It hurt. I cried during the procedure because of the pain. I cried at the mammogram afterward because... I'm not sure why. I was feeling emotional I suppose. I hate crying in public, but once you start it's hard to stop.
My own space apart from the babble of the internet
Showing posts with label hospital. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hospital. Show all posts
Friday, November 6, 2015
Beautiful Day for a Biopsy
Well, it was a beautiful day, anyway. We've had a gorgeous week here, all in the upper-sixties/low-seventies. I would have loved to have gone biking along the lake, or even spent a nice hour sitting outside, but I've had to be content with simply having my front door to the store open while I admire the sunshine from my workbench. Quinn and I took a walk the other evening to pick up things at Target and marveled the whole way that we didn't need jackets. I love a warm day in fall.
Anyway, I decided I really didn't have much choice other than to just do the next biopsy. It makes sense to rule out cancer, and the whole thing has been going on too long not to try to find an explanation. But I dreaded it.
It hurt. I cried during the procedure because of the pain. I cried at the mammogram afterward because... I'm not sure why. I was feeling emotional I suppose. I hate crying in public, but once you start it's hard to stop.
It hurt. I cried during the procedure because of the pain. I cried at the mammogram afterward because... I'm not sure why. I was feeling emotional I suppose. I hate crying in public, but once you start it's hard to stop.
Saturday, April 4, 2015
No Way to Make Some Things Pleasant
I'm going to start off by saying I'm fine. I'M FINE. This is not a plea for sympathy. In fact, sort of the opposite, as odd as that seems, because I'm finding this easier to write about than talk about with anyone. I don't want to talk about it, but I still have thoughts I need to sort through, and that's really what this blog is for.
This week I went for a followup mammogram. The one I got just after my birthday was with a new "3-D" machine and it apparently sees more than the old machines, so the new pictures essentially became the new baseline, and they needed to look at some things more closely. Most of those things turned out to be cysts that they are not worried about. One small nodule requires a biopsy to be sure it's benign.
This week I went for a followup mammogram. The one I got just after my birthday was with a new "3-D" machine and it apparently sees more than the old machines, so the new pictures essentially became the new baseline, and they needed to look at some things more closely. Most of those things turned out to be cysts that they are not worried about. One small nodule requires a biopsy to be sure it's benign.
Monday, August 27, 2012
Not Interested in Dying
We got an email from my dad last night. My dad doesn't email very often. He used to write us a great deal, most often on post it notes that accompanied packets of articles he'd hand selected for us. Sometimes there was a lot crammed onto the post it notes, but usually they were brief. My favorite was one that read: "Dear Kory, This is more than I wrote to your brother, Love Dad." His emails are brief as well, seldom more than a half dozen lines at best, but always both poignant and funny.
Last night's email was particularly powerful. He reminded us that we had reached the one year anniversary of a doctor telling my mom in the hospital that my dad may not make it through the night. But he did. And he's still around a year later having settled back in at home, vacationed with us at the cottage, and seen his grandchildren all grow that much taller and more interesting. If his cancer returns there is nothing left to be done about it, and things are still complicated (particularly from my mom's end), but he's home and getting around under his own power, doing what interests him, and mostly just being my dad. When I think about the nightmarish hospital stays from last year it's hard not to marvel at the difference today.
Dad also mentioned a recent obituary in the Times that said the deceased "had no interest in dying" and he probably didn't either. I'm glad that's nowhere on my dad's to do list. Because I need my dad.
Last night's email was particularly powerful. He reminded us that we had reached the one year anniversary of a doctor telling my mom in the hospital that my dad may not make it through the night. But he did. And he's still around a year later having settled back in at home, vacationed with us at the cottage, and seen his grandchildren all grow that much taller and more interesting. If his cancer returns there is nothing left to be done about it, and things are still complicated (particularly from my mom's end), but he's home and getting around under his own power, doing what interests him, and mostly just being my dad. When I think about the nightmarish hospital stays from last year it's hard not to marvel at the difference today.
Dad also mentioned a recent obituary in the Times that said the deceased "had no interest in dying" and he probably didn't either. I'm glad that's nowhere on my dad's to do list. Because I need my dad.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
The Art of Waiting (Babble)
Waiting is an art form. And there are many varieties. Waiting with
children in tow is its own specialty. Waiting alone in a strange place
uses a different skill set. Waiting in a crowd and trying to look like
you belong is very different from waiting up at night for someone to
come home. Waiting in a confined space like in a car during a traffic
jam demands another kind of patience. I’ve reached a point where I
don’t mind waiting very often. If I pace it right, it can even be
pleasant.
Right now I’m waiting in a hospital. Not to worry–nothing disastrous or horrible going on (we hope), but I’m here in the waiting room at Emergency waiting for my dad. I wish I didn’t have as much practice waiting in hospitals as I do.
My parents came to visit for a few days in order to overlap with a visit from my brother who had a job interview here in Wisconsin. (We didn’t get anywhere near enough time with my brother but it was wonderful to see him nonetheless.) They were all set to head home today, but then dad took an odd turn and needed to get checked out by a doctor to be safe before the long drive. So I took my parents to Urgent Care who referred us to Emergency, and now I’m waiting.
The most useful thing I’ve learned to grab before going anyplace where I suspect I might have to wait is my laptop. (Hence the blogging to kill some time.) Trips with kids to the hospital taught me to always grab my laptop and to keep DVDs in the bag. I also learned to keep a bag in the car with juice boxes, crackers, drawing supplies, and a book or two. I’ve also gotten good at using my hands as puppets.
When I have to wait in the car or on a stage I bring Sudoku puzzles. If I know I’m going somewhere I will have to wait for many hours alone I bring a book. When I don’t know how long I will have to wait I bring a project of indeterminate length. Today I brought with me my new address book so I could start copying over from the old one. That’s a good project that I can stop and start easily.
I think the trickiest place I’ve ever had to wait with children is on an airplane during a delay. There is only so much you can do in that kind of confinement, and when you’ve been forced to unexpectedly go through your whole bag of tricks before the flight has even started it’s deeply frustrating.
I told my parents as we were driving here that at least the new building we were heading toward was beautiful to wait in. When I was here with Quinn last year I was impressed with the open feel of the lobby and the view from the windows. But it turns out the Emergency Room is underneath all of that and this room is tiny and clean but the word beautiful does not spring to mind.
There are four televisions in this small space. All of them were blaring with different programs when we arrived. Nobody seemed to be watching any of them. I shut one off and nobody objected, so then I shut another one off. Now there is only one playing at the other end of the room near some people who may or may not be watching it, and that’s okay. But the basketball game and the makeover show and the whatever the other one was doing on top of that was too much. Especially since everyone seems to bring their own portable entertainment anyway. Everyone I can see has a phone to play on, and probably doesn’t need the TV noise interfering with that.
Speaking of phones, since I am the last person in the universe apparently who has no interest in owning a smart phone, I was unprepared to deal with my mom’s iPhone while we were at Urgent Care. We were waiting there when this unusual music started. Not typical waiting room music. Then my mom shifted her things and I realized it was coming from her purse. She has an iPhone that my sister-in-law gave her, and the thing started playing music. It probably took me a full minute to figure out what to do about it, and I ended up turning the volume all the way down. It’s probably still playing very quietly in my mom’s purse here in Emergency.
I have a friend who is pregnant, and every time I see her I’m reminded of what a special kind of wait that is. Some waiting is simply boring because there is no sense of anticipation, like being in line at the DMV where there isn’t anything particularly interesting at the end of the wait. Anticipation feels different if you are dreading a result or are excited about it. Pregnancy can be all of those things wrapped up into one. I remember dreading labor, fearing a little bit of what it would be like to actually have a baby to care for, but being terribly excited about becoming a mother, and also living through stretches where it was dull and I was ready for it to just be over.
Today was not the day I was expecting, but life seldom works that way. We forget that the run of the mill bits and pieces of day to day life is the closest we get to perfection. I’m always in a state of waiting to catch up enough that I can really start the things I want to do, but that will never happen. I remember after Aden was born waiting for the right time to start building violins again, and then it hit me that that perfect day would never come. There was never going to be a right time because there was always going to be something in the way. I had to simply do it and stop waiting.
Mona had a phase for a little while when she was smaller where anytime I said it was time to go she would run ahead and say, “What are we waiting for?!” What are we waiting for indeed.
Hey, here comes my dad! Time to go.
Right now I’m waiting in a hospital. Not to worry–nothing disastrous or horrible going on (we hope), but I’m here in the waiting room at Emergency waiting for my dad. I wish I didn’t have as much practice waiting in hospitals as I do.
My parents came to visit for a few days in order to overlap with a visit from my brother who had a job interview here in Wisconsin. (We didn’t get anywhere near enough time with my brother but it was wonderful to see him nonetheless.) They were all set to head home today, but then dad took an odd turn and needed to get checked out by a doctor to be safe before the long drive. So I took my parents to Urgent Care who referred us to Emergency, and now I’m waiting.
The most useful thing I’ve learned to grab before going anyplace where I suspect I might have to wait is my laptop. (Hence the blogging to kill some time.) Trips with kids to the hospital taught me to always grab my laptop and to keep DVDs in the bag. I also learned to keep a bag in the car with juice boxes, crackers, drawing supplies, and a book or two. I’ve also gotten good at using my hands as puppets.
When I have to wait in the car or on a stage I bring Sudoku puzzles. If I know I’m going somewhere I will have to wait for many hours alone I bring a book. When I don’t know how long I will have to wait I bring a project of indeterminate length. Today I brought with me my new address book so I could start copying over from the old one. That’s a good project that I can stop and start easily.
I think the trickiest place I’ve ever had to wait with children is on an airplane during a delay. There is only so much you can do in that kind of confinement, and when you’ve been forced to unexpectedly go through your whole bag of tricks before the flight has even started it’s deeply frustrating.
I told my parents as we were driving here that at least the new building we were heading toward was beautiful to wait in. When I was here with Quinn last year I was impressed with the open feel of the lobby and the view from the windows. But it turns out the Emergency Room is underneath all of that and this room is tiny and clean but the word beautiful does not spring to mind.
