What am I here for
Rebecca Wardell
Mum left for the hospital at 7am, she didn't want Dad to be on his own for any longer than was necessary. I had offered to stay with him for the night. How terrifying to wake up in a bed without the wife you've spent nearly every night with for the last 42 years and to not know where you are, why she's not there and what's happening. Evidently more advanced Alzheimer's patients can wake up next to that same partner of 50 odd years and think they've been attacked or taken advantage of by this stranger in some way. This person they don't recognise that is inexplicably in their bed.
After Dad's INR had been measured by a blood test, they confirmed the operation could go forward that day. Mum called me and I left home, racing up to be there perhaps more for her than for him. As I approached the hospital I was amused to note the 'slow patients crossing' sign. Everywhere I have travelled I have noted signs alerting the driver to an assortment of entities subject to 'crossing'. Early in life I had been restricted to cows' crossings, but later, appearances were made by moose, children, otters, heavy plants and camels to name but a few. I've even seen on a busy major highway outside Kilmarnock 'Caution Old People Crossing'. I wouldn't fancy my own chances of crossing that particular road let alone the poor lady propping herself up on a gentlemen leaning heavily on a sagging stick who is depicted in silhouette on the sign.
When I arrived, the anaesthetist was there and Mum wasn't. Dad was happily denying any heart conditions as I entered. I quickly interjected 'He's had a heart attack, a stent and an angioplasty.' Then, 'And he has a regularly irregular heart beat (evidently this is quite noteworthy in these contexts)'.
The anaesthetist took the decision to start the questions again. Although, they actually in large part mimicked those asked by the first nurse yesterday who had then jotted down the answers. Then the attending Doctor had gone through the same questions. Finally a third nurse had asked identical questions once more. I wondered if this was some sort of interrogation technique developed in a post war world; politely and pleasantly ask the same questions over and over as if it was perfectly normal to waste everybody's time, eventually the patient will break and tell the truth 'no sir, please don't ask me again, it's true, I'm allergic to cotton wool
The anaesthetist continued 'And have you had any operations.'
'I had my gall bladder removed,' replied Dad. That operation occurred more than 40 years ago, his powers of recall about historic events are amazingly unhindered.
'He has also had two hernia operations and the angioplasty,' I supplemented.
'Does he have any artificial items in his body?'
'Just his plate in his mouth and his glass eye.'
Not looking up from his clip board 'Glass eye? And can he see through it?'
'No it's a glass eye,' I said slowly, though trying to keep the sceptical tone out of my voice. I saw his bemused look, 'it comes out... like a marble.'
Surely other people in the world have glass eyes. Is it that difficult a concept? I'd had to draw a picture the night before to explain it to the nurse. I think it a shame that few if any of the medical staff hales from our own country. Whilst they do a fantastic and faultless job, it is in some ways preferable to communicate with someone who shares the same first language and whose accent one can therefore easily decipher. Though I did quite like the nurse talking about Dad's pie jamass the night before, I felt maybe I should incorporate it into my everyday parlance.
Finding myself alone with Dad, worried about how he'd coped last night I asked how he'd been and if he was worried when he woke up, this of course worried him 'Why? Should I have been?' he said, somewhat alarmed. I must watch what I say.
'What am I here for? I don't like it,' he complained.
'You're having a minor procedure on your knee today, it's been bothering you for 6 months,' I explained, as I had been explaining in its various stages for the last 6 months.
'Oh,' he said quietly.
At 11am Dad was carted away. My brother had now turned up and Mum rejoined us. We three sat about in awkward silence. An operation which for a younger man wouldn't even warrant an overnight stay suddenly becomes a thing of great pith and moment when the subject is 78, a victim of one heart attack, an Alzheimer's sufferer and on every medication known to man. Dad wasn't allowed to even see the inside of an operating theatre before every 'ologist ever invented had signed off that he would most likely also afterwards see the outside of that operating theatre.
Later, Mr. Johnson came to the room, he confirmed that everything had gone to plan and he is satisfied. Dad was in recovery. We all breathed a sigh of relief.
'Where are you taking me?' a hoarse grumpy voice emanated from the corridor. 'Why are you all here?' as the voice entered the room to see its immediate family. 'You're here to say good bye.' He was feeling very sorry for himself. 'Why am I so tired?'
'You've just had an operation'
'Why am I so hoarse? I'm thirsty.'
'You can't have anything until your drip has finished.'
Mercifully he started to drift off to sleep and we all relaxed. Later, on waking, he looked about; a nurse was in to check his blood pressure.
'What am I doing here?' he said.
'You're here for an operation.'
He looked to the pretty nurse 'So when am I having this operation?'
