After Surgery
With much trepidation and reluctance, Mum signed the consent form for surgery on her ankle,
Things then moved quickly; the operation was scheduled for the next day. As Mum was convinced she wouldn't survive, we all rallied round to cheer her up and give her some positive thoughts. Great grandson Al was very good news; more than anyone, he kept her happy, and managed to distract her for much of the time.
It is a horribly anxious time when someone you love is taken to theatre for an operation; Mum might not have been facing major heart surgery, but even so.......
After she had been wheeled off to the theatre, we sat by Mum's bed on the ward, and waited. After an hour or more, I asked a nurse if we could find out how things were going; she told me I could go down to the theatre reception area, and they would update me.
Happily, the news was good. They said Mum was doing just fine; the epidural had been effective, and she had been awake during the procedure. It would still be a little while before she was back on the ward, but at least she was on her way.
After that, it seemed time passed more quickly, and soon Mum was back in bed on the ward - complaining volubly about the freezing spray she had had to endure on her back, before the operation began. The doctor who accompanied her back to the ward squeezed her hand and said, "I know how cold it is....but it really was necessary, and you coped very well!"
It was clear Mum just needed to rest, and sleep. She was safely tucked up in bed, and that gave the rest of the family the chance to get home and relax, and catch up on some sleep as well. Being nervous, anxious, worried ..... it is an exhausting state to be in.
Early the next morning, I was back at the hospital; Mum was awake and quite chipper. The nursing staff said she had had a good night, and had had a bed bath, so I was able to help Mum to wash her face and clean her teeth, and get her started on eating her cornflakes.
During the course of the morning, the surgeon arrived on his rounds. After being so against letting him operate, now Mum was all smiles and extremely flirty! and thanked him profusely for taking such good care of her.
Out of Mum's earshot, he explained the full extent of what they had been able to do. He had inserted a metal plate and half a dozen screws on one side of Mum's left ankle, to hold everything together - looking at the X-rays, I saw a distinct resemblance to a bit of Meccano kit!
He said that although everything had gone well, Mum's bones were like cheese, and very crumbly, and she would need a lot of physiotherapy to help get her up and about again.
Even if Mum's ability to walk was going to be restricted in the future, at least I felt we were making some progress, and I knew we would all encourage her to follow a physiotherapy programme.
Mum stayed in hospital for a few more days; one of us continued to go twice a day, continuing the routine of an early morning visit, to make sure she ate her breakfast and took her medication, and a second visit in the early evening, to bring her dinner. There was certainly nothing wrong with Mum's appetite!
One evening, after I had got back from the hospital, and had just begun to think it was time I got to bed, there was a phone call from the Sister on the ward. Mum was fine, but they were moving her to another hospital, five miles further away.
"We'll do everything for Phyllis," the woman said, "you don't need to worry about anything."
By now it was about 11.30 at night.
"Just a minute," I said. "My Mum is 92 - it's very late at night, it's November, and it's very cold. Of course I shall go round and make sure she is alright, and settled on the new ward."
After another exchange or two, when I was told it was completely unnecessary for me to go, I finally managed to end the call - and end the idea of getting a good night's sleep, after a long day!
It was really hard to get ready to go out again, but it proved to be just as well that I did go to the new hospital.
When I arrived, I had to find out which ward Mum had been sent to; I was determined to check on her, and I would not take "no" for answer. I said I just wanted to reassure Mum that all was well; that she knew that I knew where she was; and that I would be back, first thing in the morning.
With much humming and ha-ing, I was finally allowed on the ward to see Mum. She was sitting in bed, wide awake, very upset, and shivering with cold. She also did not know if her personal items had come with her.
I was mightily unimpressed. I told one of the nurses, "My Mum has lived abroad for most of her life, in hot countries. She is not used to being moved out of doors in the middle of the night, when it is so cold, here in England. She needs extra blankets, and, whilst you're at it, have you got a hot water bottle for her?"