There are four televisions in this small space. All of them were blaring with different programs when we arrived. Nobody seemed to be watching any of them. I shut one off and nobody objected, so then I shut another one off. Now there is only one playing at the other end of the room near some people who may or may not be watching it, and that’s okay. But the basketball game and the makeover show and the whatever the other one was doing on top of that was too much. Especially since everyone seems to bring their own portable entertainment anyway. Everyone I can see has a phone to play on, and probably doesn’t need the TV noise interfering with that.
Speaking of phones, since I am the last person in the universe apparently who has no interest in owning a smart phone, I was unprepared to deal with my mom’s iPhone while we were at Urgent Care. We were waiting there when this unusual music started. Not typical waiting room music. Then my mom shifted her things and I realized it was coming from her purse. She has an iPhone that my sister-in-law gave her, and the thing started playing music. It probably took me a full minute to figure out what to do about it, and I ended up turning the volume all the way down. It’s probably still playing very quietly in my mom’s purse here in Emergency.
I have a friend who is pregnant, and every time I see her I’m reminded of what a special kind of wait that is. Some waiting is simply boring because there is no sense of anticipation, like being in line at the DMV where there isn’t anything particularly interesting at the end of the wait. Anticipation feels different if you are dreading a result or are excited about it. Pregnancy can be all of those things wrapped up into one. I remember dreading labor, fearing a little bit of what it would be like to actually have a baby to care for, but being terribly excited about becoming a mother, and also living through stretches where it was dull and I was ready for it to just be over.
Today was not the day I was expecting, but life seldom works that way. We forget that the run of the mill bits and pieces of day to day life is the closest we get to perfection. I’m always in a state of waiting to catch up enough that I can really start the things I want to do, but that will never happen. I remember after Aden was born waiting for the right time to start building violins again, and then it hit me that that perfect day would never come. There was never going to be a right time because there was always going to be something in the way. I had to simply do it and stop waiting.
Mona had a phase for a little while when she was smaller where anytime I said it was time to go she would run ahead and say, “What are we waiting for?!” What are we waiting for indeed.
Hey, here comes my dad! Time to go.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Breathing Easy (Babble)
Quinn had his tonsils out this week. He’s doing great.
(Quinn right after his operation before being wheeled to his room.)
In fact, he’s almost doing a little too great. The instructions I got at the hospital about his pain medication said he would need it every four hours for the first few days, even through the night, and then we could slowly work him onto ibuprofen instead. But he really doesn’t like the medicine, and I don’t know how to make a kid swallow something he doesn’t want to swallow (yes we tried mixing it with pudding, yes we tried being persuasive, yes we tried just forcing it down….) so we’ve been leaving it more to him. And he’s fine. When his throat is sore he’ll drink some ibuprofen and then he’s good for long stretches.
He’s been sleeping while his sisters are at school and when they are home he’s so distracted and happy when playing with them he doesn’t mention his throat. So we’re just monitoring his food and keeping him away from the clementines and anything scratchy looking. We’ve made frozen treats abundantly available. Before the operation I asked him what kinds of ice cream we should pick up and he said, “Chocolate, chocolate and chocolate.” (That’s my boy!)
I’m so glad it’s over. I’m trying very hard not to feel guilty about having canceled his operation last year (because there is no point in stirring that up, but mommy guilt works in mysterious ways). Last year he just seemed so small, and when he had no symptoms right before his scheduled surgery the idea of putting him through an operation that required general anesthesia terrified me. That probably sounds silly to many, but a surgical procedure–even one as routine as a tonsillectomy–is just so far from anything I can control that it’s hard for me to trust everything will be fine. But it’s done. His snoring at night was getting scary, and when our pediatrician explained that his snuffliness was not just from colds or allergies but from his tonsils blocking the drainage from his sinuses, I realized it was time whether I was comfortable with it or not.
I let Quinn choose a toy from the gift shop on an earlier visit and told him we would pick it up the day we went in for his surgery so he would be excited about going to the hospital. He wanted one of those things filled with water and colored blobs that you can flip over and watch everything bubble and drip.
I can’t say enough nice things about the Children’s Hospital here. It’s a very nice place, reassuring in both the competence and kindness of everyone we’ve met. The recovery room was set up with a little area for parents to sleep, and I even got to take a shower before I went to bed (which kind of took the edge off of sleeping in my clothes and going to work in them the next day).
I was impressed with Quinn’s appetite after surgery. He started off with a popsicle, then proceeded to eat five cups of orange jello, two cups of chocolate pudding, and a bowl of mac and cheese. I don’t think he eats that much at home most days.
There was also a playroom across the hall where we could get out toys or even bring them back to our own room. Quinn’s favorite game when we are at the cottage is Battleship, but the hospital had a modern version. I have no idea when they updated the look of Battleship, but compared to the flip open game boards I’m used to from the 1970’s this looked really wild to me. There’s even a “ship” that’s really a single guy “standing” on the water which kind of cracked us up.
Anyway, as far as hospital stays go, this was about as pleasant as it gets. Quinn and I had a nice time together, playing games and watching Spongebob and eating pudding. I was even able to skype with my brother in Germany while I was in the waiting room during the surgery which took my mind off of being nervous.
And as I said, Quinn is doing great. So we can both (finally) breathe easier.
(Quinn right after his operation before being wheeled to his room.)
In fact, he’s almost doing a little too great. The instructions I got at the hospital about his pain medication said he would need it every four hours for the first few days, even through the night, and then we could slowly work him onto ibuprofen instead. But he really doesn’t like the medicine, and I don’t know how to make a kid swallow something he doesn’t want to swallow (yes we tried mixing it with pudding, yes we tried being persuasive, yes we tried just forcing it down….) so we’ve been leaving it more to him. And he’s fine. When his throat is sore he’ll drink some ibuprofen and then he’s good for long stretches.
He’s been sleeping while his sisters are at school and when they are home he’s so distracted and happy when playing with them he doesn’t mention his throat. So we’re just monitoring his food and keeping him away from the clementines and anything scratchy looking. We’ve made frozen treats abundantly available. Before the operation I asked him what kinds of ice cream we should pick up and he said, “Chocolate, chocolate and chocolate.” (That’s my boy!)
I’m so glad it’s over. I’m trying very hard not to feel guilty about having canceled his operation last year (because there is no point in stirring that up, but mommy guilt works in mysterious ways). Last year he just seemed so small, and when he had no symptoms right before his scheduled surgery the idea of putting him through an operation that required general anesthesia terrified me. That probably sounds silly to many, but a surgical procedure–even one as routine as a tonsillectomy–is just so far from anything I can control that it’s hard for me to trust everything will be fine. But it’s done. His snoring at night was getting scary, and when our pediatrician explained that his snuffliness was not just from colds or allergies but from his tonsils blocking the drainage from his sinuses, I realized it was time whether I was comfortable with it or not.
I let Quinn choose a toy from the gift shop on an earlier visit and told him we would pick it up the day we went in for his surgery so he would be excited about going to the hospital. He wanted one of those things filled with water and colored blobs that you can flip over and watch everything bubble and drip.
I can’t say enough nice things about the Children’s Hospital here. It’s a very nice place, reassuring in both the competence and kindness of everyone we’ve met. The recovery room was set up with a little area for parents to sleep, and I even got to take a shower before I went to bed (which kind of took the edge off of sleeping in my clothes and going to work in them the next day).
I was impressed with Quinn’s appetite after surgery. He started off with a popsicle, then proceeded to eat five cups of orange jello, two cups of chocolate pudding, and a bowl of mac and cheese. I don’t think he eats that much at home most days.
There was also a playroom across the hall where we could get out toys or even bring them back to our own room. Quinn’s favorite game when we are at the cottage is Battleship, but the hospital had a modern version. I have no idea when they updated the look of Battleship, but compared to the flip open game boards I’m used to from the 1970’s this looked really wild to me. There’s even a “ship” that’s really a single guy “standing” on the water which kind of cracked us up.
Anyway, as far as hospital stays go, this was about as pleasant as it gets. Quinn and I had a nice time together, playing games and watching Spongebob and eating pudding. I was even able to skype with my brother in Germany while I was in the waiting room during the surgery which took my mind off of being nervous.
And as I said, Quinn is doing great. So we can both (finally) breathe easier.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
A Call Nobody Wants to Get (Babble)
“Quinn is having some kind of seizure here in the school office and we’re calling 911.”
Are there words that would make me move faster? I can’t imagine what.
I had just gotten back from swimming at the Y and was still in my sweatpants, my hair was soaking wet. I didn’t have on socks. I called Ian at the violin store and told him what had just been told to me as I jammed on my shoes and ran out the door. I left both doors unlocked and the phone off the hook.
Every light was red between my house and the school. All the cars I was behind seemed infuriatingly slow. There was a firetruck outside the school, lights still flashing. I parked directly behind where Ian had parked the minivan moments before, and ran all the way into the building.
The copy room off the main office was filled with people: paramedics, the principal, the school nurse, my husband…. And my little Quinn unconscious on a blue stretcher, an oxygen mask on his face. I leaned down on the floor near my son and realized I was shaking.
It’s hard to even describe what a sight like that does to you. You want to stay calm and can’t. You want to be positive and your mind darts to horrible places. You are completely absorbed in the moment and strangely feel yourself slipping somewhere else. You wonder what comes next but you don’t want to know.
Apparently while Quinn’s class was walking to the library he started acting fatigued and whiny, when all of a sudden he went limp and passed out. Luckily, of all the people in the school, Quinn happened to be walking next to the nurse, who caught him as he fell so he didn’t hit his head. She rushed him to the office where they called our emergency contact when our home and work lines were busy (because at that moment Ian and I were talking to each other), then finally got a hold of us.
The paramedics were efficient and very nice. They recommended we take an ambulance to Children’s Hospital. They asked me if I thought as his mom I could get Quinn to wake up.
