If you’ve read any of my recent posts, you know that my mother has been in and out of the hospital of late. In early December she had a severe respiratory arrest which landed her in the ER and then the intensive care unit, hooked up to a ventilator via a breathing tube. She managed to cheat the angel of death, though, and after 39 days was sent home. My brother is very dedicated to my mother, and each day put in 8 or even 10 hour vigils at her bedside. I tried to keep working half-days at my job, but still spent an average of 6 hours in the hospital. I was there on the day she was put on a gurney for the ride home; she looked as happy as a kid being pulled for a ride in a Radio Flyer wagon (or flying downhill on a Flexible Flyer sled). It was great to see that smile, and it was also great to get my life back (admittedly my brother bears the brunt of her home care needs, which increased because of what happened).
Things seemed to settle down nicely over the following three weeks. Then suddenly, my mother had another attack and was back in the ER with the ventilator pipe back in her throat. She survived the hit once again and was soon back in the intensive care ward. And for me it was back to working half days and spending long hours in a hospital room doing nothing (my brother again went the extra mile and pretty much stopped going to work).
Right away, it was apparent that this was going to be worse for me than the first time (although my mother regained consciousness fairly quickly, so it was not as bad for her — albeit, it was still bad). It seemed like being put in prison. Your freedom is taken away; hospital staff tell you when you can and can’t be in the room, and you’d best take their orders. If you stay past visiting hours, sometimes a guard comes over and tells you to leave. There are no computers to get things done on, no gym to work out in, no interesting places to walk, and not much in terms of eating places offering food that’s worth eating (I mostly brought my own snacks to survive on). I really dreaded all the hassle in driving to the hospital every day, trying to find a parking space, then just sitting there until ordered to move by a nurse or doctor, with little solace other than a book to read under dim, eyestraining light. (The one consolation was that I did get some reading done.) Yes there’s TV, but most everything on was uninteresting.
After a week it wasn’t so bad. You can get used to most anything, I suppose. And my mother started getting better once again. She was finally transferred to a private room in the recovery ward, where things are quieter and you don’t get bossed around as much. And then yesterday, the guys with the gurney and the van came again to bring her home — alive, and if not completely well, at least a good bit better. She was pretty sleepy this time, but once she got home and was back in her room, she managed to break into a beatific smile. And that was my reward once more. It all makes some sense once you see that.
Of course, I don’t want to do this again anytime soon! Thus, my brother and I purchased a home breathing machine for my mother, a bi-level “P.A.P.” with timed breathing options (just like the hospital ventilators). We’re hoping it will forestall another respiratory inflammation attack and keep her home.
Barack Obama has expressed regret that he wasn’t with his mother in her final days (which were largely spent in a hospital ward). My inbred reaction to that is “yea, right; a skilled politician like you will say anything to get sympathy and keep from appearing cold and heartless, which you probably are, like most other politicians”. But for now I’m going to put my cynicism aside. President Obama is right to regret never having seen the relieved and satisfied look on the face of an aging relative coming home after a grueling hospital stay. And also never having had the knowledge that he had something to do with it. They also serve who only stand and wait, as John Milton said; and on rare occasion we waiters even get to feel good about it.
had a chance to become a pro basketball player. That kid was Leslie Cason. Les was a tall, lanky guy who made a great center, propelling our high school basketball team to an undefeated season and a regional championship during my senior year.
But if you do believe me, you can see that I was approaching the test like a true eternal student, pouring out the words with all my heart and soul (and much of my brain, hopefully). As to Les . . . well, he looks to be holding up the test page, wondering what to do. I suppose that he eventually did write something, that it wasn’t all that good, and that it didn’t matter. Our English teacher, Mr. Luterzo (who looked a bit like James Karen, i.e. 