "No, transfer it to another dish" (a habit of a lifetime with her, forever moving left-over food from one container to a smaller one as the quantity diminishes over several days of same fare at the table. Now I too rarely cook an amount for just one meal, damn it!). "Tell you what, mum. You do whatever you want with the potatoes. But don't tell me to do it. You want it your way? No problem. Your way it is. But I'm damned if I'm going to do it for you". "You'd rather I didn't speak at all" she starts yet another long, monotonous soliloquy. I close the door behind me and go to see dad. Lea calls. Among other things she mentions she had just spoken to mum, and asked her whether she had eaten lunch yet. Mum's response was as it has been throughout my stay here. Evasive and dismissive. "I had whatever Moshe gave me". "What was it?" "Oh, I don't know".
While she is down with dad I prepare and roast some potatoes with whole cloves of garlic, onions and a blend of olive oil, honey, mustard and other spices. Later I fetch her so dad can have his lunch with the professor. I reheat some of yesterday's chicken paprika on a low heat. She adjusts it. I turn the oven on again to give the potatoes a final boost. "What for?" I serve it up. "Bon appetit". Nothing. She gobbles her food. "It's hot (as in spicey). What have you put in it that it's so hot?" I forget there's some English mustard powder in it, although very little and I certainly do not feel too much spice. Again no thanks forthcoming. Now what to do with the left-overs. I say "leave it in the dish, it can cool off in the oven". "Not a good idea, the oven is still hot" she contradicts me. I know she is right but my feathers have already been ruffled. "So leave it out of the oven covered with some foil". "No, transfer it to another dish" (a habit of a lifetime with her, forever moving left-over food from one container to a smaller one as the quantity diminishes over several days of same fare at the table. Now I too rarely cook an amount for just one meal, damn it!). "Tell you what, mum. You do whatever you want with the potatoes. But don't tell me to do it. You want it your way? No problem. Your way it is. But I'm damned if I'm going to do it for you". "You'd rather I didn't speak at all" she starts yet another long, monotonous soliloquy. I close the door behind me and go to see dad. Lea calls. Among other things she mentions she had just spoken to mum, and asked her whether she had eaten lunch yet. Mum's response was as it has been throughout my stay here. Evasive and dismissive. "I had whatever Moshe gave me". "What was it?" "Oh, I don't know".
Kabalat Shabat? No!!!
Dad meeting a long lost friend at the support clinic. The Professor is on the right (out of shot, but not his knicks knacks)
Kabalat Shabat. Mum and dad in front, dad reading the song-sheet. Behind them - Idan and girlfriend Anat, playing furtively with his iPod Touch (yeah, I know!). Sitting on bar-stool at back: Dor.
Kabalat Shabat in full swing.
Today mum has been calmer than usual. That is to say relatively calmer. One highlight was her objection to walking dad from the support clinic to the main lobby of the building to attend Kabalat Shabat, held at 6:00 pm every Friday. He had already missed out on this personal favourite 3 or 4 times while ill, so I was all for it. In the morning I go down to see him, and after breakfast when the room is being cleaned we step out of the patio door, dad sits and reads his paper, and it's all warm and pleasant. We walk a little bit more and I tell him to start picking up his feet a little. I think he is not trying too hard... Of course the truth is he tires very rapidly, so after a few steps he will stop, pretending something to his left or right has caught his attention and he must study it well before moving on. In the early evening I take mum down to dad, along with her friend Haya. Mum starts to protest against taking dad to Kabalat Shabat: "I was told it's absolutely forbidden to do that, on my life" she gushes breathlessly. I refute this load of nonsense. She leaves the room to ask the nurses just to prove her point, returns triumphantly and declares; "See? They told me the exact same thing. On my life!" (You hear that expression a lot around here). I go to see the head nurse. Mum had spoken to some young nurse (well, staff in a white coat) who helps residents in the more menial tasks. She is unclear about what that lady wanted of her. I speak to Hassan (who is a head nurse but dubbed "doctor" by some of the nurses). No problem. Back to the room. Mum protests, her voice rises: "They did. They told me it is strictly forbidden for him to get out of bed without help", she vainly tries to bamboozle us.
We are joined (mercifully after that last scene) by Lea's two boys - Dor and the older Idan, with his girlfriend Anat. Off we go to Kabalat shabat. One of the boys takes the few stairs half-level down to the ground floor to send the lift up to level 0 - the call button doesn't work on level 0, by design. The lift doors are held open for the entire party to enter. We are such a herd of sheep - why the hell do all of us have to take the lift - even the one who popped down to call it in the first place, just to descend back to the same level? We slowly arrive at the lobby, arrange comfy armchairs for mum and dad and sit around and behind them.
This event is popular in this community, and it is well-attended. The social strata here is of mainly well off people, and it shows. Mum has always felt out of it among them, never knowing what to say, other than on the subject of food and health-scares, never quite up with the others on fashion - they always looked effortlessly stylish, while she always had (still has) clothes with an unclear, sometimes downright suspicious origin or age. Mum forces smiles in all directions, they sit down, some people come by to greet them. They know a few of the residents, and fewer still former neighbours or acquaintances. The Soirée is conducted by the lady in charge of "culture". There is a young female on the keyboard with an older gentleman with her, they both sing some Sabbath related Songs of Praise, some of whom I recall from my childhood. My dad looks at his song sheet earnestly, but Idan whispers to me he thinks he is looking at the wrong page... There are some short speeches: this lady is celebrating her birthday, and she will light the Sabbath candles. Another will read this week's chapter from the Torah and deliver a brief sermon (my mum could never do that). Some new residents are made welcome. Applause. Some other lady reads a poem. The old folk here are lapping it all up. I don't care much for the content but the company and the human interaction as well as the sense of occasion and continuity must be great for them. Certainly dad loves every second of it, and doesn't give a damn about being late for dinner. The residents, temporary or permanent of the support clinic, on the other hand get a misrable little party, and dinner is served at 6:30 pm so not a lot of fun there. I nip up half way through Kabalat Shabat to ask the staff to keep my dad's dinner, as he will be a little late.
Our visitors leave after the Kabalat Shabat. My brother Benny and his partner Noga come to visit later in the evening. Benny keeps finding fault with almost everything he casts his eye on. "The maintainance here is beneath contempt" he cheers dad up. I have to admit there are some problems under the glossy surface, but generally this is a superb facility (I think).
Final part of the day is when we return to the apartment. Benny's boys, nephew Roey and his older brother Eran, with his betrothed Mali are here. They have missed their grandad by a few minutes, but he would have been a bit tired for more company anyway. We all file in, and I excuse myself as I quickly prepare some light supper for mum and I. That over, I get on to the business of refreshments, with Roey's assistance, and we are presented with Mali and Eran's wedding invitation. The envelope reads "Grandpa, Grandma and Moshe", So, it has come to this. I, a (nearly) 55 year old man, living with his parents. Compared to this description, Cliff (remember "Cheers"?) is a personal success story.
Evening over, I reward myself with a stiff drink. I find in the sideboard a small half-bottle of whisky. Must have been there for ages because it takes a few attempts to turn the screwtop and snap it open! Still, the hooch is good.
I forgot to mention that I also managed to do a spot of shopping with my sister before lunch. That gave me the opportunity to be in the flat on my own afterwards, so I could cook undisturbed for a while. I made my chicken paprika. Mum samples it (came back way too soon): "dry". Are you thinking what I'm thinking?
Friday, August 29, 2008
Thursday, 28/08/2008
As arranged yesterday, I am up at around 6 am, and being a good son (such as I am), I start making salad for my mum's breakfast. I will be gone till noon possibly, and God knows she's not going to make any breakfast for herself. Mum appears, shuffling half asleep to the kitchen. "What are you making a salad for, and so early yet?" It's for your breakfast mum, I reply. I leave early enough to reach my sister's place at 7 am, she is already outside, waiting.