I didn't care if I ruffled feathers; my main concern was Mum, and she was so pleased to see me, and hear me asking for help and extra bedding. Presently, more blankets were provided, and I got Mum well wrapped up, snug and warm, and settled her down for the night. She was very happy when I found her personal bits and pieces in the locker by her bed. I promised her I would be back in the morning, as usual.
Then, at last, I could go home and get some rest.
Tuesday 30 May 2017
Monday 22 May 2017
After the Break (Part 3 - Surgical Decision)
After the Break (Part 3 - Surgical Decision)
Mum had been in hospital a few days, and had further checks and x-rays; it became clear her broken ankle wasn't going to heal without surgery.
A charming young orthopaedic surgeon came to explain the problem to Mum, but we could tell she wasn't really taking anything in. All she could hear was "operation" and "anaesthetic," and she was terrified.
The consultant was incredibly patient. Over and over again, he explained what they would need to do; he said they would try an epidural, rather than general anaesthesia, so she would be awake during the operation. She was visited by the anaesthetist, a jovial chap, who told her even if she did have to have to be asleep, modern anaesthetics are so good, and out of the system so quickly after an operation, they were much safer than the ones used when Mum was young, and she should really have the confidence to go ahead.
Somewhere in her head, I think Mum realised all along that there was no option but to sign the consent form, and get on with it; the longer she left it, the more difficult things would get. At last, after more cajoling from the surgeon, and reassurance from all the staff on the ward, Mum got hold of a pen, and, with a flourish, signed the form.
"That's it!" she cried, throwing the biro down. "I know that will be the last of me! I feel it in my bones, and I'm psychic!"
Following that outburst, Mum calmed down a bit; and then the staff ran a battery of tests on Mum which, amazingly for her age, came back as pretty good!
When Mum was a child, she had rheumatic fever, and we knew this had affected her heart. She had been diagnosed with a roughening on the mitral valve, and had always been told to ".......be very careful.... no exertion.....take care of your heart."
When Mum was a child, she had rheumatic fever, and we knew this had affected her heart. She had been diagnosed with a roughening on the mitral valve, and had always been told to ".......be very careful.... no exertion.....take care of your heart."
I think that all her life, Mum has been scared about the problems with her heart; yet looking back, you have to think, what a life she has had - and is still having! She grew up; got married; had a baby. Went out to East Africa; had a great career as an accountant. Travelled back and forth on many occasions between Africa and the UK by ship (in those years - the 40s, 50s and 60s - it was the only way to travel!) and then in the 70s and 80s, by air. When my Grandma died in Durban in 1985, and Mum came back to live in England permanently, she got herself another job in London, and carried on working until she was over 70! Not bad for someone who had been told to "...... take it easy, and be careful. "
Tuesday 16 May 2017
After the Break (Part 2 - Hospital Life)
After the Break (Part 2 - Hospital Life)
As I had promised Mum on the evening she was admitted on the ward, I was back at the hospital very early the next morning.
Because of her age, I was allowed in to see her. The nurses said Mum hadn't had a bad night, but neither had she had much sleep, and it was clear she was not going to co-operate until I arrived.
Mum doesn't like having her face touched, and would not allow anyone to help her to brush her teeth - she may not have many left, but she does like to attend to them herself! and she does not have false teeth. Fortunately, I had brought toothpaste and her toothbrush with me, so I said I would help her. With her broken ankle, obviously Mum couldn't get to the bathroom, so I had brought a beaker with water, and a dish to rinse into, which meant that even though she was lying in bed, she could manage everything herself.
It is surprising how quickly you can get used to a completely new way of life - one governed by hospital visits, getting into a new routine, as well as coming up against bureaucracy, and having to find ways round it, to make sure the person you love is going to get the best possible attention and treatment.
