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.
Monday, August 25, 2008
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.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Monday, May 14, 2007
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