We arrive early at the hospital, so Lea goes up, and I go on to fill-up the car and put it through the car wash. Then the hand-finish. My guy is a chatty Russian immigratnt. "I have 5 kids", he boasts. His chat goes on to the mystery that is gripping Israel at the moment (and is relished by the sensation-hungry tabloids): the disappearance of a little tot called Rose. Now, you pay for the hand-finish in advance, and I am not familiar with this particular rite of passage. I later find out that the dirty look I got from the guy was for not leaving a tip. I'll know next time.
The transfer of dad to his own car goes smoothly, and before you know it we are at the home. Not to the 2nd floor apartment, but to the support clinic, where he must stay for a (short?) while. We arrive around 11:00 to find the old folk in the clinic sitting around the dining area, an accordion player, a man of some 50 years, with protruding front teeth, frozen in a permanent smile, sporting a rich auburn rug on top of his head, belting out old Israeli folk songs, while one of the nurses, a solid, broad shouldered lass with long, wavy dark hair skips around the audience constantly banging a little tambour. We sit at a slightly more remote corner, but it seems to adt like a vox box, intensifying the shrill sounds so we cannot hear one another. The jolly nurse comes bounding over: "Hello luvvie, welcome to our little party" she trills, still banging her nefarious instrument in time with each word. Some more small talk follows, each word of which stressed with a jangley bang. I feel the onset of joy rage looming, so I go to find someone who will acknowledge our arrival in some useful way. Head of team comes to the rescue, and dad is finally shown his new room - a large bedroom, two beds but he is to be sole occupant, big, well equipped bathroom, the bed, unlike the hospital one proves comfortable. Dad, tired after his day of activities, nods off, and he is fast asleep till late afternoon. My sister and I return from Belinson Hospital (where I was born, oh so many years ago), where we met with head of Chest, Heart & Lung Ward, who had seen dad a few days ago, to consider treatment options. No radical news there, but he says we needn't "slam the door" on the surgical option, let's look at it in a while, in the light of dad's recovery. We force our mum to go into the home's dining room to have lunch. As with everything else, ever, it is a struggle against monumental resistance. My niece volunteers to sit with her. She melts, even offers to buy Adi lunch. Later of course we find that she couldn't quite go along with this outrageous extravagance fully, so she kept going back to the salad bar, while the main course she only nibbled on, and... you've guessed it - had the rest wrapped-up to go. So now it languishes in the refrigirator, still along the leftovers from the previous day, brought back from the restaurant by the hospital.
Lea, Adi and I go to a "noodle" restaurant in town. It's now 3:00 pm and I realise I haven't eaten all day. Really I ought to be thin. We have a fantastic late lunch, then we split - I go back to the home, Lea and Adi back to theirs.
My mother is having great difficulty learning how to make her way from the apartment to dad's room, and forget about comprehending how to phone him direct - there is a cellular phone with him, and the room's landline. She is too technophobic to even listen to voice messages on any phone, let alone respond, delete or save them. To make matters worse, the home is deliberately designed so that the support clinic is separate from the main section. To reach it from the main building one has to use the goods lift, which is in a slightly different location to the "proper" ones, and go to floor 0. Enough to confuse my mum. To go back it's even worse: that same lift cannot be called to floor 0, one has to operate a fire door by pressing a button on the side to release the lock, then push a cross-bar on the door, go through it, go down some stairs one landing down - this is in fact the ground floor, call the lift there, or go out of one of the two (very similar looking) fire doors into the lobby, then take the lift they are used to, and ride up to the 2nd floor. For my mum (and many others, I hasten to add) this is like taking a walk in a minefield. So far she got lost each time she attempted to make the journey.
In the apartment I find that the salad I made for her this morning was left untouched. It's clear to me she had not eaten today till she was frog-marched to take lunch. When I get back to my dad's room I open the door (it's late afternoon now) to find mum sitting on the bed opposite him, just guarding him loyally. He is still asleep. She launches straight into one of her tirades, like she is continuing an on-going conversation, how he is asleep too much, won't sleep at night, plenty of "oy veys" thrown in, the usual broadcast. Eventually I show her very plainly and carefully how to wind her way home, and all is calm again. Later in the evening my brother arrives, Nir and nephew Idan arrive too, proudly carrying their helmets, having travelled on the legendary Honda Gold Dream.
Dad has had a little accident - he wet his tracksuit bottom, and the bed. I know that the stubborn old goat wouldn't ring the call-button by his bed till it was too late. Orderly comes to take him to the shower. I put the pant in a carrier bag to take upstairs later.
Mum greets me at the flat with a rant about how she cannot just pop down at any given moment: "I have to take this suppository (gee, thanks mum, needed to know that!) and I could be caught short at any given moment". I lose it: "What's all this shouting? what does it have to do with anything?" She doesn't want to use the toilet in dad's room. "Why not?" "What if dad needs it suddenly?" "So, you can't really see him at all, right?" "Aw, aren't you the clever one!".
"Mum, do you have any dark coloured washing to do?" I ask. A flurry of items start to fly out of drawers. "Do these run? Are you sure you know which temperature? What else do you think you can wash with this? You'll mess it all up. I don't want you to wash my stuff".
After I escort her back to dad's room (quicker that way) I go back up, sort out my own washing, and run a half-load. By the time she returns, unassisted this time, it is all done, clothes hanging to dry. She says nothing. I am too edgy to start any conversation with her, when she asks me who that salad in the fridge is for. I go slightly crazy! "I didn't know it was for me, or for breakfast", she pleads. I remind her what my very words were, in answer to her own question that same morning, while I was actually making it. I resolve to vent my spleen on the first unsuspecting victim. Today, dear reader, it is you.
We arrive early at the hospital, so Lea goes up, and I go on to fill-up the car and put it through the car wash. Then the hand-finish. My guy is a chatty Russian immigratnt. "I have 5 kids", he boasts. His chat goes on to the mystery that is gripping Israel at the moment (and is relished by the sensation-hungry tabloids): the disappearance of a little tot called Rose. Now, you pay for the hand-finish in advance, and I am not familiar with this particular rite of passage. I later find out that the dirty look I got from the guy was for not leaving a tip. I'll know next time.
The transfer of dad to his own car goes smoothly, and before you know it we are at the home. Not to the 2nd floor apartment, but to the support clinic, where he must stay for a (short?) while. We arrive around 11:00 to find the old folk in the clinic sitting around the dining area, an accordion player, a man of some 50 years, with protruding front teeth, frozen in a permanent smile, sporting a rich auburn rug on top of his head, belting out old Israeli folk songs, while one of the nurses, a solid, broad shouldered lass with long, wavy dark hair skips around the audience constantly banging a little tambour. We sit at a slightly more remote corner, but it seems to adt like a vox box, intensifying the shrill sounds so we cannot hear one another. The jolly nurse comes bounding over: "Hello luvvie, welcome to our little party" she trills, still banging her nefarious instrument in time with each word. Some more small talk follows, each word of which stressed with a jangley bang. I feel the onset of joy rage looming, so I go to find someone who will acknowledge our arrival in some useful way. Head of team comes to the rescue, and dad is finally shown his new room - a large bedroom, two beds but he is to be sole occupant, big, well equipped bathroom, the bed, unlike the hospital one proves comfortable. Dad, tired after his day of activities, nods off, and he is fast asleep till late afternoon. My sister and I return from Belinson Hospital (where I was born, oh so many years ago), where we met with head of Chest, Heart & Lung Ward, who had seen dad a few days ago, to consider treatment options. No radical news there, but he says we needn't "slam the door" on the surgical option, let's look at it in a while, in the light of dad's recovery. We force our mum to go into the home's dining room to have lunch. As with everything else, ever, it is a struggle against monumental resistance. My niece volunteers to sit with her. She melts, even offers to buy Adi lunch. Later of course we find that she couldn't quite go along with this outrageous extravagance fully, so she kept going back to the salad bar, while the main course she only nibbled on, and... you've guessed it - had the rest wrapped-up to go. So now it languishes in the refrigirator, still along the leftovers from the previous day, brought back from the restaurant by the hospital.
