Day Six
On Monday morning Daniel, the kids and I packed up at Mom and Dad's house and got ready to head back home. I hated leaving but it's unfair to keep my entire family's lives on hold when this could go on for months. Mary has activities and Christmas programs this week, and Daniel has a grant proposal to write. But we've sworn to return in a week, when we have a few days of calm.
I called the hospital for an update on Dad before I left. They asked me to wait before I came in, because they had a collection of procedures going on -- mostly doctor's visits, but they were also giving him blood to help boost his blood pressure and improve his oxygen levels (which weren't bad, but they are always a concern). But we went to visit, and I was allowed back at 10:30, a good two hours before visiting time. Dad's eyes were half-open, but he was heavily sedated, so he really couldn't even squeeze my hand. But he knew I was there -- it looked like he mouthed my name around the respirator tube.
While I was back there, I got an update from the nurse and a respiratory MD who were on hand. Dad's eyes were yellow, which meant he had some jaundice -- probably nothing to worry about, I was told, but he had so many medicines in his body that his liver was getting a bit backed up. And the respiratory expert said he was there because Dad had fluid in his lungs and on his heart. They didn't know if that was a worry or not, but he said it probably wasn't. (It seems to me that if there are enough non-worries, don't they pile up and become a worry? And do they mean it shouldn't be a worry for me, which is useless since everything worries me, or that it isn't a worry for them, which also seems wrong since they don't have the emotional investment in this that we do, so something negative might not actually bea worry?) At any rate, he said the fluid either meant he had too many fluids in him, which was a possibility since they'd had to boost them after his first diuretic and subsequent rough night, but seemed unlikely because those same fluids were supporting his blood pressure and oxygen levels; or that something was leaking inside, which still wasn't a serious problem, given all he'd been through, and it was certainly likely that the leak would heal itself.
After the surgeon stepped aside, I started trying to talk to Dad. Unfortunately, the surgeon sat across from the foot of his bed and started a phone conversation during which he began discussing lung transplants. He didn't want to do a lung transplant, he said, because the patient was still on a respirator, and couldn't even be transferred, let along transplanted. I was starting to get very alarmed -- lung transplants?? How serious is this problem of fluids, after all?? It was very hard to keep my train of thought talking to Dad. Finally I heard the doctor refer to the patient as "she". Phew. Doctors need to think about where they are when they have a conversation like that!
Anyway, I surprised myself by managing to keep up a 10-minute-long monologue to Dad, discussing inane things about my plans for the week at home, and avoiding the issue of my impending departure. But finally it became clear that I had to leave or we'd never get back home in time for Mary's Daisies party. When I opened my mouth to tell Dad it was time for me to go, I could hardly speak. It took me at least a full minute to squeak out the word "Goodbye." I just have no idea what a week will bring, and giving up even one precious minute with Dad was at that moment all but unthinkable. I made it as far as the empty mini-waiting room within the ICU before I fell apart -- the first time I'd cried since Wednesday. It didn't matter that I pulled it together to say goodbye to Mom and my sisters (Katie, Amy and Mom had arrived while I was back with Dad), because it was obvious I'd lost control of the front I'd been maintaining (as we all have been attempting to to), and I think I cried through the whole first hour of the drive home.
All my news since I left has been second-hand, so I'm hoping the others will start posting with more detailed info than I can give. I called after each visiting half-hour for updates. They reintroduced the diuretic yesterday, which I guess went better than the first time. Katie reported that Dad's eyes were only yellow in the lower half -- when they visited he had his eyes open fully. Mom read to Dad from a James Herriot collection, which he seemed to enjoy, though he nodded that he'd had enough after one chapter. He was responsive, but not extremely so -- Amy said today she suspects he has his eyes open because he's really not sleepy (how much can one person sleep in a week?) and wants to be with us, but he's so heavily sedated that he can't move much, even to squeeze our hands. They dropped his oxygen level a bit, which we also have to consider forward progress.
I called the hospital for an update on Dad before I left. They asked me to wait before I came in, because they had a collection of procedures going on -- mostly doctor's visits, but they were also giving him blood to help boost his blood pressure and improve his oxygen levels (which weren't bad, but they are always a concern). But we went to visit, and I was allowed back at 10:30, a good two hours before visiting time. Dad's eyes were half-open, but he was heavily sedated, so he really couldn't even squeeze my hand. But he knew I was there -- it looked like he mouthed my name around the respirator tube.
While I was back there, I got an update from the nurse and a respiratory MD who were on hand. Dad's eyes were yellow, which meant he had some jaundice -- probably nothing to worry about, I was told, but he had so many medicines in his body that his liver was getting a bit backed up. And the respiratory expert said he was there because Dad had fluid in his lungs and on his heart. They didn't know if that was a worry or not, but he said it probably wasn't. (It seems to me that if there are enough non-worries, don't they pile up and become a worry? And do they mean it shouldn't be a worry for me, which is useless since everything worries me, or that it isn't a worry for them, which also seems wrong since they don't have the emotional investment in this that we do, so something negative might not actually bea worry?) At any rate, he said the fluid either meant he had too many fluids in him, which was a possibility since they'd had to boost them after his first diuretic and subsequent rough night, but seemed unlikely because those same fluids were supporting his blood pressure and oxygen levels; or that something was leaking inside, which still wasn't a serious problem, given all he'd been through, and it was certainly likely that the leak would heal itself.
After the surgeon stepped aside, I started trying to talk to Dad. Unfortunately, the surgeon sat across from the foot of his bed and started a phone conversation during which he began discussing lung transplants. He didn't want to do a lung transplant, he said, because the patient was still on a respirator, and couldn't even be transferred, let along transplanted. I was starting to get very alarmed -- lung transplants?? How serious is this problem of fluids, after all?? It was very hard to keep my train of thought talking to Dad. Finally I heard the doctor refer to the patient as "she". Phew. Doctors need to think about where they are when they have a conversation like that!
Anyway, I surprised myself by managing to keep up a 10-minute-long monologue to Dad, discussing inane things about my plans for the week at home, and avoiding the issue of my impending departure. But finally it became clear that I had to leave or we'd never get back home in time for Mary's Daisies party. When I opened my mouth to tell Dad it was time for me to go, I could hardly speak. It took me at least a full minute to squeak out the word "Goodbye." I just have no idea what a week will bring, and giving up even one precious minute with Dad was at that moment all but unthinkable. I made it as far as the empty mini-waiting room within the ICU before I fell apart -- the first time I'd cried since Wednesday. It didn't matter that I pulled it together to say goodbye to Mom and my sisters (Katie, Amy and Mom had arrived while I was back with Dad), because it was obvious I'd lost control of the front I'd been maintaining (as we all have been attempting to to), and I think I cried through the whole first hour of the drive home.
All my news since I left has been second-hand, so I'm hoping the others will start posting with more detailed info than I can give. I called after each visiting half-hour for updates. They reintroduced the diuretic yesterday, which I guess went better than the first time. Katie reported that Dad's eyes were only yellow in the lower half -- when they visited he had his eyes open fully. Mom read to Dad from a James Herriot collection, which he seemed to enjoy, though he nodded that he'd had enough after one chapter. He was responsive, but not extremely so -- Amy said today she suspects he has his eyes open because he's really not sleepy (how much can one person sleep in a week?) and wants to be with us, but he's so heavily sedated that he can't move much, even to squeeze our hands. They dropped his oxygen level a bit, which we also have to consider forward progress.
posted by Emily @ 7:07 PM
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