I squeezed his hand and said his name. His eyes opened a little as if he were very sleepy, then closed again. I kept talking to him and he opened his eyes a little more. The first thing that got him to respond to me? When I asked him if he knew what should be arriving in the mail today or tomorrow. He answered quietly, eyes still shut, “Latin Is Fun Book I.” *
Eventually Quinn was awake enough to climb into my lap. He was not very responsive to the paramedics and their questions, but he also doesn’t like crowds or being the center of attention, so we assured people this didn’t look out of character to us, even though he wasn’t showing the kind of energetic signs that they would find promising. He was happy to get onto the rolling bed they needed to strap him to for the ride in the ambulance. They gave him a truly all-purpose bracelet that neither of us were crazy about:
The ride to the hospital was blissfully uneventful. The EMT told me based on the facts as he saw them that he doubted Quinn had had a seizure. He hadn’t trembled or gone stiff. He hadn’t lost control of his bladder or bowels. The EMT said he would term it a syncopal episode–a general fainting. The last time Quinn was in the hospital it was for dehydration as a result of his being sick. Quinn’s been sick for about a week, but seemed to be doing much better. He had one night of fever several days ago, was fine in the morning, and has just had a lingering cough but not bad enough to keep him from doing his normal routine. Until today. He hadn’t had anything to drink, and had eaten only a small bite of toast. Quinn isn’t much of a breakfast person and often doesn’t feel like eating. Starting tomorrow we will make sure he at least has a cup of juice and a bite of something before we send him off to school, even if he’s not in the mood.
The Children’s Hospital here is very good, and people were helpful, but Quinn was back to his old self by the time we got a room there. Ian met us, and brought me my laptop and DVD’s for Quinn to watch if we needed them. Our son was understandably a low priority, as he should have been compared to other children I saw there, but we waited for over three hours before we gave up on seeing the last doctor. Nurses listened to him breathe, his blood sugar was perfect, his blood pressure was back to normal, a doctor said she didn’t have an explanation but that Quinn seemed fine to her, and that was enough.
(Bored boy.)
We played I Spy until everything there was to spy with our little eyes had been spied. Quinn ate animal crackers, saving the best animals for last (those being the owl, the turtle, and a mystery animal he decided was a beaver). We made him drink some juice, and he even had a Pop Tart that Ian had brought along. But it was time to go home and pick our other children up from school and get some real food into Quinn. If I really felt the last doctor was likely to say something new we would have stayed, but I just didn’t think it was worth making our day even more complicated than it had already been. I never made it to work (my assistant filled in for me–thanks Robyn!), I didn’t get any of the projects or errands done when I was expecting to do them…. Hell, I never even got properly dressed. It was time to go home.
I told Quinn I wasn’t going to go in to work, that I was just going to stay with him for the afternoon, and he cheered. He read me his books about butterflies, dolphins and goldfish that we picked up at the last book fair. He ate an egg and some toast. He drew on his white board and talked and jumped and danced and did all his regular Quinn things. He was just my sweet boy, like nothing had happened.
So now I’m both relieved and wary. I’m glad Quinn is fine. No, I’m thrilled beyond measure that he’s fine. But, what was that? The whole episode has left me anxious and uncertain. Quinn looks great now, but I’m afraid to let him out of my sight. I don’t think he will faint again anytime soon, but since we don’t know for sure what caused it, it’s not safe to make predictions. But I suppose that’s true of parenting all the time anyway.
* An explanation about Quinn and “Latin Is Fun Book I”: Quinn reads so well for a four-year-old my mom suggested recently that maybe he might like learning another language. I asked him what he thought, if he’d like to learn Spanish or French or German…. He didn’t show any interest until I told him there were also some old languages. We talked about those for a minute and he decided on Latin. I have no idea what he thinks it will mean to learn Latin or why that’s what he chose, but we went online and looked up Latin books for kids and the one he wanted was Latin Is Fun Book I. He was excited that there was also a Latin Is Fun Book II available. We both wondered at what point Latin ceases to be fun.
Today I am just grateful that we will find out together.
(Happy Quinn, flopped in my lap before we even left the hospital room. Does that look like a kid who should be taking bed space from sick children? I didn’t think so either. What a day.)
Are there words that would make me move faster? I can’t imagine what.
I had just gotten back from swimming at the Y and was still in my sweatpants, my hair was soaking wet. I didn’t have on socks. I called Ian at the violin store and told him what had just been told to me as I jammed on my shoes and ran out the door. I left both doors unlocked and the phone off the hook.
Every light was red between my house and the school. All the cars I was behind seemed infuriatingly slow. There was a firetruck outside the school, lights still flashing. I parked directly behind where Ian had parked the minivan moments before, and ran all the way into the building.
The copy room off the main office was filled with people: paramedics, the principal, the school nurse, my husband…. And my little Quinn unconscious on a blue stretcher, an oxygen mask on his face. I leaned down on the floor near my son and realized I was shaking.
It’s hard to even describe what a sight like that does to you. You want to stay calm and can’t. You want to be positive and your mind darts to horrible places. You are completely absorbed in the moment and strangely feel yourself slipping somewhere else. You wonder what comes next but you don’t want to know.
Apparently while Quinn’s class was walking to the library he started acting fatigued and whiny, when all of a sudden he went limp and passed out. Luckily, of all the people in the school, Quinn happened to be walking next to the nurse, who caught him as he fell so he didn’t hit his head. She rushed him to the office where they called our emergency contact when our home and work lines were busy (because at that moment Ian and I were talking to each other), then finally got a hold of us.
The paramedics were efficient and very nice. They recommended we take an ambulance to Children’s Hospital. They asked me if I thought as his mom I could get Quinn to wake up.
I squeezed his hand and said his name. His eyes opened a little as if he were very sleepy, then closed again. I kept talking to him and he opened his eyes a little more. The first thing that got him to respond to me? When I asked him if he knew what should be arriving in the mail today or tomorrow. He answered quietly, eyes still shut, “Latin Is Fun Book I.” *
Eventually Quinn was awake enough to climb into my lap. He was not very responsive to the paramedics and their questions, but he also doesn’t like crowds or being the center of attention, so we assured people this didn’t look out of character to us, even though he wasn’t showing the kind of energetic signs that they would find promising. He was happy to get onto the rolling bed they needed to strap him to for the ride in the ambulance. They gave him a truly all-purpose bracelet that neither of us were crazy about:
The ride to the hospital was blissfully uneventful. The EMT told me based on the facts as he saw them that he doubted Quinn had had a seizure. He hadn’t trembled or gone stiff. He hadn’t lost control of his bladder or bowels. The EMT said he would term it a syncopal episode–a general fainting. The last time Quinn was in the hospital it was for dehydration as a result of his being sick. Quinn’s been sick for about a week, but seemed to be doing much better. He had one night of fever several days ago, was fine in the morning, and has just had a lingering cough but not bad enough to keep him from doing his normal routine. Until today. He hadn’t had anything to drink, and had eaten only a small bite of toast. Quinn isn’t much of a breakfast person and often doesn’t feel like eating. Starting tomorrow we will make sure he at least has a cup of juice and a bite of something before we send him off to school, even if he’s not in the mood.
The Children’s Hospital here is very good, and people were helpful, but Quinn was back to his old self by the time we got a room there. Ian met us, and brought me my laptop and DVD’s for Quinn to watch if we needed them. Our son was understandably a low priority, as he should have been compared to other children I saw there, but we waited for over three hours before we gave up on seeing the last doctor. Nurses listened to him breathe, his blood sugar was perfect, his blood pressure was back to normal, a doctor said she didn’t have an explanation but that Quinn seemed fine to her, and that was enough.
(Bored boy.)
We played I Spy until everything there was to spy with our little eyes had been spied. Quinn ate animal crackers, saving the best animals for last (those being the owl, the turtle, and a mystery animal he decided was a beaver). We made him drink some juice, and he even had a Pop Tart that Ian had brought along. But it was time to go home and pick our other children up from school and get some real food into Quinn. If I really felt the last doctor was likely to say something new we would have stayed, but I just didn’t think it was worth making our day even more complicated than it had already been. I never made it to work (my assistant filled in for me–thanks Robyn!), I didn’t get any of the projects or errands done when I was expecting to do them…. Hell, I never even got properly dressed. It was time to go home.
I told Quinn I wasn’t going to go in to work, that I was just going to stay with him for the afternoon, and he cheered. He read me his books about butterflies, dolphins and goldfish that we picked up at the last book fair. He ate an egg and some toast. He drew on his white board and talked and jumped and danced and did all his regular Quinn things. He was just my sweet boy, like nothing had happened.
So now I’m both relieved and wary. I’m glad Quinn is fine. No, I’m thrilled beyond measure that he’s fine. But, what was that? The whole episode has left me anxious and uncertain. Quinn looks great now, but I’m afraid to let him out of my sight. I don’t think he will faint again anytime soon, but since we don’t know for sure what caused it, it’s not safe to make predictions. But I suppose that’s true of parenting all the time anyway.
* An explanation about Quinn and “Latin Is Fun Book I”: Quinn reads so well for a four-year-old my mom suggested recently that maybe he might like learning another language. I asked him what he thought, if he’d like to learn Spanish or French or German…. He didn’t show any interest until I told him there were also some old languages. We talked about those for a minute and he decided on Latin. I have no idea what he thinks it will mean to learn Latin or why that’s what he chose, but we went online and looked up Latin books for kids and the one he wanted was Latin Is Fun Book I. He was excited that there was also a Latin Is Fun Book II available. We both wondered at what point Latin ceases to be fun.
Today I am just grateful that we will find out together.
(Happy Quinn, flopped in my lap before we even left the hospital room. Does that look like a kid who should be taking bed space from sick children? I didn’t think so either. What a day.)
Monday, September 26, 2011
Aren't Roller Coasters Supposed to Be Fun? (Babble)
I’m hoping this is the last update about my father in the hospital. I’m exhausted by the whole thing and I’m not even directly involved, so I can’t imagine how my mom is feeling at this point.
