Friday, November 30, 2012
still here
At the hospital bedside again - it's nearly 6 p.m. on Friday, and Mum is still here, waiting for the operation. It's the first cold snap in Ottawa, with ice and a bit of snow, so perhaps the O.R. is full of people who've slipped on the ice. Maybe. Otherwise, it's infuriating and cruel, leaving this woman lying here waiting for her operation, which was originally scheduled for yesterday and then for 8 a.m. this morning. Though they did warn us - you never know when.
She can't eat or drink. We did just swab her lips, and the nurse asked her her name, which she knew, and then where she was right now. "Potterspury," she answered, possibly thinking she'd been asked where she was born. In any case, she's compos mentis if blurry with painkiller and often incoherent. But often not. When I walked in, she beamed at me and looked around and said, "Is that Dad?" She's waiting for my brother, who's my father to her. Dad was in earlier, I said. He's at home now.
We are all in limbo, waiting, waiting. I feel it like a physical pain, the impatience, the powerlessness. She's in a machine, which will do with her what it will.
The good news is that Eli and his mother are home. His little throat still barks - when I called, I could hear his harsh rasp in the background. But he's better, and she has steroids to give to him there. Anna has had a shower and a meal, and she and her roommate are having a Harry Potter marathon tonight, vegging out in the best possible way.
Here I sit. The internet at Mum's is down, for some infuriating reason - why NOW, am I not isolated enough? But I can check my email and write to you here, when Mum's asleep. It was extremely cold again today; luckily I can borrow her winter coat, only 4 sizes too big, to keep me warm.
Today I was raging again, about being dragged out of my daily life to wait around like this - I have work responsibilities things to do at home I have my life! And then I realized - this IS my life. This is my life, right here, beside my mother on her final journey. Though if she has anything to do with it, it's not @#$ final yet.
Over the intercom: CODE ONE TRAUMA EMERGENCY. That's probably Mum's slot in O.R. We'll be here for weeks.
An hour later: Here we still are. And I have to say - that this time together, this Friday evening, has made everything worthwhile. Unlike Miss Whinyboots above, I am profoundly grateful for being here. Mum knows I'm here watching over her - keeping vigil, making sure the nurses do too. We've talked. When her tiny East Indian nurse came to check something, Mum whispered, with a big smile, "What an adorable little thing."
I teased her about the night nurse, a very sweet man called Peter, and how she has always been a flirt. A big grin. "I couldn't help it," she said.
Maybe limbo isn't such a bad place to be.
9 p.m. Back at Mum's. She has just been called to the OR. Peter says he thinks she'll make it through, she's in such good shape tonight. And all I can say to that is to quote my beloved Wayson:
ONWARD.
She can't eat or drink. We did just swab her lips, and the nurse asked her her name, which she knew, and then where she was right now. "Potterspury," she answered, possibly thinking she'd been asked where she was born. In any case, she's compos mentis if blurry with painkiller and often incoherent. But often not. When I walked in, she beamed at me and looked around and said, "Is that Dad?" She's waiting for my brother, who's my father to her. Dad was in earlier, I said. He's at home now.
We are all in limbo, waiting, waiting. I feel it like a physical pain, the impatience, the powerlessness. She's in a machine, which will do with her what it will.
The good news is that Eli and his mother are home. His little throat still barks - when I called, I could hear his harsh rasp in the background. But he's better, and she has steroids to give to him there. Anna has had a shower and a meal, and she and her roommate are having a Harry Potter marathon tonight, vegging out in the best possible way.
Here I sit. The internet at Mum's is down, for some infuriating reason - why NOW, am I not isolated enough? But I can check my email and write to you here, when Mum's asleep. It was extremely cold again today; luckily I can borrow her winter coat, only 4 sizes too big, to keep me warm.
Today I was raging again, about being dragged out of my daily life to wait around like this - I have work responsibilities things to do at home I have my life! And then I realized - this IS my life. This is my life, right here, beside my mother on her final journey. Though if she has anything to do with it, it's not @#$ final yet.