Lea, Adi and I go to a "noodle" restaurant in town. It's now 3:00 pm and I realise I haven't eaten all day. Really I ought to be thin. We have a fantastic late lunch, then we split - I go back to the home, Lea and Adi back to theirs.
My mother is having great difficulty learning how to make her way from the apartment to dad's room, and forget about comprehending how to phone him direct - there is a cellular phone with him, and the room's landline. She is too technophobic to even listen to voice messages on any phone, let alone respond, delete or save them. To make matters worse, the home is deliberately designed so that the support clinic is separate from the main section. To reach it from the main building one has to use the goods lift, which is in a slightly different location to the "proper" ones, and go to floor 0. Enough to confuse my mum. To go back it's even worse: that same lift cannot be called to floor 0, one has to operate a fire door by pressing a button on the side to release the lock, then push a cross-bar on the door, go through it, go down some stairs one landing down - this is in fact the ground floor, call the lift there, or go out of one of the two (very similar looking) fire doors into the lobby, then take the lift they are used to, and ride up to the 2nd floor. For my mum (and many others, I hasten to add) this is like taking a walk in a minefield. So far she got lost each time she attempted to make the journey.
In the apartment I find that the salad I made for her this morning was left untouched. It's clear to me she had not eaten today till she was frog-marched to take lunch. When I get back to my dad's room I open the door (it's late afternoon now) to find mum sitting on the bed opposite him, just guarding him loyally. He is still asleep. She launches straight into one of her tirades, like she is continuing an on-going conversation, how he is asleep too much, won't sleep at night, plenty of "oy veys" thrown in, the usual broadcast. Eventually I show her very plainly and carefully how to wind her way home, and all is calm again. Later in the evening my brother arrives, Nir and nephew Idan arrive too, proudly carrying their helmets, having travelled on the legendary Honda Gold Dream.
Dad has had a little accident - he wet his tracksuit bottom, and the bed. I know that the stubborn old goat wouldn't ring the call-button by his bed till it was too late. Orderly comes to take him to the shower. I put the pant in a carrier bag to take upstairs later.
Mum greets me at the flat with a rant about how she cannot just pop down at any given moment: "I have to take this suppository (gee, thanks mum, needed to know that!) and I could be caught short at any given moment". I lose it: "What's all this shouting? what does it have to do with anything?" She doesn't want to use the toilet in dad's room. "Why not?" "What if dad needs it suddenly?" "So, you can't really see him at all, right?" "Aw, aren't you the clever one!".
"Mum, do you have any dark coloured washing to do?" I ask. A flurry of items start to fly out of drawers. "Do these run? Are you sure you know which temperature? What else do you think you can wash with this? You'll mess it all up. I don't want you to wash my stuff".
After I escort her back to dad's room (quicker that way) I go back up, sort out my own washing, and run a half-load. By the time she returns, unassisted this time, it is all done, clothes hanging to dry. She says nothing. I am too edgy to start any conversation with her, when she asks me who that salad in the fridge is for. I go slightly crazy! "I didn't know it was for me, or for breakfast", she pleads. I remind her what my very words were, in answer to her own question that same morning, while I was actually making it. I resolve to vent my spleen on the first unsuspecting victim. Today, dear reader, it is you.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Not Today, Thank You
It seems dad will have to spend one more night in hospital. The sheltered home has a stay-over clinic where he has to stay for a couple of days, to receive constant care and assistance from dedicated staff including a doctor and nurses, but they are unable to "absorb" him today - no staff.
Our day was thus planned: I was to bring my mum to hospital around 9 am, drop her off and go to Hertzeliya to her dentist. She had a dental hygienist appointment at 10 am, but she's convinced herself the dentist there (who has been my sister's, her family's, and in the last few years mine as well, quite satisfactorily) is a charlatan, and besides, her old friend Marka's son, oh such a nice boy, so talented, now that's a boy who loves his mother, and he is one of the greatest dentists in history, and it has nothing to do with the big discount she says he gives her, well, she wants him and nobody else to treat her. So I would take over her appointment, and would see Dr. Baer (not his real name) for a check-up. "Don't let him con you into unnecessary work" she warns me, branding the poor man a thief (in the event he says I do not need anything done. Anything to spite my mother). We get up at around 7:30, and as I am preparing breakfast, my dad calls from his hospital bed. A similar conversation to yesterday's follows: Why are we not there yet (he knew last night, as he did the night before, what the plan was, and he was quite happy with it on both occasions). He is lonely, nobody has come yet to put his dentures in, to help him off the bed. Has he rung the bell, button of which is in his hand, easier even than dialling home? No. Did he not promise he would use it, and not at the last moment but as soon as he feels he would need anything later as there would inevitably be some pause till someone arrives? I am a bit miffed. I want to help, do absolutely all that is possible. I had a fight at work with some idiot who wouldn't authorise the time off I requested, I am with him every day, most of the day, or sometimes twice daily. I look after my half crazed mum - and nobody knows what that is like better than him (except Lea, obviously). Now for the second morning he has pulled this trick on a mentally less than stable woman, who, for all her imperfections is fiercely loyal to him and his every whim, and always has been. Now, and not for the first time, she is made to feel as though she is failing him as a wife. How does that help? She has just woken up, groggy and confused. She almost jumps in the air. The usual frantic bouncing of the walls commences. She is breathing heavily, hands wringing, she sits down, gets up, picks something in the kitchen, puts it down. "What do I need breakfast for? I'd rather we left immediately" and such. I tell her no way. She is not going anywhere without some breakfast inside of her. He knows exactly what's going on, and with all the empathy in the world, he is out of line here. Knowing what this does to her, and it renders her far less helpful, he is shooting himself in the foot. I make a small vegetable salad cut in tiny dice the Israeli way, and two toasted cheddar cheese sandwiches. "So salty", she moans (it was just right yesterday). "Welcome to mature Cheddar, mum". She insists it's saltier than before. "Yes, I sprinkled salt on it to ruin it for you, you poor woman".
We get to the hospital at 8:45, earlier than planned, and I go on to the dental appointment. After that I stop at my sister's place. She is at work, but my niece Adi is home, and Lea tells me I shouldn't rush to the hospital. "Pace yourself a bit. Stop at ours and have coffee with Adi". But nobody answers the doorbell, only their mongrel bitch Nala (Adi found her as stray, brought her home and gave her to Lea to love) yaps from the other side of the door. I ring again. Dor, 14, on summer break, opens, half asleep (it's 11!). I apologise for not even intending to apologise - what the hell?! But my visit is cut short - mum wants me there so I suggest Dor goes back to bed and I take my leave.
My dad is being progressively difficult today. He has refused to take his medications this morning, and refused a blood test. He now refuses to be discharged from hospital to the special clinic at the home - it sounds too hospice-like. "I don't need any of this. Any help I need, I have your mother for". "I don't think so dad" I object. "You need someone who can support your body weight in case you trip, for example. You know as well as I do that mum can't provide that kind of care". With his new walker he is certainly showing progress, but the fact remains he has a weak heart, slow reactions, moments of haziness. I can help a lot, but I am not a young man either, and while I can hold him and support him, I am not that experienced, and I've had my own history of back pain, so the harsh reality is that he needs a carer. He succumbs. "but in the morning - I can't wait till 9 or later till you come over. They left me here like a dog this morning". I say: "So tell me when you want someone here, and we'll see to it". "7 am". I suggest it would be me - I'll come over early to help with all the morning stuff, and fetch mum later - "you don't want to kill her with exhaustion, right dad?" He agrees. Now mum has to upset the cart. "Hmm, nice! Only yesterday you couldn't do without your wife by your side" Dad: "Yes, that's true, I prefer mum to come over". "Dad, can you please make up your mind? Besides, I have to come anyway, as I am driving her to hospital" (taxi? Give money to strangers? No chance!). I give up on the two of them for the time being, before I lose you, dear reader...