My dad has stage four cancer, and the only treatment possible was twelve weeks of chemo. He did well with his treatment until the last round when they put him on a drug called Xeloda and it sent him into the emergency room. He nearly died.
His journey within the hospital, as I explained it to my kids the other night, was that: He started in the ICU, improved enough to move to the oncology ward, improved further and got to move to rehab, then a blood infection sent him back to the ICU, and now he’s working his way back up to rehab. It has been a nightmarish few weeks watching my dad roll up and down from a sleepy and delusional state to seeming like himself, from pain to relative comfort, from people saying we should prepare to let him go to him reading the New York Times again and drawing in his sketchbook. The news when they rushed him back into the ICU was so dire that I packed my car and made arrangements to drive out to Detroit, but my brother kind of beat me to it. He flew in from New York and we decided it made more sense to tag team if possible. He emailed photos of dad’s rapid improvement, and promised to call if he honestly thought I needed to go there.
The most recent picture I’ve seen of dad he was sitting up and smiling, sketchbook in hand, somehow managing to bring a touch of dignity to his silly looking hospital gown. He looks like my dad again. That wasn’t true when I was out there a few weeks ago. The hope at this point is he goes back to rehab where they will make sure he is strong enough to return home. If I don’t write otherwise, just assume that’s the case.
I’m sick of this roller coaster and I’m glad to get off for a while.
My dad has stage four cancer, and the only treatment possible was twelve weeks of chemo. He did well with his treatment until the last round when they put him on a drug called Xeloda and it sent him into the emergency room. He nearly died.
His journey within the hospital, as I explained it to my kids the other night, was that: He started in the ICU, improved enough to move to the oncology ward, improved further and got to move to rehab, then a blood infection sent him back to the ICU, and now he’s working his way back up to rehab. It has been a nightmarish few weeks watching my dad roll up and down from a sleepy and delusional state to seeming like himself, from pain to relative comfort, from people saying we should prepare to let him go to him reading the New York Times again and drawing in his sketchbook. The news when they rushed him back into the ICU was so dire that I packed my car and made arrangements to drive out to Detroit, but my brother kind of beat me to it. He flew in from New York and we decided it made more sense to tag team if possible. He emailed photos of dad’s rapid improvement, and promised to call if he honestly thought I needed to go there.
The most recent picture I’ve seen of dad he was sitting up and smiling, sketchbook in hand, somehow managing to bring a touch of dignity to his silly looking hospital gown. He looks like my dad again. That wasn’t true when I was out there a few weeks ago. The hope at this point is he goes back to rehab where they will make sure he is strong enough to return home. If I don’t write otherwise, just assume that’s the case.
I’m sick of this roller coaster and I’m glad to get off for a while.
Friday, September 16, 2011
On the Mend (Babble)
Thanks again to everyone who expressed kind thoughts about my dad in the hospital. He’s still there, but he’s doing better.
When he was originally rushed to the emergency room they only gave him a 50-50 chance of surviving the weekend. Now he’s on the mend.
My dad is an interesting man. He’s gentle, educated, and kind-hearted. He loves art, his books, his newspapers, and most of all his family. It’s been painful to watch him suffer the indignities of an extended hospital stay.
However, he’s now in the rehab section, trying to put on some weight and gain enough strength to go home. He is done with chemo. With luck it bought us a few years of time, but my mom has decided she doesn’t want to take him back to the hospital again. Living with stage four cancer is hard enough without the added trauma of that environment. I for one don’t ever want to see the inside of that hospital again.
So now we wait, and hope, and figure out what life is like now with whatever new limitations dad may have based on his health. I have my fingers crossed that maybe we can still eke out a trip to Paris if dad is up to it at some point. Or even just a visit to finally see our new home in Milwaukee. Either sounds grand to me.
And he just might make enough of a recovery for that. Because my dad is tougher than one would guess. He survived both a broken wrist and broken leg in India a dozen years ago, and had to fly home with a cast on his arm but without any treatment to the leg other than a few pain killers. And every time I’ve seen him in the hospital since then his determination to simply get home is almost tangible. Even in his most drug and pain induced haze I could see him fighting. It’s not the kind of fighting people who don’t know him would easily recognize, but my mom and my brothers and I could. There is nothing he wants more in this world than to be at home with my mom, among his books, working on a drawing in his sketch pad, and hoping one of his children may come by. I can’t wait until he’s returned to that place.
In the meantime, my old neighborhood has power again, and the dozens of tree removal trucks have been working non-stop to remove evidence of the storm. My mom sent me some of her pictures of the aftermath from the weekend I was there (still can’t believe I forgot my own camera), so if anyone is curious to see some wind shear destruction, here’s a little slide show:
When he was originally rushed to the emergency room they only gave him a 50-50 chance of surviving the weekend. Now he’s on the mend.
My dad is an interesting man. He’s gentle, educated, and kind-hearted. He loves art, his books, his newspapers, and most of all his family. It’s been painful to watch him suffer the indignities of an extended hospital stay.
However, he’s now in the rehab section, trying to put on some weight and gain enough strength to go home. He is done with chemo. With luck it bought us a few years of time, but my mom has decided she doesn’t want to take him back to the hospital again. Living with stage four cancer is hard enough without the added trauma of that environment. I for one don’t ever want to see the inside of that hospital again.
So now we wait, and hope, and figure out what life is like now with whatever new limitations dad may have based on his health. I have my fingers crossed that maybe we can still eke out a trip to Paris if dad is up to it at some point. Or even just a visit to finally see our new home in Milwaukee. Either sounds grand to me.
And he just might make enough of a recovery for that. Because my dad is tougher than one would guess. He survived both a broken wrist and broken leg in India a dozen years ago, and had to fly home with a cast on his arm but without any treatment to the leg other than a few pain killers. And every time I’ve seen him in the hospital since then his determination to simply get home is almost tangible. Even in his most drug and pain induced haze I could see him fighting. It’s not the kind of fighting people who don’t know him would easily recognize, but my mom and my brothers and I could. There is nothing he wants more in this world than to be at home with my mom, among his books, working on a drawing in his sketch pad, and hoping one of his children may come by. I can’t wait until he’s returned to that place.
In the meantime, my old neighborhood has power again, and the dozens of tree removal trucks have been working non-stop to remove evidence of the storm. My mom sent me some of her pictures of the aftermath from the weekend I was there (still can’t believe I forgot my own camera), so if anyone is curious to see some wind shear destruction, here’s a little slide show:
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Whirlwind (Babble)
How was your Labor Day weekend? Mine was surreal.
I drove out to Detroit and back to visit my dad in the hospital for a couple of days. My dad didn’t resemble himself, hospitals are strange, I think a tornado touched down in my parents’ neighborhood (even though the weather people there kept calling it a wind shear but I don’t think I buy that), the power was (and still is) out so we came back every night to a dark house, dozens of hundred year old trees upended pieces of sidewalk and smashed garages and punctured roofs making the whole area look like a tree-seeking bomb hit it. (What a time to forget my camera.)
So. That was a lot of stuff. And now I’m home and trying to process it all.
I started my trip in our twelve-year-old Hyundai, minus the radio that was stolen out of it last week. (That’s the third time. People keep asking if we lock the doors to the car, but I’d rather lose the radio than have the window smashed and lose the radio, so no, we don’t lock the doors. I guess with the newest one we’ll bring the radio’s faceplate indoors each time.) I brought along an iPod and listened to various podcasts on the insanely boring drive that is the trip from Milwaukee to Detroit.
I stopped in Chicago on the way to say goodbye to my brother and his girlfriend before they moved to Germany. It was too short a visit. I don’t see them enough, and I don’t realize until I’m with them again how much there is to say. I wish we’d had more time, but for some things there is never enough time.
I arrived in my hometown of Pleasant Ridge, MI to find dozens of downed trees. My mom called to warn me ahead of time that there had been a severe storm and there was no power, so I came armed with my favorite flashlight and a headlamp. It took me a while to find a path to the house. The normal route was blocked by fallen power lines and trees, as were several alternate routes, but eventually I found my way. I think our specific block and a couple on either side of it got the worst of the damage. It’s both impressive and sad. I dropped off my things and headed to the hospital around dinnertime.
My dad was awake when I arrived, and glad to see me, but he wasn’t awake for very long. He’s weak and thin. Swallowing anything causes him enormous pain. He fades in and out. He winces in his sleep which is hard to watch. He’s disoriented. He just wants to go home.
The main thing I was able to provide for my dad in the hospital was music. It was too hard to read to him or carry on a conversation because he was seldom conscious for more than half a minute at a time. I put a mute on my instrument to keep the volume lower and played a lot of Bach. My dad loves Bach. There were times I was sure he was sound asleep and I kept playing, only to hear him say without opening his eyes, “Very nice” when I got to the end of a piece. I don’t think there is any applause this season that will mean as much as those quiet words.
There are several good things about playing live music for someone in the hospital; it blocks out all the beeping and chatter that is a constant part of life there, you can sleep to it or actively listen and it’s all fine, and I think it help set my dad apart as a patient. Everyone in the oncology ward said they liked hearing the music, and I would see people pause in the doorway as I played. (One nurse was even proud to have figured out I was playing a viola, not a violin.) I think anything that draws attention to the fact that my dad is loved and adored gives him an advantage in an environment that is dehumanizing, and now even the people who don’t deal with him directly know he’s the man whose daughter plays music for him. He’s not just some old man hooked up to a million tubes. He’s special. He’s my dad.
Mom and I didn’t stay until the very end of visiting hours each night because it helped to get back to the house while there was still some natural light. Having the power out at home was such a strange added twist to the trip. We walked around the house in headlamps and never got over the habit of flicking the light switches when we walked into certain rooms. We could still use the stove top if we lit the gas ourselves with a match, but cooking in the dark is weird. My first night home it was warm enough we went for a long walk. (The temperature dropped by about thirty degrees not long after I arrived and I hadn’t packed for that. Mom gave me a jacket but for the most part I was really cold in Michigan.)