Over the intercom: CODE ONE TRAUMA EMERGENCY. That's probably Mum's slot in O.R. We'll be here for weeks.
An hour later: Here we still are. And I have to say - that this time together, this Friday evening, has made everything worthwhile. Unlike Miss Whinyboots above, I am profoundly grateful for being here. Mum knows I'm here watching over her - keeping vigil, making sure the nurses do too. We've talked. When her tiny East Indian nurse came to check something, Mum whispered, with a big smile, "What an adorable little thing."
I teased her about the night nurse, a very sweet man called Peter, and how she has always been a flirt. A big grin. "I couldn't help it," she said.
Maybe limbo isn't such a bad place to be.
9 p.m. Back at Mum's. She has just been called to the OR. Peter says he thinks she'll make it through, she's in such good shape tonight. And all I can say to that is to quote my beloved Wayson:
ONWARD.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
waiting game
Well - where to begin? Briefly, I flew early to Ottawa and walked into my mother's hospital room this morning expecting to say goodbye, and found her with good colour, chatting to my brother - not making sense, mind you, but chatting. I almost reeled backwards in shock. I'd been told this was it. My brother and her caregiver thought this was it. But as always, she had us fooled.
She was supposed to be operated on today, to put a pin in her fractured hip and maybe repair her broken elbow at the same time, surgery she might not come through, which is the main reason I came today. However, the hospital has decided to postpone the surgery until tomorrow. They don't know when.
You can understand, perhaps, how I felt. I cancelled a big gathering at my house tonight. More importantly, my daughter is coping alone with a very sick baby who is staying at least one more night in hospital and won't let her put him down. She had to spend last night trying to sleep in a chair with him on her chest. And by a fluke of bad timing, there's no one to help her right now. Her roommate is working overnight, the baby's father is working out of town, my son is volunteering on the other side of town, and I am in Ottawa sitting in my mother's hospital room.
Talk about torn.
I thought of all the times we have rushed to Mum's side in hospital - countless times, for her many surgeries, each time sure we wouldn't see her again. My brother laughed as he remembered the time he flew back from Holland, where he had a job, to be there at the hospital. Patsy remembers me sobbing in Vancouver because Mum was having open heart surgery and I might not get there in time.
My mother is a force of nature and it ain't over yet.
I know my daughter and her son will be fine; still, I would give anything to be with her now. But now, I am going back to the hospital to sit with Mum, knowing she's going in tomorrow for surgery she may not survive. But then again, knowing her, she very well may. In any case, today I decided that my tears are over. She has had a fantastic run at life - considering her health problems, she could have died many years ago. And here she is, snapping at the nurses, those blue eyes still checking out the world.
At one point - it was garbled, but more or less clear - she said something like, "He wants me to die but I'm going to fight him. Fight him." And she will.
9 p.m. I've just come back from the hospital and all I want to do is drink wine and be warm. And weep. No, the crying is not over, not by a long shot, nice try, girl. I think my mother is terrified of dying, hanging on, fighting literally for dear life, in a body that's defeating her. I tried smoothing her hair, her brow, telling her how loved she is, what a wonderful life she has had, and now, "Let it go, Mum," I said. "You can let it go." But that is not my mother. A lioness, mortally wounded, struggling to get up.
Sorry, folks, I'm beyond it now. This day - will there ever be another like it? I hope not. My grandson in a steam tent in hospital, and when I talked to his mother, I could hear his rasping lungs, my gut aching to hold him, to help her. And here, holding my mother's hand, her face twisting in pain, then she speaks but it's incomprehensible, knowing that tomorrow is a nightmare either way - if she survives the operation, she will be in pain and incoherent for days; if she doesn't - well, we'll face that tomorrow.
Now I'm here in her silent condo. There is wine. I am profoundly sad and spent. But this is life, in all its glory, all of this, the beginning and the end.
