Friday. December 21, 2001

Dad assesses the weather outside the hospital room

Mom studies the same page of the paper once again in her hi-tech bed.

"There are no whole truths; all truths are half-truths. It is trying to treat them as whole truths that plays the devil."

Alfred North Whitehead, Dialogues of Alfred North Whitehead

On the way to the restaurant last night, FFP and Gayle and I discussed dreams. Prophetic ones, insightful ones. I am the practical sort who, in spite of disturbingly prophetic or extra-sensory dreams in the past, considers them mostly random. You remember the random ones that played out in events or thoughts of others. Forget the rest.

In the middle of the night, I had a dream. I wanted to remember it to tell it. It was very exciting and different, I remember that. I woke enough to record the time in my brain (2:06AM) but this morning I have nothing left of the dream. Nothing.

My dad calls and says that he took Mom to the hospital with chest pains. The X-Ray shows a shadow again, he says. But in a different place. I think it's in a different place anyway. They are going to keep her in the hospital over night.

I make some coffee and stay out of FFP's way since he has a real work day coming.

Hospitals. I despise them. It's especially frustrating when my mother is a patient. She babbles on about past incidents. How accurate her info is, I've no way of knowing. She has brought an old drug sheet to the hospital. I go home to get a new one. In spite of the neatly typed sheet, the nurse spends scores of minutes writing the drugs on sheets in long-hand. Mother has been admitted as a cardiac patient. It takes a while to convince them that they need to administer some of the drugs she takes and do it somewhat on time.

I go out for lunch and then let my dad go home to get Mom a toothbrush and have lunch.

Time drags. I've brought a bunch of old newspapers and magazines to read. Mom groans or dozes. She becomes animated when she has visitors. More recounting of old ailments.

Dad returns, out of breath from the walk from the van even though he is using a handicapped spot.

Finally, the cardiac guy visits. He's pretty convinced it isn't her heart but, you know, whatever let's run tests anyway. He will call in a pulmonary guy or an internist. I suggest that since the GP has apparently been treating her for some anomaly in the appearance of a lung in a chest xray that they choose pulmonary. Mom says that the GP sent her to a specialist. Neither Mom or Dad knows his name. Sigh.

Privacy or not, we should a carry around cards that doctors can use to enter info so that, um, the people treating you have some damn idea about your condition, past illnesses, prescribed drugs and results of tests. Mostly we repeat this junk, stabilize patients and release them just to systematically forget it. We expect the ill and elderly to recount every allergy and bit of the changing pharmacopia every time they are admitted. Geez. I find out my mother is allergic to codeine. I didn't know this. I have been trying to get her relevant info on a sheet of paper for the assembled multitudes to ignore. I'll add this but they will still ask my mother.

The doctor claimed he'd prescribe something for pain but it doesn't come. She seems to feel better though. She wants juice. Two people bring it and someone takes her temp and blood pressure. (Both OK.)

Finally, Mom talks to the nurse about a shower and Dad prepares to go home for some clean underwear and shampoo. I can't see what I'm accomplishing. I try to duck the traffic and go home.

We've been kidding Mom that the shopping yesterday did her in so...no more shopping. She feels well enough to strenuosly object to this. A couple of times she hopes to get out to go to a party tomorrow night. I think this is a good sign.

When I get home, FFP is still gone to the ballet for yet another stint back stage. I feel kind of disconnected and slightly depressed. Hospitals will do that. Dad told a few old hospital stories while we sat there. He spent years and years as a hospital attendant for the VA. He's seen a lot, but that was twenty-five years ago now. He no longer has the capacity to try to keep up with Mom's health.

So it's almost Christmas. And I have my 'time off' but I'm sliding down into the slow world of the elderly.

FFP makes some dinner. Steak, mozzarella and tomato salad. We also get into the fudge and homemade bleu cheese crackers and cookies. I foolishly drink two gin and tonics.

I read some papers and watch TV. The TV in the big room (known here as THE ROOM) has this problem when it's cold (and it's getting worse all the time) of flipping like the horizontal isn't holding. (Remember when there were adjustments on TVS??) It's irritating. But it's hard to get upset about it when I'm so lucky otherwise.

What a dull day. Did I mention I hate hospitals. They are so depressing. They make you feel so helpless and so frustrated.

JUST TYPING
Regimen.
Hospital.
They spend hours.
Collecting the same well-known data. Over and over.
Nothing much new...until a patient takes a radical turn.
The system can't anticipate.