It’s hard to describe what the storm did to my old neighborhood. No one was hurt, and most of the houses were spared, but the few that got whomped by trees really got whomped. Several garages were crushed, as were a few cars. My parents’ property was spared, which is good because I don’t know how they could handle one more thing. With luck insurance will do what insurance is supposed to, and I’m hoping nothing too personal was lost by any of the people who experienced damage to their property. It’s a lot of expense and inconvenience but probably not the end of the world for most of the neighbors. The thing that has changed is the general look and character of the street. The trees that came down were about a century old, most of them on personal property, not city trees. (Although the ones by the street that came down ripped up the sidewalks, which was something to see.) There is a lot of light suddenly where no one is used to seeing it. Everyone’s view has changed.
I’m glad I was able to be there with my mom at such a strange and trying time. It felt good to make her laugh. I made her go with me into the chapel at the hospital and I taught her how to play Heart and Soul. The place was empty, and my mom looked alarmed when I sat down at the piano because she thought we were being disrespectful. But to paraphrase Kurt Vonnegut, all music is sacred. And music makes things better so I didn’t feel for a moment we were doing anything wrong. I bossed mom around on the keyboard until she was able to poke out enough of a bass line to play along with, and she laughed and wiped at her eyes. It was worth the drive to Michigan just for that.
My dad was doing well enough when I left late on Tuesday that I felt it was okay for me to go home. The medication that sent him to the ICU (Xeloda) had horrible effects on his body and he nearly died, but the ever encouraging and kind Dr. Pearlman said we’re past the hump and dad was improving. I trust him. All the nurses were excellent, and I am forever impressed at how caring yet firm the physical therapy people are.
On the downside, some people in hospitals need to remember that discussions about life and death are not casual events for many of us. One well-meaning young doctor rattled my mother badly in the hall when she stopped us on the way to lunch to ask if we had orders in place about whether or not to revive my dad if he got suddenly worse. She saw a frail man with stage four cancer and was calling things as she saw them based on her everyday experiences, but she doesn’t know how hard my dad wants to fight. She just kept saying, “Because he’s really very sick, and if you’re not here we need to know whether you want us to let him go if his heart stops.” My mom was flustered as she explained that at this point in time we’re quite sure my dad would want to be revived if possible and of course she’d signed papers to that effect.
It was not appropriate to approach us in that way. We had been feeling okay on our way to lunch, and that doctor destroyed our equanimity for the day. There was also a palliative specialist who talked to my mom only in terms of dad never leaving the hospital and how to go about pulling the plug. I hope we never see either of those doctors again. I know there is a time and a place for those important discussions, but they shouldn’t have been sprung on us when what we needed was reassurance.
On the drive back to Milwaukee I thought about the trees of my childhood. When I was little, Pleasant Ridge was filled with huge, majestic elms with limbs that spread out like fountains shading all the streets. When I was nine, our neighborhood, like much of the nation, was struck by Dutch elm disease. We lost all of those trees. The neighborhood seemed unbearably bright for a long time. But the truth is that there were many smaller trees in the neighborhood that could suddenly reach for the light. I looked around my old street before I left, past the endless rows of tree removal trucks and wood chippers, the debris in the streets, and damaged maples with what was left of their splintery limbs poking at the sky while awaiting chainsaws and cranes coming to take them down. I saw the new generation of smaller trees, some of which had grown up leaning odd directions just to find some sun. The neighborhood will be different, and for a while it will be unbearably bright. But now the new trees have a chance to grow into new roles.
It won’t be the same, this new view, but for some it will be the view they grow up with. The new view will become home.
I drove out to Detroit and back to visit my dad in the hospital for a couple of days. My dad didn’t resemble himself, hospitals are strange, I think a tornado touched down in my parents’ neighborhood (even though the weather people there kept calling it a wind shear but I don’t think I buy that), the power was (and still is) out so we came back every night to a dark house, dozens of hundred year old trees upended pieces of sidewalk and smashed garages and punctured roofs making the whole area look like a tree-seeking bomb hit it. (What a time to forget my camera.)
So. That was a lot of stuff. And now I’m home and trying to process it all.
I started my trip in our twelve-year-old Hyundai, minus the radio that was stolen out of it last week. (That’s the third time. People keep asking if we lock the doors to the car, but I’d rather lose the radio than have the window smashed and lose the radio, so no, we don’t lock the doors. I guess with the newest one we’ll bring the radio’s faceplate indoors each time.) I brought along an iPod and listened to various podcasts on the insanely boring drive that is the trip from Milwaukee to Detroit.
I stopped in Chicago on the way to say goodbye to my brother and his girlfriend before they moved to Germany. It was too short a visit. I don’t see them enough, and I don’t realize until I’m with them again how much there is to say. I wish we’d had more time, but for some things there is never enough time.
I arrived in my hometown of Pleasant Ridge, MI to find dozens of downed trees. My mom called to warn me ahead of time that there had been a severe storm and there was no power, so I came armed with my favorite flashlight and a headlamp. It took me a while to find a path to the house. The normal route was blocked by fallen power lines and trees, as were several alternate routes, but eventually I found my way. I think our specific block and a couple on either side of it got the worst of the damage. It’s both impressive and sad. I dropped off my things and headed to the hospital around dinnertime.
My dad was awake when I arrived, and glad to see me, but he wasn’t awake for very long. He’s weak and thin. Swallowing anything causes him enormous pain. He fades in and out. He winces in his sleep which is hard to watch. He’s disoriented. He just wants to go home.
The main thing I was able to provide for my dad in the hospital was music. It was too hard to read to him or carry on a conversation because he was seldom conscious for more than half a minute at a time. I put a mute on my instrument to keep the volume lower and played a lot of Bach. My dad loves Bach. There were times I was sure he was sound asleep and I kept playing, only to hear him say without opening his eyes, “Very nice” when I got to the end of a piece. I don’t think there is any applause this season that will mean as much as those quiet words.
There are several good things about playing live music for someone in the hospital; it blocks out all the beeping and chatter that is a constant part of life there, you can sleep to it or actively listen and it’s all fine, and I think it help set my dad apart as a patient. Everyone in the oncology ward said they liked hearing the music, and I would see people pause in the doorway as I played. (One nurse was even proud to have figured out I was playing a viola, not a violin.) I think anything that draws attention to the fact that my dad is loved and adored gives him an advantage in an environment that is dehumanizing, and now even the people who don’t deal with him directly know he’s the man whose daughter plays music for him. He’s not just some old man hooked up to a million tubes. He’s special. He’s my dad.
Mom and I didn’t stay until the very end of visiting hours each night because it helped to get back to the house while there was still some natural light. Having the power out at home was such a strange added twist to the trip. We walked around the house in headlamps and never got over the habit of flicking the light switches when we walked into certain rooms. We could still use the stove top if we lit the gas ourselves with a match, but cooking in the dark is weird. My first night home it was warm enough we went for a long walk. (The temperature dropped by about thirty degrees not long after I arrived and I hadn’t packed for that. Mom gave me a jacket but for the most part I was really cold in Michigan.)
It’s hard to describe what the storm did to my old neighborhood. No one was hurt, and most of the houses were spared, but the few that got whomped by trees really got whomped. Several garages were crushed, as were a few cars. My parents’ property was spared, which is good because I don’t know how they could handle one more thing. With luck insurance will do what insurance is supposed to, and I’m hoping nothing too personal was lost by any of the people who experienced damage to their property. It’s a lot of expense and inconvenience but probably not the end of the world for most of the neighbors. The thing that has changed is the general look and character of the street. The trees that came down were about a century old, most of them on personal property, not city trees. (Although the ones by the street that came down ripped up the sidewalks, which was something to see.) There is a lot of light suddenly where no one is used to seeing it. Everyone’s view has changed.
I’m glad I was able to be there with my mom at such a strange and trying time. It felt good to make her laugh. I made her go with me into the chapel at the hospital and I taught her how to play Heart and Soul. The place was empty, and my mom looked alarmed when I sat down at the piano because she thought we were being disrespectful. But to paraphrase Kurt Vonnegut, all music is sacred. And music makes things better so I didn’t feel for a moment we were doing anything wrong. I bossed mom around on the keyboard until she was able to poke out enough of a bass line to play along with, and she laughed and wiped at her eyes. It was worth the drive to Michigan just for that.
My dad was doing well enough when I left late on Tuesday that I felt it was okay for me to go home. The medication that sent him to the ICU (Xeloda) had horrible effects on his body and he nearly died, but the ever encouraging and kind Dr. Pearlman said we’re past the hump and dad was improving. I trust him. All the nurses were excellent, and I am forever impressed at how caring yet firm the physical therapy people are.
On the downside, some people in hospitals need to remember that discussions about life and death are not casual events for many of us. One well-meaning young doctor rattled my mother badly in the hall when she stopped us on the way to lunch to ask if we had orders in place about whether or not to revive my dad if he got suddenly worse. She saw a frail man with stage four cancer and was calling things as she saw them based on her everyday experiences, but she doesn’t know how hard my dad wants to fight. She just kept saying, “Because he’s really very sick, and if you’re not here we need to know whether you want us to let him go if his heart stops.” My mom was flustered as she explained that at this point in time we’re quite sure my dad would want to be revived if possible and of course she’d signed papers to that effect.
It was not appropriate to approach us in that way. We had been feeling okay on our way to lunch, and that doctor destroyed our equanimity for the day. There was also a palliative specialist who talked to my mom only in terms of dad never leaving the hospital and how to go about pulling the plug. I hope we never see either of those doctors again. I know there is a time and a place for those important discussions, but they shouldn’t have been sprung on us when what we needed was reassurance.
On the drive back to Milwaukee I thought about the trees of my childhood. When I was little, Pleasant Ridge was filled with huge, majestic elms with limbs that spread out like fountains shading all the streets. When I was nine, our neighborhood, like much of the nation, was struck by Dutch elm disease. We lost all of those trees. The neighborhood seemed unbearably bright for a long time. But the truth is that there were many smaller trees in the neighborhood that could suddenly reach for the light. I looked around my old street before I left, past the endless rows of tree removal trucks and wood chippers, the debris in the streets, and damaged maples with what was left of their splintery limbs poking at the sky while awaiting chainsaws and cranes coming to take them down. I saw the new generation of smaller trees, some of which had grown up leaning odd directions just to find some sun. The neighborhood will be different, and for a while it will be unbearably bright. But now the new trees have a chance to grow into new roles.