PS It's minus 13 with snow in Ottawa - bitter. I just turned on the CBC and had the only laugh of the day - a journalist asking earnestly, "Is this the only kind of salamander you can use in your work?" Thank god for the CBC.
She was supposed to be operated on today, to put a pin in her fractured hip and maybe repair her broken elbow at the same time, surgery she might not come through, which is the main reason I came today. However, the hospital has decided to postpone the surgery until tomorrow. They don't know when.
You can understand, perhaps, how I felt. I cancelled a big gathering at my house tonight. More importantly, my daughter is coping alone with a very sick baby who is staying at least one more night in hospital and won't let her put him down. She had to spend last night trying to sleep in a chair with him on her chest. And by a fluke of bad timing, there's no one to help her right now. Her roommate is working overnight, the baby's father is working out of town, my son is volunteering on the other side of town, and I am in Ottawa sitting in my mother's hospital room.
Talk about torn.
I thought of all the times we have rushed to Mum's side in hospital - countless times, for her many surgeries, each time sure we wouldn't see her again. My brother laughed as he remembered the time he flew back from Holland, where he had a job, to be there at the hospital. Patsy remembers me sobbing in Vancouver because Mum was having open heart surgery and I might not get there in time.
My mother is a force of nature and it ain't over yet.
I know my daughter and her son will be fine; still, I would give anything to be with her now. But now, I am going back to the hospital to sit with Mum, knowing she's going in tomorrow for surgery she may not survive. But then again, knowing her, she very well may. In any case, today I decided that my tears are over. She has had a fantastic run at life - considering her health problems, she could have died many years ago. And here she is, snapping at the nurses, those blue eyes still checking out the world.
At one point - it was garbled, but more or less clear - she said something like, "He wants me to die but I'm going to fight him. Fight him." And she will.
9 p.m. I've just come back from the hospital and all I want to do is drink wine and be warm. And weep. No, the crying is not over, not by a long shot, nice try, girl. I think my mother is terrified of dying, hanging on, fighting literally for dear life, in a body that's defeating her. I tried smoothing her hair, her brow, telling her how loved she is, what a wonderful life she has had, and now, "Let it go, Mum," I said. "You can let it go." But that is not my mother. A lioness, mortally wounded, struggling to get up.
Sorry, folks, I'm beyond it now. This day - will there ever be another like it? I hope not. My grandson in a steam tent in hospital, and when I talked to his mother, I could hear his rasping lungs, my gut aching to hold him, to help her. And here, holding my mother's hand, her face twisting in pain, then she speaks but it's incomprehensible, knowing that tomorrow is a nightmare either way - if she survives the operation, she will be in pain and incoherent for days; if she doesn't - well, we'll face that tomorrow.
Now I'm here in her silent condo. There is wine. I am profoundly sad and spent. But this is life, in all its glory, all of this, the beginning and the end.
PS It's minus 13 with snow in Ottawa - bitter. I just turned on the CBC and had the only laugh of the day - a journalist asking earnestly, "Is this the only kind of salamander you can use in your work?" Thank god for the CBC.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
being there
You can prepare all you want, but when the reality of this hits, it hits hard. I was surprised to burst into tears and sobbing, but it helped. I am flying to Ottawa first thing tomorrow morning. Things are dire - Mum has a collapsed lung along with everything else. They want to operate on her hip, not so that she can walk again, because she won't, but so that she's not in constant pain from the fracture every time they have to move her.
It's now about making her as comfortable as possible in palliative care. I am profoundly grateful that my brother is there with her, handling all this. It was very hard to call my aunt and tell her what's going on - I could hear what a shock it is for her too. My mother has been in her life for 89 years.
Mum has come through before, more times than is imaginable - three heart surgeries, a mastectomy and much, much more - so don't count her out, as my brother says. But this time, it looks like too many strikes are against her, and in some ways, it would be a blessing if we can help her through. Help her through to no pain, no more fear about where she is and where she will go. We've been calling nursing homes, and she would hate them all, it's sure. Maybe she won't have to try them out.