When I got to the hospital they were about to serve lunch to the patients. Mum breaks with her habit of bumming a main course (or even the whole tray - there's always surplus and nobody minds, though I find it unbearable to witness). I keep him company while he slowly eats. Then we slowly walk back to the room. My mother, by now hungry (although when I offered to take her out to the nearest restaurant - a grill/diner at the hospital gate - she dismissed the idea indignantly), is now clutching her tummy to indicate pain. She can't bring herself to utter the words "I'm hungry" (so humilliating, that I should come to be hungry after what I've been through"), or extracting her from the ward on the 4th floor down to the street. We need to cross over to another building, where they have a small mini mart and canteen. She doesn't stop whining for one second. At crossing the road she says "If I'd known it would be like thid I wouldn't have come". At the canteen she discovers they only serve dairy items - it's a non-meat place. She storms off. We go to the restaurant right out of the hospital gate, a standard Israeli grill type place. En route she goes on: "I've been here all day. You know how much I've had to eat all day. You were gone for a few hours. I don't know what you might have been up to". Her paranoia now makes her imply I may have eaten secretly, while abandoning her. "I am not sitting outside, i want to see what goes on in there if you're making me eat there". OK. "It's so hot in here". Right. "I'll bet they haven't got a thing left, it being so late". I ask her if anything on the board appeals. "Skewers? Not for me,and I don't want this. Not that either. I don't know what this is, I'm not risking it. The chicken will probably be dry". Mum, I am losing patience here. "You have changed. I used to think you loved me once upon a time". Aha. And now? What do you think now? "It's all secreted here, in my heart". Would you like soup? The have 2 types. She dithers, so I order one of each. My mum sits in front of me, and as her soup arrives (actually I get it myself from the counter) she almost lunges into it. A flurry of arms, spoon whizzing through the air between the bowl and her mouth, and the complaining only stops to allow more soup in. It's too hot, it's too spicy. "Is everything alright?" ask a waiter who knows no better.
Soup devoured, despite being "awful", she gets her main course - I selected for her chicken breast steak with rice and brown lentils. That too is found wanting. Too hot, too much, the moaning goes on unabated. "Coming here was a mistake. I should have ordered something in pitta pocket and taken it back to dad's room. Perhaps they can do it for me now? The rice is so dry, as is the chicken I knew it. No, I don't want to try some of your schnitzel. Quite crunchy, I must say. But dry. Your mash is made fresh. The hodpital's tastes like instant mash. This is too much, I can't finish it all. I am not leaving anything behind for them. They can wrap the leftovers for me to take away. Oh look, they have chicken livers on skewers, why didn't I ask for that instead of this. No, I only want plain water. Here it is. Do you think it's safe to drink tap water here? How long must we stay here, dad is all alone up there".
We are back at the flat now. "You're telling me I am not going back to see dad this evening?" My sister is planning to stay there till chucking out time. She agreed to let me pick her up tomorrow at 7 am. We are to go to hospital, and start the discharge process. We want to get him out of there as early as possible. For now, all I want is to finish this outpouring, take a shower, and have a cold Goldstar!
Our day was thus planned: I was to bring my mum to hospital around 9 am, drop her off and go to Hertzeliya to her dentist. She had a dental hygienist appointment at 10 am, but she's convinced herself the dentist there (who has been my sister's, her family's, and in the last few years mine as well, quite satisfactorily) is a charlatan, and besides, her old friend Marka's son, oh such a nice boy, so talented, now that's a boy who loves his mother, and he is one of the greatest dentists in history, and it has nothing to do with the big discount she says he gives her, well, she wants him and nobody else to treat her. So I would take over her appointment, and would see Dr. Baer (not his real name) for a check-up. "Don't let him con you into unnecessary work" she warns me, branding the poor man a thief (in the event he says I do not need anything done. Anything to spite my mother). We get up at around 7:30, and as I am preparing breakfast, my dad calls from his hospital bed. A similar conversation to yesterday's follows: Why are we not there yet (he knew last night, as he did the night before, what the plan was, and he was quite happy with it on both occasions). He is lonely, nobody has come yet to put his dentures in, to help him off the bed. Has he rung the bell, button of which is in his hand, easier even than dialling home? No. Did he not promise he would use it, and not at the last moment but as soon as he feels he would need anything later as there would inevitably be some pause till someone arrives? I am a bit miffed. I want to help, do absolutely all that is possible. I had a fight at work with some idiot who wouldn't authorise the time off I requested, I am with him every day, most of the day, or sometimes twice daily. I look after my half crazed mum - and nobody knows what that is like better than him (except Lea, obviously). Now for the second morning he has pulled this trick on a mentally less than stable woman, who, for all her imperfections is fiercely loyal to him and his every whim, and always has been. Now, and not for the first time, she is made to feel as though she is failing him as a wife. How does that help? She has just woken up, groggy and confused. She almost jumps in the air. The usual frantic bouncing of the walls commences. She is breathing heavily, hands wringing, she sits down, gets up, picks something in the kitchen, puts it down. "What do I need breakfast for? I'd rather we left immediately" and such. I tell her no way. She is not going anywhere without some breakfast inside of her. He knows exactly what's going on, and with all the empathy in the world, he is out of line here. Knowing what this does to her, and it renders her far less helpful, he is shooting himself in the foot. I make a small vegetable salad cut in tiny dice the Israeli way, and two toasted cheddar cheese sandwiches. "So salty", she moans (it was just right yesterday). "Welcome to mature Cheddar, mum". She insists it's saltier than before. "Yes, I sprinkled salt on it to ruin it for you, you poor woman".
We get to the hospital at 8:45, earlier than planned, and I go on to the dental appointment. After that I stop at my sister's place. She is at work, but my niece Adi is home, and Lea tells me I shouldn't rush to the hospital. "Pace yourself a bit. Stop at ours and have coffee with Adi". But nobody answers the doorbell, only their mongrel bitch Nala (Adi found her as stray, brought her home and gave her to Lea to love) yaps from the other side of the door. I ring again. Dor, 14, on summer break, opens, half asleep (it's 11!). I apologise for not even intending to apologise - what the hell?! But my visit is cut short - mum wants me there so I suggest Dor goes back to bed and I take my leave.
My dad is being progressively difficult today. He has refused to take his medications this morning, and refused a blood test. He now refuses to be discharged from hospital to the special clinic at the home - it sounds too hospice-like. "I don't need any of this. Any help I need, I have your mother for". "I don't think so dad" I object. "You need someone who can support your body weight in case you trip, for example. You know as well as I do that mum can't provide that kind of care". With his new walker he is certainly showing progress, but the fact remains he has a weak heart, slow reactions, moments of haziness. I can help a lot, but I am not a young man either, and while I can hold him and support him, I am not that experienced, and I've had my own history of back pain, so the harsh reality is that he needs a carer. He succumbs. "but in the morning - I can't wait till 9 or later till you come over. They left me here like a dog this morning". I say: "So tell me when you want someone here, and we'll see to it". "7 am". I suggest it would be me - I'll come over early to help with all the morning stuff, and fetch mum later - "you don't want to kill her with exhaustion, right dad?" He agrees. Now mum has to upset the cart. "Hmm, nice! Only yesterday you couldn't do without your wife by your side" Dad: "Yes, that's true, I prefer mum to come over". "Dad, can you please make up your mind? Besides, I have to come anyway, as I am driving her to hospital" (taxi? Give money to strangers? No chance!). I give up on the two of them for the time being, before I lose you, dear reader...