It won’t be the same, this new view, but for some it will be the view they grow up with. The new view will become home.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Optimism (Babble)
First of all, thanks to everyone for their kind thoughts about my father.
His condition was described as being in a grey zone for a while, which
was scary. My brother, Barrett, has been at the hospital every day
since dad was admitted, providing the rest of the family with updates. I
hate being so far away, but it makes more sense to stagger our visits
if dad is getting better instead of worse, and luckily he does seem to
be improving.
My dad is out of the ICU. He will need rehab to gain strength before heading home. The consensus is that he had a severe reaction to the last round of chemotherapy and the resulting dehydration caused a myriad of problems. Now when specialists look at my dad and give him about two years it’s still frightening, but it seems like a gift compared to where we were just days ago.
Here in Milwaukee it was the first day of school for my girls. They were so happy and excited!
Aden was up at five in the morning to get her backpack out of the washing machine and to make herself some alphabet soup. (She has a new little lunch container especially for soup that comes with a tiny spoon, and she was determined to bring it on her first day back in the lunchroom.) Mona saved a special sparkly shirt just for today. Ian made everyone French toast. I put Aden’s hair in a braid last night so we could sidestep the usual unpleasantness about detangling her before we leave the house. The only thing that slowed us down was shoes. Aden hunted high and low before realizing her shoes were in the car, and Mona simply came outside in her socks, then ran back inside when she realized she’d need shoes too. (When Ian was deployed I had a rule for a while about no one getting to eat breakfast unless they were already wearing shoes. Shoes are the Waterloo of our morning routine.)
The lovely thing about watching both of my girls at the start of school is their confidence. Aden is so poised. She always has been. And lately she just seems so grown up, and tall, and ready to face the world in a way that’s new and independent. I walked her up to her new classroom so I could introduce myself to the teacher and get a peek at her new space. She has friends in her new room already. She’s hoping they still do show and tell in fourth grade.
Mona’s new teacher seemed very sweet. I liked that he greeted each child in the doorway while crouched down at their eye level. He interviewed the kids one at a time, asking for a name and checking his list, and finding out if they take the bus or get picked up at the end of the day. Mona has a large messenger-style bag instead of a backpack this year because she wanted lots of room for her paper creations. She has a jaunty kind of look about her when she wears it. When it was her turn at the front of the line she announced her name with pride. She loves school and she was glad to be back. There was no hesitation in Mona this morning.
I’m sure I was never even half as cool as either of my girls. I was always nervous and worried. I’m still nervous and worried but I hide it better. I love how bold both Aden and Mona are in their own ways, marching into a new situation and believing it will be great. Because they are optimists. They have experienced good things and imagine more good things ahead.
And in a hospital bed the next state over, my dad is fighting to go home. Because he knows a bit about good things, too, and believes there is more like it ahead as well. I want him to be right. Nervous and worried has limited utility. I think I’m better off throwing in my lot with the optimists.
My dad is out of the ICU. He will need rehab to gain strength before heading home. The consensus is that he had a severe reaction to the last round of chemotherapy and the resulting dehydration caused a myriad of problems. Now when specialists look at my dad and give him about two years it’s still frightening, but it seems like a gift compared to where we were just days ago.
Here in Milwaukee it was the first day of school for my girls. They were so happy and excited!
Aden was up at five in the morning to get her backpack out of the washing machine and to make herself some alphabet soup. (She has a new little lunch container especially for soup that comes with a tiny spoon, and she was determined to bring it on her first day back in the lunchroom.) Mona saved a special sparkly shirt just for today. Ian made everyone French toast. I put Aden’s hair in a braid last night so we could sidestep the usual unpleasantness about detangling her before we leave the house. The only thing that slowed us down was shoes. Aden hunted high and low before realizing her shoes were in the car, and Mona simply came outside in her socks, then ran back inside when she realized she’d need shoes too. (When Ian was deployed I had a rule for a while about no one getting to eat breakfast unless they were already wearing shoes. Shoes are the Waterloo of our morning routine.)
The lovely thing about watching both of my girls at the start of school is their confidence. Aden is so poised. She always has been. And lately she just seems so grown up, and tall, and ready to face the world in a way that’s new and independent. I walked her up to her new classroom so I could introduce myself to the teacher and get a peek at her new space. She has friends in her new room already. She’s hoping they still do show and tell in fourth grade.
Mona’s new teacher seemed very sweet. I liked that he greeted each child in the doorway while crouched down at their eye level. He interviewed the kids one at a time, asking for a name and checking his list, and finding out if they take the bus or get picked up at the end of the day. Mona has a large messenger-style bag instead of a backpack this year because she wanted lots of room for her paper creations. She has a jaunty kind of look about her when she wears it. When it was her turn at the front of the line she announced her name with pride. She loves school and she was glad to be back. There was no hesitation in Mona this morning.
I’m sure I was never even half as cool as either of my girls. I was always nervous and worried. I’m still nervous and worried but I hide it better. I love how bold both Aden and Mona are in their own ways, marching into a new situation and believing it will be great. Because they are optimists. They have experienced good things and imagine more good things ahead.
And in a hospital bed the next state over, my dad is fighting to go home. Because he knows a bit about good things, too, and believes there is more like it ahead as well. I want him to be right. Nervous and worried has limited utility. I think I’m better off throwing in my lot with the optimists.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Home Sweet Hugs (Babble)
I’m home! As in Milwaukee-home-where-I-live-now, and not in Detroit-home-where-I-grew-up.
A week and a half away and my kids didn’t change that much. See?
(They’re all wearing the bee shirts my mom made for them, which they weren’t able to open on Christmas.) Cute as proverbial buttons. Or even literal buttons, assuming said buttons are darned cute.
Returning home is always an interesting experience to me. Either direction, actually. This was the longest period of time I’ve spent in the home where I grew up since having kids without my kids along. It was roughly the same amount of time I spent apart from my kids when I was in Alaska a couple of years ago. When I think about how hard a week and a half away from my children was, I’m struck anew at how big a sacrifice it was for my husband to be away from them for a year or more. I don’t think I could stand it.
Being in my childhood home with my mom and my brother was nice. The hospital wore me out, but dad got stronger every day so the experience was a hopeful one overall. I forgot just how noisy the house is in the winter when the radiators ping and bang, and my mom has finally had enough of our complaints about the shower and is getting that improved. I fixed the toilet myself. Arno helped my mom set up her new computer and even got wireless internet working in the house after a long drawn out phone saga with all kinds of tech people around the world. I introduced my mom to the joys of Project Runway on Hulu. I wish I’d had more time with my niece and my other brother and his girlfriend, but our visits overlapped just long enough to say hello. My shift was done.
I love my family so much and they are so interesting that I always think of myself as the lucky one for getting to be in their lives. I never think of anyone as being lucky to be with me, particularly. But my dad was so happy in the hospital every time he woke up and saw me sitting next to him. Just being there made a difference. My mom made sure I knew how much she loved having me home.
And Arno said, “Apart from the hospital, hasn’t this been fun?” I never think of Arno as missing me, really. I know he lovers me, but his life is busy and filled with colorful and brilliant characters and I’m just me. But when I left after breakfast I said goodbye to mom and Krisite in the kitchen, and Barrett and Ellora outside as they went to walk the dog, and Arno put on his coat just to come give me one more hug. Then he stood on the sidewalk and watched me drive away. When I looked in the mirror before turning the corner at the end of the block and saw him still there I burst into tears. How strange life is, that dark circumstances can offer up some of the greatest light. Who knows the next time I’ll have the opportunity to spend that much time with my brother again? What a rare and lovely thing.
The drive home was snowy and long and grey and dull, but I didn’t hit traffic jams in Chicago or construction in Indiana or need to call Triple-A for anything, so that was great. And then I got to be home. The new home at the other end of the drive from the old home. I love being home. I missed my husband and my kids and my bed and my regular shampoo.
Ian said the kids did fine without me. Quinn wouldn’t speak to me on the phone when I called because he was mad, but otherwise he went about life as usual. When I came in the back door last night he was all smiles and hugs and seems to have forgiven me.
Considering this was how he looked when I told him I was leaving I’m relieved.
I was braced for some kind of cold-shoulder, tantrum-like punishment, but he’d rather just draw me pictures and hug my legs while I try to walk, so I’m not complaining. Aden was cheerful on the phone when I would check in and didn’t seem to have a problem with my being away, but when I returned she spent a few hours being rather tearful and clingy. Mona, who I would have expected to weather things the best, cried a little every night about missing me, and wept on the phone. She asked if she could please sleep in my bed last night, so Ian graciously agreed to sleep in Quinn’s lower bunk so I could get some snuggle time in with my little girl. She said she’d be fine with going back to her own bed tonight. I sometimes think experience with deployment may have left my children more skittish than average when it comes to a parent being absent for any extended period. Or not. I may never know.
The funny thing to me about travel is how fast the experience can seem to close up behind you when you return home. I remember after spending a month in India (before we had kids) getting into the bathtub soon after we walked in the door and lying there past the point where the water was warm because I knew if I got out and walked into my old routine that India would start to fade, and I wasn’t ready for that. I wanted to keep India and the new things I’d learned a little longer. But there is no haggling with auto-rickshaw drivers in Milwaukee or eating off banana leaves or leaping on or off of moving trains. It all receded into a distinct place known as the past with astonishing speed.
Same thing with my time in Detroit. It felt very long while I was there. I created a new rhythm for my days from hospital hours and my parents’ needs and my brother’s availability. It’s odd to have that time shrink in my memory as I get back to life with Ian and the kids and the violin store. It was difficult to see my dad in pain, but inspiring to see him improve. I have complete confidence that he’s in good hands with the help he has currently, so it’s not as nerve wracking for me now that I’m back in Milwaukee. I need to return to the life I’ve created here, and I don’t feel guilty anymore for leading it, which I did before the trip.