Mum has always been a pernickety eater; in this respect, Mum and I are alike. We are not at all adventurous in a restaurant, and like very plain food, with nothing added. We like to see and know exactly what we are getting. I think this probably stems from when we lived in East Africa, and some of the food could be a bit suspect. I remember on one occasion being served fish for dinner at an exclusive venue; it lay on the plate, smothered in a very pungent sauce. Even with the smell of the herbs, or whatever was in the dressing, I was still wary, and scraped everything off - my father was angry, and kept telling me to stop being ridiculous and get on and eat it, but I persevered, until the fish was completed exposed; and it was clearly "off!" Great apologies from the manager of the restaurant followed, but by then I was also "off" pretty well anything else he tried to tempt me with, and ended up with some mashed potatoes, carrots and peas. That suited me just fine.
Mum also found the food in hospital left a lot to be desired, and she wouldn't eat it. I didn't expect the meals to be as good as good home cooking, and I was also concerned about the cleanliness of the crockery. I have no idea how the washing up was achieved, but when we were offered tea in cups that had not one, but several stale tannin rings still inside them, it was clear they had missed being cleaned properly. I was very concerned about this lack of attention to detail.
There were other problems, too. Mum cannot swallow pills easily, and takes them on a spoon with her cornflakes. This may not be the ideal way to take one's medication, but at least everything goes down in the end! The nurses were putting Mum's pills in a little plastic pot, and expecting her to take them like that; the pills sat on the bedside table all day, and no amount of persuasion would get Mum to swallow them.
This could not go on. I had a discussion with the senior ward manager, and got permission to bring Mum's food in for her, and so began a routine where I would visit Mum twice a day. When I arrived first thing in the morning, Mum had been washed and was sitting up in bed; I then helped her to do her face and teeth. After that, I served her cornflakes, with lots of full cream milk, which she loves. (At this time, it was considered skimmed, or at the most, semi-skimmed, milk was all that people should use; I took the view that at 92, if Mum fancied full cream milk, she could have it!) As the cornflakes went down, so did her medication; she happily swallowed everything. It really was not difficult, and I think the staff were reasonably happy to know there was at least one patient on the ward being given "special" attention.
For a snack at lunch time, I made either ginger jam or strawberry jam sandwiches;these were left at Mum's bedside for her to enjoy when she wanted something to eat. After breakfast, and whilst Mum had a morning nap, I went back home, to catch up a bit on things I had to do.
At about 5.30, I began cooking Mum's evening meal; as soon as it was ready, I would quickly dish up. Carrots, peas - whatever vegetables Mum fancied - potatoes and perhaps fish, or a dish of cauliflower cheese - all beautifully separate on the plate, and steaming hot. A swift wrap of foil, and then the plate snugly fitted into a hot box we had made, and I was in the car and off, back to the hospital.
Even allowing for the drive, and finding parking, and getting up to the ward, by the time I uncovered the plate for Mum, the food was still piping hot, and she tucked in. When you have an ordeal to face, you need to keep your strength up, and I could not bear to think of Mum not eating properly.
What I didn't know on the morning of 5 November, was that this routine would go on for another four and a half months! For the whole of the time Mum was in hospital, at least one member of the family visited her twice a day, every single day. It was not a case of, "Well, it was nearly every day...." or "We only missed going on a couple of days...." Someone was there, without fail, to help with her washing, her medication and her food.
As I had promised Mum on the evening she was admitted on the ward, I was back at the hospital very early the next morning.
Because of her age, I was allowed in to see her. The nurses said Mum hadn't had a bad night, but neither had she had much sleep, and it was clear she was not going to co-operate until I arrived.
Mum doesn't like having her face touched, and would not allow anyone to help her to brush her teeth - she may not have many left, but she does like to attend to them herself! and she does not have false teeth. Fortunately, I had brought toothpaste and her toothbrush with me, so I said I would help her. With her broken ankle, obviously Mum couldn't get to the bathroom, so I had brought a beaker with water, and a dish to rinse into, which meant that even though she was lying in bed, she could manage everything herself.