When I got to the hospital they were about to serve lunch to the patients. Mum breaks with her habit of bumming a main course (or even the whole tray - there's always surplus and nobody minds, though I find it unbearable to witness). I keep him company while he slowly eats. Then we slowly walk back to the room. My mother, by now hungry (although when I offered to take her out to the nearest restaurant - a grill/diner at the hospital gate - she dismissed the idea indignantly), is now clutching her tummy to indicate pain. She can't bring herself to utter the words "I'm hungry" (so humilliating, that I should come to be hungry after what I've been through"), or extracting her from the ward on the 4th floor down to the street. We need to cross over to another building, where they have a small mini mart and canteen. She doesn't stop whining for one second. At crossing the road she says "If I'd known it would be like thid I wouldn't have come". At the canteen she discovers they only serve dairy items - it's a non-meat place. She storms off. We go to the restaurant right out of the hospital gate, a standard Israeli grill type place. En route she goes on: "I've been here all day. You know how much I've had to eat all day. You were gone for a few hours. I don't know what you might have been up to". Her paranoia now makes her imply I may have eaten secretly, while abandoning her. "I am not sitting outside, i want to see what goes on in there if you're making me eat there". OK. "It's so hot in here". Right. "I'll bet they haven't got a thing left, it being so late". I ask her if anything on the board appeals. "Skewers? Not for me,and I don't want this. Not that either. I don't know what this is, I'm not risking it. The chicken will probably be dry". Mum, I am losing patience here. "You have changed. I used to think you loved me once upon a time". Aha. And now? What do you think now? "It's all secreted here, in my heart". Would you like soup? The have 2 types. She dithers, so I order one of each. My mum sits in front of me, and as her soup arrives (actually I get it myself from the counter) she almost lunges into it. A flurry of arms, spoon whizzing through the air between the bowl and her mouth, and the complaining only stops to allow more soup in. It's too hot, it's too spicy. "Is everything alright?" ask a waiter who knows no better.
Soup devoured, despite being "awful", she gets her main course - I selected for her chicken breast steak with rice and brown lentils. That too is found wanting. Too hot, too much, the moaning goes on unabated. "Coming here was a mistake. I should have ordered something in pitta pocket and taken it back to dad's room. Perhaps they can do it for me now? The rice is so dry, as is the chicken I knew it. No, I don't want to try some of your schnitzel. Quite crunchy, I must say. But dry. Your mash is made fresh. The hodpital's tastes like instant mash. This is too much, I can't finish it all. I am not leaving anything behind for them. They can wrap the leftovers for me to take away. Oh look, they have chicken livers on skewers, why didn't I ask for that instead of this. No, I only want plain water. Here it is. Do you think it's safe to drink tap water here? How long must we stay here, dad is all alone up there".
We are back at the flat now. "You're telling me I am not going back to see dad this evening?" My sister is planning to stay there till chucking out time. She agreed to let me pick her up tomorrow at 7 am. We are to go to hospital, and start the discharge process. We want to get him out of there as early as possible. For now, all I want is to finish this outpouring, take a shower, and have a cold Goldstar!
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Goodbye Shoshy, Tuesday 26/08/2008
Shoshy: "We walk bent, but we talk straight!"
Yankele and Shoshy
Dad having his first meal at a table in nearly 3 weeks
This one shows dad on his last day of luxury in Cardiac. Single patient room, all mod cons, constant care. Joy!
Tuesday's update. Dad has walked, ever so slowly and with the aid of a walker to the dining area of his ward, thus had his first proper lunch, sat at a table. I caught a snap of him, mum and Lea sitting at a disturbingly similar pose (well, lea will be disturbed, I assure you). Yankele was there, with his dad, and he was relieved from duty by Shoshy, not before I snapped both of them. Shoshy, bossy, boisterous and booming was ready as ever to launch into a lengthy tale of one crisis or other in the history of her family. At some point she turns to her father (who is visibly delighted by her presence, and cheered up by her stories) and says: "Oh, by the way dad, I have some good news for you. Just wait till you hear this. You'll be quite pleased". He is thrilled by this teasing, but Shoshy hasn't got all day, and she declares, in Yiddish (it does sound funnier that way): "Die Kurvah ist toyt" (the whore is dead). That from a religious woman... I ask her if she said what I think I've heard, and she confirms my gravest fears with a chuckle. Some old bird she had some reason to loathe, clearly on morality issues. "I know it's against our religion to rejoice at the fall of our enemy, but I don't care. That bitch deserved to die, and she had it coming. May she rot in hell. It's how we were brought up. Say what you mean, and the rest of the world can go jump. We walk bent, talk straight".
We are told that there is not much more they can do for my dad in hospital. He may be discharged tomorrow. At the sheltered housing they have a convalescence clinic, and he may need to stay there for a few days, but he will ultimately be sent back home, to the flat on the 2nd floor. He will need help - mine is after all temporary, and he will need someone younger and stronger (and let's face it, more professional) and all my mother can think of is how awkward it would be for... her, especially if the carer is a live-in man. I try to reason with her that it would also take a load off her in more than one sense. She cannot support his weight in the shower for example, and should he (or she) slip or trip, they could both go down without being able to summon help. I use the Jewish method of guilt. "I assume you do want what's best for your husband, not just yourself" I torment the poor thing. She is stung into a defensive state. Later on I hear her saying to someone on the phone; "well, of course I want what's best for my husband. As for myself, I don't really care". Can it be that my words actually penetrated her mind? Time will tell. The plan for tomorrow is to drop mum off in hospital, I will go on to a dentist appointment and return afterwards to take her for lunch. We assume dad will be discharged around 3 pm. Nir has brought for him a state of the art walkwe, on 3 wheels, brakes, all shiny chromework. Dad has tried it out now that he can walk a bit, and it's vastly superior to the horrible one the lent him in hospital.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Yankele
Dad's bed is 2nd from the large window at the end of the room. All other 3 occupants are religious Jews, all of them of the moderate type, not orthodox. They seem to be of different diaspora. Nearest the door is (I think) Yemenite, very old, frail, but mobile (more than can be said for my poor daddy), then another geezer, origin not clear as yet, then dad (from Poland), and finally an eldery man from Hungary. He is receiving blood transfusions, and is recovering from some cancer - I am still too squeamish to let the full detail (eagerly described in glorious technicolor) sink in just yet. Keeping him company is his son, a portly man of around 40, perhaps older. Yankele. They are very gregarious, while I try to stay aloof, without offending anyone. Forget it. This is Israel. If someone decided to be your friend, you might as well play along. Resistance is futile. Yankele wants to know all there is to know about me. Kids? No, bachelor. What do you do? I tell him. You work for London Underground? You're kidding, right? After some more questions I tell him he might devise a questionnaire for me to fill in. Ah, you're making fun of me now, he says cheerfully, without a hint of dismay. My dad and his dad are already pals. They both survived WW2 through different experiences, but they both made their way to Israel soon afterwards, and my dad, usually full of stories but now too weak to be talkative resigns himself to the role of listener. Captive audience. Bad news, I mistakenly thought at first. The vitality of a genuinely sick person in the next bed has some life-affirming effect, and it uplifts, not just irritates... Later on more family members arrive, and before we know it we know all of them. Big sister, a large, boisterous "modern" religious woman called Shoshy (Sue?) is there to keep night vigil at her dad's side. The ward doesn't allow it normally, but they crumble in front of her. Does she love her father more than I do mine? She is, like the rest of the clan friendly, cheerful, and she declares that she is going to look after my dad as well. "Don't you worry about a thing", she roars, "if he needs anything, anything at all, I am going to see to it that the nurses are here like a shot. You go with God, and I will see you in the morning, God willing". But staying overnight in the cramped ward with her dad, with only a chair to sit on? Surely he is well looked after by the staff here? "Me, leaving my father's side? I should kill myself first! That is how I was brought up, and I raised my son the very same way. My one and only son. He is getting married soon, you know. He tells me: mum, you don't seem too excited about my approaching nuptuals. I tell him: You're crazy! I have a sick father, not to mention a sick mother to look after as well, I hardly have time for anything else, including my own son, the one thing I love most in the whole world. What else have I got to love more than him, huh?! Huh?!!"