It’s nice to feel helpful, needed, welcomed and loved, at either end of my journey.
(Arno, Barrett, Kristie and Ellora–some of the best company for breakfast ever.)
A week and a half away and my kids didn’t change that much. See?
(They’re all wearing the bee shirts my mom made for them, which they weren’t able to open on Christmas.) Cute as proverbial buttons. Or even literal buttons, assuming said buttons are darned cute.
Returning home is always an interesting experience to me. Either direction, actually. This was the longest period of time I’ve spent in the home where I grew up since having kids without my kids along. It was roughly the same amount of time I spent apart from my kids when I was in Alaska a couple of years ago. When I think about how hard a week and a half away from my children was, I’m struck anew at how big a sacrifice it was for my husband to be away from them for a year or more. I don’t think I could stand it.
Being in my childhood home with my mom and my brother was nice. The hospital wore me out, but dad got stronger every day so the experience was a hopeful one overall. I forgot just how noisy the house is in the winter when the radiators ping and bang, and my mom has finally had enough of our complaints about the shower and is getting that improved. I fixed the toilet myself. Arno helped my mom set up her new computer and even got wireless internet working in the house after a long drawn out phone saga with all kinds of tech people around the world. I introduced my mom to the joys of Project Runway on Hulu. I wish I’d had more time with my niece and my other brother and his girlfriend, but our visits overlapped just long enough to say hello. My shift was done.
I love my family so much and they are so interesting that I always think of myself as the lucky one for getting to be in their lives. I never think of anyone as being lucky to be with me, particularly. But my dad was so happy in the hospital every time he woke up and saw me sitting next to him. Just being there made a difference. My mom made sure I knew how much she loved having me home.
And Arno said, “Apart from the hospital, hasn’t this been fun?” I never think of Arno as missing me, really. I know he lovers me, but his life is busy and filled with colorful and brilliant characters and I’m just me. But when I left after breakfast I said goodbye to mom and Krisite in the kitchen, and Barrett and Ellora outside as they went to walk the dog, and Arno put on his coat just to come give me one more hug. Then he stood on the sidewalk and watched me drive away. When I looked in the mirror before turning the corner at the end of the block and saw him still there I burst into tears. How strange life is, that dark circumstances can offer up some of the greatest light. Who knows the next time I’ll have the opportunity to spend that much time with my brother again? What a rare and lovely thing.
The drive home was snowy and long and grey and dull, but I didn’t hit traffic jams in Chicago or construction in Indiana or need to call Triple-A for anything, so that was great. And then I got to be home. The new home at the other end of the drive from the old home. I love being home. I missed my husband and my kids and my bed and my regular shampoo.
Ian said the kids did fine without me. Quinn wouldn’t speak to me on the phone when I called because he was mad, but otherwise he went about life as usual. When I came in the back door last night he was all smiles and hugs and seems to have forgiven me.
Considering this was how he looked when I told him I was leaving I’m relieved.
I was braced for some kind of cold-shoulder, tantrum-like punishment, but he’d rather just draw me pictures and hug my legs while I try to walk, so I’m not complaining. Aden was cheerful on the phone when I would check in and didn’t seem to have a problem with my being away, but when I returned she spent a few hours being rather tearful and clingy. Mona, who I would have expected to weather things the best, cried a little every night about missing me, and wept on the phone. She asked if she could please sleep in my bed last night, so Ian graciously agreed to sleep in Quinn’s lower bunk so I could get some snuggle time in with my little girl. She said she’d be fine with going back to her own bed tonight. I sometimes think experience with deployment may have left my children more skittish than average when it comes to a parent being absent for any extended period. Or not. I may never know.
The funny thing to me about travel is how fast the experience can seem to close up behind you when you return home. I remember after spending a month in India (before we had kids) getting into the bathtub soon after we walked in the door and lying there past the point where the water was warm because I knew if I got out and walked into my old routine that India would start to fade, and I wasn’t ready for that. I wanted to keep India and the new things I’d learned a little longer. But there is no haggling with auto-rickshaw drivers in Milwaukee or eating off banana leaves or leaping on or off of moving trains. It all receded into a distinct place known as the past with astonishing speed.
Same thing with my time in Detroit. It felt very long while I was there. I created a new rhythm for my days from hospital hours and my parents’ needs and my brother’s availability. It’s odd to have that time shrink in my memory as I get back to life with Ian and the kids and the violin store. It was difficult to see my dad in pain, but inspiring to see him improve. I have complete confidence that he’s in good hands with the help he has currently, so it’s not as nerve wracking for me now that I’m back in Milwaukee. I need to return to the life I’ve created here, and I don’t feel guilty anymore for leading it, which I did before the trip.
It’s nice to feel helpful, needed, welcomed and loved, at either end of my journey.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Hospital Mysteries (Babble)
My dad just moved into in-house rehab. This is good news. He needed
to fit into a very narrow band of criteria in order to qualify for it;
too weak, not a candidate, too strong, they can’t take him either. He’s
just the right amount of upright but wobbly to qualify. This will give
him a chance to gain some strength while buying us some time to prepare
for him coming home, so we’re happy.
In the meantime, I’ve had many long days to contemplate things about the hospital. I think my biggest complaint would be that there is no organized system of making sure the different specialists can talk to the family. It’s very hit or miss. Out of 12 hours by my dad’s side yesterday, the 20 minutes I left to walk around and get some feeling back in my legs was the same time a flurry of doctors came through to provide an update. I love my dad, but he is not a reliable source for relaying medical information, so we have no idea what the doctors said. I know the medical people visiting his room have charts to refer to, to keep them up to speed, but there should be a layperson’s version. A single page report at the end of the day listing the doctors who visited and what they had to say, along with times of blood draws and what medicines were administered or any tests that were done along with their results, etc. How hard could that be? Boy that would be helpful.
Also, the food service seems to have no connection to the doctors’ orders. We kept receiving trays of food for my dad filled with things he wasn’t allowed to eat. Why isn’t the hospital menu divided clearly into categories, like ‘liquid diet’ and ‘soft diet,’ etc.? My dad is easing his way back into eating real food and the kitchen sent up potato chips. We had to argue with him about how they were too much for his system and confiscate the bag like he was a kid, but they never should have sent it up in the first place.
On a less medically related note, I’ve also had time during my average 12 hour shifts at the hospital to explore the gift shop, parking lot, and cafeteria here. And there are some things we just don’t understand. These are my hospital mysteries.
There is the lady in the booth in the parking lot. She waves to us every morning. When nobody is in the booth the gate still goes up on its own to let us into the lot, so that appears to be automatic. We have no idea what the lady in the booth is really doing. But we wave to her and hope she likes her job.
There is a dramatic staircase to nowhere that I don’t get.
The cafeteria appears to be filled with food, but there is not much to eat. There aren’t many places to go to get a break from the hospital room, so we end up in the cafeteria a lot. I think I’m hungry until I get there. And then I look at each thing and think, “Nah.” Arno ended up with a tray of cottage cheese, beets, yogurt and a banana. He says his only regret is he didn’t put more beets on the cottage cheese. Although, to be fair, that didn’t look that different from meals I’ve seen Arno assemble by choice, so hard to judge. But I paid almost five dollars for a sad little turkey burger which I ate while walking around and then was bored again. But I keep looking at all the food and wondering why there’s nothing to eat.
But here is the real mystery in the cafeteria: The “multi-purpose spoons.”
Apparently the knives and forks can only serve a single purpose, but spoons are multi-functional. In my opinion this merely shows a lack of imagination on the part of people labeling the knives and forks, but still, it’s intriguing. (If you are bored out of your mind and paying your third trip of the day to the cafeteria because it is the only place to go.)
In any case, my dad is looking more like himself, and soon my brother, Barrett, will be here to assist for awhile and I can head home to Milwaukee. I’m glad I’ve been able to help here, but I miss Ian and the kids, and I’m sure there is a lot of work waiting for me at the violin store. But maybe I’ll get caught up sooner than expected now that I know I can count on the versatility of all the spoons I have lying around.
I’m looking forward to being home–no mystery there.
In the meantime, I’ve had many long days to contemplate things about the hospital. I think my biggest complaint would be that there is no organized system of making sure the different specialists can talk to the family. It’s very hit or miss. Out of 12 hours by my dad’s side yesterday, the 20 minutes I left to walk around and get some feeling back in my legs was the same time a flurry of doctors came through to provide an update. I love my dad, but he is not a reliable source for relaying medical information, so we have no idea what the doctors said. I know the medical people visiting his room have charts to refer to, to keep them up to speed, but there should be a layperson’s version. A single page report at the end of the day listing the doctors who visited and what they had to say, along with times of blood draws and what medicines were administered or any tests that were done along with their results, etc. How hard could that be? Boy that would be helpful.
Also, the food service seems to have no connection to the doctors’ orders. We kept receiving trays of food for my dad filled with things he wasn’t allowed to eat. Why isn’t the hospital menu divided clearly into categories, like ‘liquid diet’ and ‘soft diet,’ etc.? My dad is easing his way back into eating real food and the kitchen sent up potato chips. We had to argue with him about how they were too much for his system and confiscate the bag like he was a kid, but they never should have sent it up in the first place.
On a less medically related note, I’ve also had time during my average 12 hour shifts at the hospital to explore the gift shop, parking lot, and cafeteria here. And there are some things we just don’t understand. These are my hospital mysteries.
There is the lady in the booth in the parking lot. She waves to us every morning. When nobody is in the booth the gate still goes up on its own to let us into the lot, so that appears to be automatic. We have no idea what the lady in the booth is really doing. But we wave to her and hope she likes her job.
There is a dramatic staircase to nowhere that I don’t get.