But then again, maybe she will. In any case, I will be by her side tomorrow, which is all that matters now.
It's now about making her as comfortable as possible in palliative care. I am profoundly grateful that my brother is there with her, handling all this. It was very hard to call my aunt and tell her what's going on - I could hear what a shock it is for her too. My mother has been in her life for 89 years.
Mum has come through before, more times than is imaginable - three heart surgeries, a mastectomy and much, much more - so don't count her out, as my brother says. But this time, it looks like too many strikes are against her, and in some ways, it would be a blessing if we can help her through. Help her through to no pain, no more fear about where she is and where she will go. We've been calling nursing homes, and she would hate them all, it's sure. Maybe she won't have to try them out.
But then again, maybe she will. In any case, I will be by her side tomorrow, which is all that matters now.
torn
Here follows a clinical definition of "sandwich generation:" At this moment, I am waiting to hear from Ottawa; my brother called at 8 a.m. to say that my mother tried to get out of bed during the night, had a fall and broke her elbow and her hip. She is now back in Emerg. He was on his way and will let me know what the situation is.
At the same time, my daughter texted that she is taking her son to the nearby hospital, because she thinks he has croup. I am waiting to hear from her.
I have offered to go to Ottawa if needed, and across town, if needed. At the same time, my life goes on. This morning, when my brother called, I was preparing the final draft of a 4000 word manuscript to go to a literary competition, deadline today - a story I've been working on for months, finally nearing completion. I was sitting with the Thesaurus in my lap, trying to find a better word than 'discussed.' Conferred? Explained? Confided? In the end, too much was going on, I put something in and sent the thing off. Don't remember which word I chose. Spoke of, I think.
Tomorrow is scheduled a big Christmas and birthday party here, my longterm students coming to a potluck to celebrate the 85th birthday of one student and the successes of the others. Should I cancel? I've let them know to watch their email.
My son is volunteering today, he and some friends delivering Christmas presents in a van, not free till tonight. I will go prepare a small suitcase. And then I'll text Anna. And then I'll sit and wait.
2.45. So how did I handle the stress? It's Wednesday, what do you think? I went to Carol's class at the Y. Talk about stress-busting - nothing like running up and down the central stairs at the Y 3 times. My, that felt good.
Spoke to Anna; the baby has been admitted to hospital with croup. Spoke briefly with my mother; the Emerg doctors have to figure out how to handle that fragile body that has been through so much.
And now, eating a lot of chocolate and waiting some more.
At the same time, my daughter texted that she is taking her son to the nearby hospital, because she thinks he has croup. I am waiting to hear from her.
I have offered to go to Ottawa if needed, and across town, if needed. At the same time, my life goes on. This morning, when my brother called, I was preparing the final draft of a 4000 word manuscript to go to a literary competition, deadline today - a story I've been working on for months, finally nearing completion. I was sitting with the Thesaurus in my lap, trying to find a better word than 'discussed.' Conferred? Explained? Confided? In the end, too much was going on, I put something in and sent the thing off. Don't remember which word I chose. Spoke of, I think.
Tomorrow is scheduled a big Christmas and birthday party here, my longterm students coming to a potluck to celebrate the 85th birthday of one student and the successes of the others. Should I cancel? I've let them know to watch their email.
My son is volunteering today, he and some friends delivering Christmas presents in a van, not free till tonight. I will go prepare a small suitcase. And then I'll text Anna. And then I'll sit and wait.
2.45. So how did I handle the stress? It's Wednesday, what do you think? I went to Carol's class at the Y. Talk about stress-busting - nothing like running up and down the central stairs at the Y 3 times. My, that felt good.
Spoke to Anna; the baby has been admitted to hospital with croup. Spoke briefly with my mother; the Emerg doctors have to figure out how to handle that fragile body that has been through so much.
And now, eating a lot of chocolate and waiting some more.
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