I am totally melted in the white heat of that woman's emotion. I tell her I think she's a wonderful daughter. She dismisses my words with a splutter. "Good daughter, pah!". I say: "you're too modest to see it yourself". We wish everyone in the room a speedy recovery and leave.
I am totally melted in the white heat of that woman's emotion. I tell her I think she's a wonderful daughter. She dismisses my words with a splutter. "Good daughter, pah!". I say: "you're too modest to see it yourself". We wish everyone in the room a speedy recovery and leave.
Take a break. Enjoyed it?
Got home around 2 pm. I started cooking lunch. Yesterday's vegetables were too spicy for madame. It was a melange of stir-fried onions, orange pepper, courgettes, carrots, potatoes, tomatoes and one crunchy apple, seared in a wok, with a made-up seasoning of soy sauce, dash of Worcestershire Sauce (or Wooster Sauce, as it's pronounced in the UK), tomato paste, some paprika, mild curry powder, and a sprinkling of Knorr's chicken stock. I served it with rice I cooked with some (weak) chicken stock. I already had some tomato soup I made the previous night, so that only needed reheating. Majesty gulped it like it was still Poland, 1944 (did I mention both parents are Holocaust survivors?) Sure set them, mother more so than father, psychologically umm, shall we say "challenging"? Wolfing food down is one of the side-effects, as well as the obsession with food, hatred of eating in public (restaurant experience? Don't ask), hoarding of well, anything at all, irrational fear of any type of authority, uniformed or implied, the list doesn't really stop. So, despite having plenty of left-over food from yesterday, I made a fresh batch of vegetables, slightly different from yesterday's, and finished them au-gratin with a mix of fresh breadcrumbs and Parmesan. Not too spicy for you? Too crunchy!
I rewarded myself for my trouble with a can of Goldstar, my favourite Israeli beer (dark lager since you asked), and I thought I would nap it off before driving back to the hospital, but a call from my niece Adi came as a rude awakening: Dad has been moved from Cardiac to Internal. My mum went slightly madder than before (who knew that was still possible). A scene followed, with me trying to get a moment of privacy, in the smallest room in the house, you with me? and she comes banging (ok, knocking, but I mean, c'mon!), "what do you think you're doing, chatting on the phone in there" and so on. Without giving you too much information (oops, too late!) let me tell you, my sphyncter clammed shut so fast, I thought I heard it scream. Or was it me?
So, back to hospital immediately. Not of a lot of use - they were not going to keep him in Cardiac for much longer, we kind of knew that anyway. My mother: "they waited until we were gone and then they moved him". Another conspiracy exposed then.
The new room is vastly different. No more the 5 star luxury of one patient to a huge room, with an electrically adjustable bed. Indeed, there are now 4 patients in the room (designed for 3 incidentally, but they are very busy...) and worse - they just tossed him on the new bed the wrong way round, so he couldn't have his upper back propped up for reclining or sitting, but he could have his legs at any angle he desired. Brilliant. Took me over an hour to get a nurse to help me turn the bed around in a crowded room, with visitors trampling underfoot, chairs to move around, bags everywhere, why, I almost took some poor chap's portable drip out...
And how is dad? Well, he is bewildered form the total change in his treatment, but there are other things to keep his spirits up. Suddenly there is human company there to add a new aspect on his own life. Illness, much like death is a great leveller. More on dad's (and by association, our) new found friends later.
I rewarded myself for my trouble with a can of Goldstar, my favourite Israeli beer (dark lager since you asked), and I thought I would nap it off before driving back to the hospital, but a call from my niece Adi came as a rude awakening: Dad has been moved from Cardiac to Internal. My mum went slightly madder than before (who knew that was still possible). A scene followed, with me trying to get a moment of privacy, in the smallest room in the house, you with me? and she comes banging (ok, knocking, but I mean, c'mon!), "what do you think you're doing, chatting on the phone in there" and so on. Without giving you too much information (oops, too late!) let me tell you, my sphyncter clammed shut so fast, I thought I heard it scream. Or was it me?
So, back to hospital immediately. Not of a lot of use - they were not going to keep him in Cardiac for much longer, we kind of knew that anyway. My mother: "they waited until we were gone and then they moved him". Another conspiracy exposed then.
The new room is vastly different. No more the 5 star luxury of one patient to a huge room, with an electrically adjustable bed. Indeed, there are now 4 patients in the room (designed for 3 incidentally, but they are very busy...) and worse - they just tossed him on the new bed the wrong way round, so he couldn't have his upper back propped up for reclining or sitting, but he could have his legs at any angle he desired. Brilliant. Took me over an hour to get a nurse to help me turn the bed around in a crowded room, with visitors trampling underfoot, chairs to move around, bags everywhere, why, I almost took some poor chap's portable drip out...
And how is dad? Well, he is bewildered form the total change in his treatment, but there are other things to keep his spirits up. Suddenly there is human company there to add a new aspect on his own life. Illness, much like death is a great leveller. More on dad's (and by association, our) new found friends later.
Monday 25/08/2008
Another day, and the patient is getting ever worse. My dad on the other hand is getting (tentatively) better. I know it's not a crime to be a bit mental, but I just don't have the tools to deal with her, and my gawd does she need help! The meeting of minds to discuss my dad's treatment took place this morning. We only got to talk with the cardiologists at this hospitals. The head of department (from another hospital) was there, but gone before we got there. Trying to get an audience with him, although my dad is going to reject the option of an operation. Seems the risk is way to high, and the recovery process is so lengthy and hard, it alone could kill a man of dad's age and physical state. I told him that we will all accept, honour and respect any decision he makes, and he will have all our support. The one thing we cannot do for him is decide.
Went home to make lunch and to rest before going back to hospital. My sister called to tell us they have moved him out of heart ward, to internal (on the same floor). My mother went straight into hysteria mode, practically bouncing off the walls, whining, moaning, cursing everyone in that hospital: "the minute we were out of the door they moved him!" "What shall we do? What shall we do?" So now she wants me to take her straight back there, like it will make any difference. We were told earlier that he could be moved to Geriatric ward, where he will have "home like" accommodation, and will receive the best treatment to rebuild his physical strength and stamina. Once that happens, we'll see how long he needs before he can be allowed to go home. The core of his problems is 2 faulty heart valves. That will not be fixed with medication - he will remain largely incapacitated, but could lead a fairly independent life, albeit with constant care from someone (not mum) who can be there to look after him, support him, and stop him from falling off his feet, once he is back on them.
It all sounds gloomy, but he did look, sound and feel better and stronger today than yestarday, so I remain cautiously optimistic.
Went home to make lunch and to rest before going back to hospital. My sister called to tell us they have moved him out of heart ward, to internal (on the same floor). My mother went straight into hysteria mode, practically bouncing off the walls, whining, moaning, cursing everyone in that hospital: "the minute we were out of the door they moved him!" "What shall we do? What shall we do?" So now she wants me to take her straight back there, like it will make any difference. We were told earlier that he could be moved to Geriatric ward, where he will have "home like" accommodation, and will receive the best treatment to rebuild his physical strength and stamina. Once that happens, we'll see how long he needs before he can be allowed to go home. The core of his problems is 2 faulty heart valves. That will not be fixed with medication - he will remain largely incapacitated, but could lead a fairly independent life, albeit with constant care from someone (not mum) who can be there to look after him, support him, and stop him from falling off his feet, once he is back on them.