The cafeteria appears to be filled with food, but there is not much to eat. There aren’t many places to go to get a break from the hospital room, so we end up in the cafeteria a lot. I think I’m hungry until I get there. And then I look at each thing and think, “Nah.” Arno ended up with a tray of cottage cheese, beets, yogurt and a banana. He says his only regret is he didn’t put more beets on the cottage cheese. Although, to be fair, that didn’t look that different from meals I’ve seen Arno assemble by choice, so hard to judge. But I paid almost five dollars for a sad little turkey burger which I ate while walking around and then was bored again. But I keep looking at all the food and wondering why there’s nothing to eat.
But here is the real mystery in the cafeteria: The “multi-purpose spoons.”
Apparently the knives and forks can only serve a single purpose, but spoons are multi-functional. In my opinion this merely shows a lack of imagination on the part of people labeling the knives and forks, but still, it’s intriguing. (If you are bored out of your mind and paying your third trip of the day to the cafeteria because it is the only place to go.)
In any case, my dad is looking more like himself, and soon my brother, Barrett, will be here to assist for awhile and I can head home to Milwaukee. I’m glad I’ve been able to help here, but I miss Ian and the kids, and I’m sure there is a lot of work waiting for me at the violin store. But maybe I’ll get caught up sooner than expected now that I know I can count on the versatility of all the spoons I have lying around.
I’m looking forward to being home–no mystery there.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
No One Ever Expects a Trip to the Hospital (Babble)
After almost a week visiting friends and family in Ohio the kids and I
met up with their dad in Michigan at my parents’ house. The original
plan was to enjoy a few days in the Detroit area with my mom and dad
before I flew with a friend to Alaska (more on that in the next post).
The plan turned into my dad needing emergency surgery to have most of
his large intestine removed and lots of time at the hospital for me, my
mom, and one of my brothers.
My kids never even got to see their grandpa, but they did make him some nice ‘get well’ paintings.
My poor dad. He’s one of those people who would rather not deal with health related issues, so he puts off recommended testing until things sometimes reach crisis proportions. There are few things worse than watching someone you love in pain. That helpless feeling can be crazy making after awhile, for both the patient and the family. Fortunately he was only in the hospital about a week and his prognosis is very good. He won’t need any kind of follow up treatments like chemo, and he’s already up and around and eating normally again. We’re all so relieved it’s hard to express.
I heard a quote once, years ago, on an NPR program, and I don’t think even at the time I caught the name of the writer being interviewed so I can’t even hope to recall it now, but the quote stays with me. The novelist was asked what he thought the point of human suffering was, and he replied that pain causes us to need one another. I don’t know if I believe there is a design to suffering, but something about pain bringing us together rings true.
I have two brothers, and one of them I don’t hear from much lately, and that’s fine because that usually means he’s happy. He does touch base from time to time, but for the most part he only seeks me out for long conversations if something’s wrong. My other brother had to change his plans for accompanying his wife and daughter to India in order to help my mom with dad at the hospital. If my dad had not been out of the ICU and looking significantly more like himself by the time I was supposed to leave, I would have cancelled my trip and stayed in Detroit. We seldom feel compelled to drop everything for the people we love when everything is fine, although maybe occasionally we should.
One of the lovely things about my family is that we appreciate each other’s company to the point where even when we are gathered for unhappy reasons there is still pleasure in just being together. I hadn’t expected to see my brother, Arno, again until Christmas, so even though most of the time I spent with him in Michigan was at my father’s bedside in the ICU, I loved seeing him. We read to my dad when he was feeling too tired to converse, but most of the time we tried to make him smile (and in turn made each other laugh). My dad had a huge inciscion straight up his middle which hurt, and he kept telling us not to make him laugh so much, so we had to make an effort not to have too good a time. At one point when my dad was sleeping, Arno produced a ridiculous deck of cards for doing magic tricks and his attempts to mystify us had me and my mom in tears we were laughing so hard. I’d like to think in my dad’s subconscious hearing his family around him being happy was more helpful than to be surrounded by anxious, nervous whispers, but for all I know he wished we would be quiet so he could sleep better.
Thanks to our unexpected visit with my brother I got to hear one of the sweetest conversations with Quinn. Arno has an interesting way of talking with kids, asking many questions and getting them to reveal not just some of what they think, but how they think. He sat with Quinn one evening after dinner and asked him many things, but my favorite part was when he wanted to know what Quinn liked to do at home. “Ring the doorbell,” was the answer Arno got, no matter how many he ways he presented the question to perhaps broaden the answer. “I like to ring the doorbell at home,” Quinn kept saying, and eventually he even hummed the tones of the Westminster Chime setting of our wireless doorbell for his uncle, who just smiled and agreed it sounded like a fine hobby indeed.
In some ways I also got a little more time alone with my mom, which was nice. Ian found play dates and activities for the kids and told me to go to the hospital without guilt. He had the kids and I could concentrate on my dad. Since I didn’t have small people asking me for water or needing help in the bathroom or climbing in my lap I was able to finish whole sentences with my mom. I had lunches with her at the hospital and walks with her in the evenings when we came home. It was a difficult time, to be sure, and hospitals are not easy places, but silver linings were not hard to find.
I need to make a quick mention of how great everyone at Beaumont Hospital was. There was not one doctor, nurse, receptionist, etc., who was not kind and helpful. My dad was scared, my mom was exhausted, my brother was respectful but persistent in his questioning, and we were all treated in a way that was friendly and professional. It’s easy to complain when people fail us, but we aren’t quick enough to compliment others when they rise to an occasion, and our experience at the hospital renewed my faith in people being able to perform well as part of their daily business. I don’t know how my parents are going to handle the medical bills when they start coming in, but the level of care my dad received was excellent, and for that we are grateful.
Tonight when I talked to my dad on the phone he sounded great. He listened to Aden play her new violin piece for him, he told me about reorganizing some of the bookcases in the house, and everything felt normal. That’s important, because I need my dad. I didn’t need a hospital scare to remind me of that, but I am starting to scout out dates on my calendar when maybe we could drop everything and go visit for no reason other than everything is fine.
My kids never even got to see their grandpa, but they did make him some nice ‘get well’ paintings.
My poor dad. He’s one of those people who would rather not deal with health related issues, so he puts off recommended testing until things sometimes reach crisis proportions. There are few things worse than watching someone you love in pain. That helpless feeling can be crazy making after awhile, for both the patient and the family. Fortunately he was only in the hospital about a week and his prognosis is very good. He won’t need any kind of follow up treatments like chemo, and he’s already up and around and eating normally again. We’re all so relieved it’s hard to express.
I heard a quote once, years ago, on an NPR program, and I don’t think even at the time I caught the name of the writer being interviewed so I can’t even hope to recall it now, but the quote stays with me. The novelist was asked what he thought the point of human suffering was, and he replied that pain causes us to need one another. I don’t know if I believe there is a design to suffering, but something about pain bringing us together rings true.
I have two brothers, and one of them I don’t hear from much lately, and that’s fine because that usually means he’s happy. He does touch base from time to time, but for the most part he only seeks me out for long conversations if something’s wrong. My other brother had to change his plans for accompanying his wife and daughter to India in order to help my mom with dad at the hospital. If my dad had not been out of the ICU and looking significantly more like himself by the time I was supposed to leave, I would have cancelled my trip and stayed in Detroit. We seldom feel compelled to drop everything for the people we love when everything is fine, although maybe occasionally we should.
One of the lovely things about my family is that we appreciate each other’s company to the point where even when we are gathered for unhappy reasons there is still pleasure in just being together. I hadn’t expected to see my brother, Arno, again until Christmas, so even though most of the time I spent with him in Michigan was at my father’s bedside in the ICU, I loved seeing him. We read to my dad when he was feeling too tired to converse, but most of the time we tried to make him smile (and in turn made each other laugh). My dad had a huge inciscion straight up his middle which hurt, and he kept telling us not to make him laugh so much, so we had to make an effort not to have too good a time. At one point when my dad was sleeping, Arno produced a ridiculous deck of cards for doing magic tricks and his attempts to mystify us had me and my mom in tears we were laughing so hard. I’d like to think in my dad’s subconscious hearing his family around him being happy was more helpful than to be surrounded by anxious, nervous whispers, but for all I know he wished we would be quiet so he could sleep better.
Thanks to our unexpected visit with my brother I got to hear one of the sweetest conversations with Quinn. Arno has an interesting way of talking with kids, asking many questions and getting them to reveal not just some of what they think, but how they think. He sat with Quinn one evening after dinner and asked him many things, but my favorite part was when he wanted to know what Quinn liked to do at home. “Ring the doorbell,” was the answer Arno got, no matter how many he ways he presented the question to perhaps broaden the answer. “I like to ring the doorbell at home,” Quinn kept saying, and eventually he even hummed the tones of the Westminster Chime setting of our wireless doorbell for his uncle, who just smiled and agreed it sounded like a fine hobby indeed.
In some ways I also got a little more time alone with my mom, which was nice. Ian found play dates and activities for the kids and told me to go to the hospital without guilt. He had the kids and I could concentrate on my dad. Since I didn’t have small people asking me for water or needing help in the bathroom or climbing in my lap I was able to finish whole sentences with my mom. I had lunches with her at the hospital and walks with her in the evenings when we came home. It was a difficult time, to be sure, and hospitals are not easy places, but silver linings were not hard to find.
I need to make a quick mention of how great everyone at Beaumont Hospital was. There was not one doctor, nurse, receptionist, etc., who was not kind and helpful. My dad was scared, my mom was exhausted, my brother was respectful but persistent in his questioning, and we were all treated in a way that was friendly and professional. It’s easy to complain when people fail us, but we aren’t quick enough to compliment others when they rise to an occasion, and our experience at the hospital renewed my faith in people being able to perform well as part of their daily business. I don’t know how my parents are going to handle the medical bills when they start coming in, but the level of care my dad received was excellent, and for that we are grateful.
Tonight when I talked to my dad on the phone he sounded great. He listened to Aden play her new violin piece for him, he told me about reorganizing some of the bookcases in the house, and everything felt normal. That’s important, because I need my dad. I didn’t need a hospital scare to remind me of that, but I am starting to scout out dates on my calendar when maybe we could drop everything and go visit for no reason other than everything is fine.
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