It all sounds gloomy, but he did look, sound and feel better and stronger today than yestarday, so I remain cautiously optimistic.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Sunday, 24/08/2008
An Angel, with a voice to match
My mum took this pic. You'd be amazed how hard pressing a little button can be!
Dad seemed down today - voice very hoarse, and I am sure I've infected him with my disgusting germs!!!
Physically I am sure he is a little stronger than yesterday, but in the evening his blood pressure dropped quite a lot - on the first day they stopped giving him a transfusion.
There was meant to be a doctors/surgeons conference this morning over his case, but it has been put off till tomorrow. Adds to the frustration.
I will try and cheer him up with the Jewish method of... food - he is fed up with hospital food. Who wouldn't be after nearly 3 weekes of that monotony? I may bring him some breakfast with flavour, for a change.
The soundtrack to this "holiday" is an album by Grégory Lemarchal, courtesy of my friend Jean-François who was in London on the weekend prior to my hasty separture. Grégory was diagnosed with Cystic Fibrosis, and having won the French Star Academy in 2004 he went on to become hugely popular in France, Germany and most of Western Europe (yet unheard of in the UK). In April 2007 he died of complications while waiting for an organ transplant. He was 23.
I totally fell in love with this tragic kid, and his single Je Deviens Moi (written by Rosenstolz, arguably Germany's biggest rock/pop act, also virtual unknowns in the UK). It may have something to do with sublimation of emotions: with dad I am helpful, both in the physical needs department and on the morale front by making conversation, playing him music and so on, but I am efficient, not emotional. But I listen to little G. singing on the way to and back from hospital and my eyes get all misty!!! My mum is developing some fondness to him too. Probably because he died. Otherwise he would be blanked... I am intrigued to hear the original German version of the single. The tune sounded so French to me, it's almost impossible to imagine it under any other flag.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Saturday night
Dad seems a little better. Still needs help in and out of bed, but a few vital statistics have improved. Pulse, blood pressure are both close to normal. OK, he got a blood transfusion again yesterday but the next few days will show how his body is responding. This evening I was allowed back in the ward, but had to wear a surgical mask so as not to put him at risk of infection. Lea, Nir and 2 of their offspring, Adi, 21, and Dor, the youngest (15 year old) took great pleasure in having me act the clown for them. I let Adi take over my camera and you can see the results on my picasa album (couldn't be bothered to upload them here right now, but here's the link if you want to see them - and you don't).
Expelled!
My sister and B. in law joined my mum and me at my father's side this morning. Lea was dismayed to find me there with a cold - dad's immune system is next to non-existent, I shouldn't be in the building even. I was given my marching orders. I am to go there later today, only to say a quick hello, pick up mum and go to Lea's for lunch (how am I to lose weight, ever?).
Aaanywayz, before Lea and Nir arrived, mum and I found dad sitting in his chair, his breakfast tray before him, virtually untouched. My dad has stayed in hospitals several times in his life. He never complains about well, anything really. He always eats the hospital food and objects to people bringing him any food from "outside" because he believed in the system. But even he eventually tired of having almost exactly the same food day in, day out. Besides, he was too weak to feed himself. That woman was right all along, I suppose, if spoon feeding him the other day. True to form, she took charge of the situation, while I sat on the bed, and started snapping. Pictures, that is. Here I present a sampler from the many pics I took. I call it "The Best of Breakfast"
Furious!
After a sumptuous BBQ at my sister's last night, I took mum back home. I've had an annoying tickle in my throat all afternoon, and it has now flared up to a full blown head cold - I am sneezing my head off here! I could barely sleep last night, and rummaged for (and found) some Ibuprofen this morning. I've been wondering what that nasty smell was in the "other" bathroom (my parents new place has 2 of them, the spare one serving as a utility room with the washing machine in it). Having opened the top drawer the mystery was solved: it's a cornucopia of pharmaceuticals. A bewildering array of pills, tablets, ointments and things that look like they could make your eyes water if taken as instructed by your physician. Sweet!
I'm concerned about later this morning. I don't want to put dad at risk: Shall I ask the nurses in hospital for a surgical mask? Might they not bar me from the place? I know I'll be washing my hands constantly at any rate. I don't have to be very close to dad, except for when he wants to move from his bed to the chair, and when nurse needs help when treating him. Something to ponder.
I'm concerned about later this morning. I don't want to put dad at risk: Shall I ask the nurses in hospital for a surgical mask? Might they not bar me from the place? I know I'll be washing my hands constantly at any rate. I don't have to be very close to dad, except for when he wants to move from his bed to the chair, and when nurse needs help when treating him. Something to ponder.
Mistress in Red
My brother in-law has a thing for extra marital bit of fun. Actually now that he got my sister into it they are both at it on weekends, holidays etc. It's a passion for choppers. Motorbikes, big ones. His latest acquisition is a Honda Gold Wing. Here it is, lovingly kept... in the living room, as there's not enough parking space for both it and the older BMW tourer (for sale now that it's been usurped. Interested?) that used to be his (or their) pride and joy. In the bottom picture you can spot my sister Lea in the background, sitting on the porch, hammock on her left (or right of picture), BBQ in the far background. Live the dream.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Feeding Dad
I get to hospital with my mother, having gone home in the afternoon for a couple of hours. As we enter dad's room (did I mention he is in a large room, designed to take one patient only?). My nephew Roey (pronounced ro-ee, my brother Benny's younger boy), a handsome 27 year old, tall and dark, thin as a rake, a natural born joker with a theatrical bent (watch this http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dRTQk7ise3U.
after you've read this post!)... where was I? Oh, yes, it's early evening, dad just got his dinner. I hear Roey saying something like "I want you to eat all this pot of cheese", my dad barely able to answer back, but clearly not too keen to be bossed around (hey, that's my mum's job). I go ballistic: What the hell is this family's obsession with force-feeding the defenceless? I roar (quietly, it's a hospital after all). I swiftly remove the well-intentioned nephew from my dad's vicinity, and declare a buffer zone around him, now that I am here. My mother is by now settled down, one bag on the floor somewhere, handbag firmly clutched to her side, but before I manage to blink, that little old lady is by her man's side, spoon in hand, ready to go back to the good old days of force feeding of all the family's young. I am a control freak, I admit, but in the face of this maternal storm of instinctive, almost animalistic compulsion, well, I know when I am defeated. Her face glows with vitality almost forgotten. She is needed. She is useful. A fully functional Mother, and there are witnesses to vouch for it come judgment day. Is everyone looking? Good! He opened his mouth a little - perhaps to draw a breath. Wham! Spoon laden with that unwanted cheese gets in there. You want air? Well, you'll have to earn it first. We look on, mesmerised, as my mother keeps that spoon poised at lip level, inches away from his face, waiting for that twitch, the slightest movement, and in she goes, another successful ambush! So, from meekly declining one little pot of light cream cheese dad ends up having been fed two of the little things, along with absolutely everything else on the tray. Mission accomplished. Dad leans back in his bed, visibly uncomfortable, pathetically trying to release a burp, unsure it is safe to attempt one, lest he fails to manouver it around all the food that was shoved down his gullet just now. Mum sits back, a look of pure content on her face. She has done right by her man.
We fall silent, conversation muted to a whisper while this bizzare display of the most aggressive yet tender love unfolds before our eyes. We all have been there before, you know. That spoon, used to lie in wait patiently, relentlessly in front of all our little faces at some point in our lives. It was our nemesis, her Raison d'être. Dad never had to undergo this while he was young, healthy, confident and a justly proud man. Now there is nothing he can do, not even protest. I wonder: is what she is doing good for him? Has it been good mothering to us? Do we all thank her now? Resent her? Ridicule her?
after you've read this post!)... where was I? Oh, yes, it's early evening, dad just got his dinner. I hear Roey saying something like "I want you to eat all this pot of cheese", my dad barely able to answer back, but clearly not too keen to be bossed around (hey, that's my mum's job). I go ballistic: What the hell is this family's obsession with force-feeding the defenceless? I roar (quietly, it's a hospital after all). I swiftly remove the well-intentioned nephew from my dad's vicinity, and declare a buffer zone around him, now that I am here. My mother is by now settled down, one bag on the floor somewhere, handbag firmly clutched to her side, but before I manage to blink, that little old lady is by her man's side, spoon in hand, ready to go back to the good old days of force feeding of all the family's young. I am a control freak, I admit, but in the face of this maternal storm of instinctive, almost animalistic compulsion, well, I know when I am defeated. Her face glows with vitality almost forgotten. She is needed. She is useful. A fully functional Mother, and there are witnesses to vouch for it come judgment day. Is everyone looking? Good! He opened his mouth a little - perhaps to draw a breath. Wham! Spoon laden with that unwanted cheese gets in there. You want air? Well, you'll have to earn it first. We look on, mesmerised, as my mother keeps that spoon poised at lip level, inches away from his face, waiting for that twitch, the slightest movement, and in she goes, another successful ambush! So, from meekly declining one little pot of light cream cheese dad ends up having been fed two of the little things, along with absolutely everything else on the tray. Mission accomplished. Dad leans back in his bed, visibly uncomfortable, pathetically trying to release a burp, unsure it is safe to attempt one, lest he fails to manouver it around all the food that was shoved down his gullet just now. Mum sits back, a look of pure content on her face. She has done right by her man.
We fall silent, conversation muted to a whisper while this bizzare display of the most aggressive yet tender love unfolds before our eyes. We all have been there before, you know. That spoon, used to lie in wait patiently, relentlessly in front of all our little faces at some point in our lives. It was our nemesis, her Raison d'être. Dad never had to undergo this while he was young, healthy, confident and a justly proud man. Now there is nothing he can do, not even protest. I wonder: is what she is doing good for him? Has it been good mothering to us? Do we all thank her now? Resent her? Ridicule her?
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Going Away In A Hurry Thursday, 21/08/2008
Back from hospital with my mother. We went there in the morning, dad was dozing off after breakfast. The nurse, Israel, a thoroughly decent bloke, told us my dad ate his breakfast well, but since my mother noticed some uneaten grapes and a tub of yoghurt she was not to be made a fool of - "he hardly touches his food. Oy vey, what I have to go through!"
Later on lunch arrived. I warned mum not to nag dad to eat more, what to eat, how to eat it, and she sat in the corner, pouting. He ate whatever he wanted, was perfectly happy with it, but not my mother, oh no: "only soup, he ate only soup". Funnier when you say it in Hebrew: "Rak marak" or in my mother's case "rrak marrak". Go on, say it... Not funny? Well, you had to be there I guess.
The doctors came to have a look at him. Same old story: he needs an op, we'll try to find a non-surgical way for him. He felt better, but one of the doctors came later to take some blood and to leave an infusion stuck in there for later on. Among other things he is to get some blood in order to raise the hemoglobin level from dangerously low to acceptable. The doctor kept jabbing him in some 4 places until he meneged to strike blood!!! It was a dreadful scene. Dad was wincing with pain, and the doctor kept apologising, but he just could not take enough blood for the pre-transfusion tests.
Lea arrived with Adi (my niece) and Idan (nephew). I the afternoon I took my mum back home, we had a microwave reheated food for our lunch - some "other people's food - not like real home cooking" she said. It was from Zozobra, arguably the best Asiatic restaurant in Israel (think uber-chic cross between Wagamama and Benihana at mid-range prices). "While you heat the food, let me just chop this onion". "What?! What the hell for?" "I just need to do it, do you mind?" "Just sit there mother, you're chopping nothing right now, alright?"
Later on lunch arrived. I warned mum not to nag dad to eat more, what to eat, how to eat it, and she sat in the corner, pouting. He ate whatever he wanted, was perfectly happy with it, but not my mother, oh no: "only soup, he ate only soup". Funnier when you say it in Hebrew: "Rak marak" or in my mother's case "rrak marrak". Go on, say it... Not funny? Well, you had to be there I guess.
The doctors came to have a look at him. Same old story: he needs an op, we'll try to find a non-surgical way for him. He felt better, but one of the doctors came later to take some blood and to leave an infusion stuck in there for later on. Among other things he is to get some blood in order to raise the hemoglobin level from dangerously low to acceptable. The doctor kept jabbing him in some 4 places until he meneged to strike blood!!! It was a dreadful scene. Dad was wincing with pain, and the doctor kept apologising, but he just could not take enough blood for the pre-transfusion tests.
Lea arrived with Adi (my niece) and Idan (nephew). I the afternoon I took my mum back home, we had a microwave reheated food for our lunch - some "other people's food - not like real home cooking" she said. It was from Zozobra, arguably the best Asiatic restaurant in Israel (think uber-chic cross between Wagamama and Benihana at mid-range prices). "While you heat the food, let me just chop this onion". "What?! What the hell for?" "I just need to do it, do you mind?" "Just sit there mother, you're chopping nothing right now, alright?"
Going Away in a Hurry
Dad is unwell. At 82, his (transplanted) heart valve is failing, some 7 years (if that, I'll have to ask my sister to remind me) after his operation. He is now in Meir Hospital, readmitted after having been discharged - a decision strongly contested by the house doctor in the sheltered residence where they moved exactly 6 months ago. He was taken to "internal" ward, because the immediate problem seemed to be blood cell defficiency, but on the day I arrived he was moved to cardiac ward for (hopefully) better assessment. The prognosis is not good: he needs another operation. At his age, and with 2 open-heart ops behind him, the doctors are reluctant to operate again, as the chances of survival are not high. Without an operation he can go on living out his days but totally dependent on care. He can't walk, stand, even sit upright on his own. His mind his (almost) as lucid as ever, and even through all the discomfort and little indignities a hospital stay affords him, he still manages to crack jokes with the nurses.
I was at work, on the 3 pm to 11 pm shift, when I got a call from Lea, my baby sister (well, she's 8 years younger than me). We agreed that I should make it a priority to come over from London, in a matter of a few days, not immediately, but it couldn't wait until my booked holiday, which would see me there on the 23rd of September. I am needed not only to be with my father but to help my mother (who is in a f*****g state (so what's new?). Lea has been doing evetything for them so far: Driving my mother to and from the hospital, helping her at home, helping my dad, really running their lives for them, tirelessly. My brother Benny does visit, I'll give him that, but that's about the extent of his involvement (more bitching to follw). My mother is totally helpless, and clueless. Years of (voluntary) submission robbed her of independence - she has never entered a bank branch on her own, written a cheque, paid with any method other than cash, dealt with the phone company, used a computer, listened to messages on her landline phone, let alone her cellular phone, and most sadly of all, never sought counselling!
Need to get ready to go to the hospital... Will scribble more later.
I was at work, on the 3 pm to 11 pm shift, when I got a call from Lea, my baby sister (well, she's 8 years younger than me). We agreed that I should make it a priority to come over from London, in a matter of a few days, not immediately, but it couldn't wait until my booked holiday, which would see me there on the 23rd of September. I am needed not only to be with my father but to help my mother (who is in a f*****g state (so what's new?). Lea has been doing evetything for them so far: Driving my mother to and from the hospital, helping her at home, helping my dad, really running their lives for them, tirelessly. My brother Benny does visit, I'll give him that, but that's about the extent of his involvement (more bitching to follw). My mother is totally helpless, and clueless. Years of (voluntary) submission robbed her of independence - she has never entered a bank branch on her own, written a cheque, paid with any method other than cash, dealt with the phone company, used a computer, listened to messages on her landline phone, let alone her cellular phone, and most sadly of all, never sought counselling!
Need to get ready to go to the hospital... Will scribble more later.
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