It is surprising how quickly you can get used to a completely new way of life - one governed by hospital visits, getting into a new routine, as well as coming up against bureaucracy, and having to find ways round it, to make sure the person you love is going to get the best possible attention and treatment.
Mum has always been a pernickety eater; in this respect, Mum and I are alike. We are not at all adventurous in a restaurant, and like very plain food, with nothing added. We like to see and know exactly what we are getting. I think this probably stems from when we lived in East Africa, and some of the food could be a bit suspect. I remember on one occasion being served fish for dinner at an exclusive venue; it lay on the plate, smothered in a very pungent sauce. Even with the smell of the herbs, or whatever was in the dressing, I was still wary, and scraped everything off - my father was angry, and kept telling me to stop being ridiculous and get on and eat it, but I persevered, until the fish was completed exposed; and it was clearly "off!" Great apologies from the manager of the restaurant followed, but by then I was also "off" pretty well anything else he tried to tempt me with, and ended up with some mashed potatoes, carrots and peas. That suited me just fine.
Mum also found the food in hospital left a lot to be desired, and she wouldn't eat it. I didn't expect the meals to be as good as good home cooking, and I was also concerned about the cleanliness of the crockery. I have no idea how the washing up was achieved, but when we were offered tea in cups that had not one, but several stale tannin rings still inside them, it was clear they had missed being cleaned properly. I was very concerned about this lack of attention to detail.
There were other problems, too. Mum cannot swallow pills easily, and takes them on a spoon with her cornflakes. This may not be the ideal way to take one's medication, but at least everything goes down in the end! The nurses were putting Mum's pills in a little plastic pot, and expecting her to take them like that; the pills sat on the bedside table all day, and no amount of persuasion would get Mum to swallow them.
This could not go on. I had a discussion with the senior ward manager, and got permission to bring Mum's food in for her, and so began a routine where I would visit Mum twice a day. When I arrived first thing in the morning, Mum had been washed and was sitting up in bed; I then helped her to do her face and teeth. After that, I served her cornflakes, with lots of full cream milk, which she loves. (At this time, it was considered skimmed, or at the most, semi-skimmed, milk was all that people should use; I took the view that at 92, if Mum fancied full cream milk, she could have it!) As the cornflakes went down, so did her medication; she happily swallowed everything. It really was not difficult, and I think the staff were reasonably happy to know there was at least one patient on the ward being given "special" attention.
For a snack at lunch time, I made either ginger jam or strawberry jam sandwiches;these were left at Mum's bedside for her to enjoy when she wanted something to eat. After breakfast, and whilst Mum had a morning nap, I went back home, to catch up a bit on things I had to do.
At about 5.30, I began cooking Mum's evening meal; as soon as it was ready, I would quickly dish up. Carrots, peas - whatever vegetables Mum fancied - potatoes and perhaps fish, or a dish of cauliflower cheese - all beautifully separate on the plate, and steaming hot. A swift wrap of foil, and then the plate snugly fitted into a hot box we had made, and I was in the car and off, back to the hospital.
Even allowing for the drive, and finding parking, and getting up to the ward, by the time I uncovered the plate for Mum, the food was still piping hot, and she tucked in. When you have an ordeal to face, you need to keep your strength up, and I could not bear to think of Mum not eating properly.
What I didn't know on the morning of 5 November, was that this routine would go on for another four and a half months! For the whole of the time Mum was in hospital, at least one member of the family visited her twice a day, every single day. It was not a case of, "Well, it was nearly every day...." or "We only missed going on a couple of days...." Someone was there, without fail, to help with her washing, her medication and her food.
Tuesday 9 May 2017
After the break (Part 1)
After the Break (Part 1)
On 4 November 2011, one week after celebrating her 92nd birthday, Mum broke her ankle. For years, she had refused to use the equipment physiotherapists had recommended for her - Zimmer frames were absolutely not part of Mum's idea of how she could be helped to walk. They were not good for her image as a keen walker - ("I don't need any help!" she would say, "I can walk ten miles a day!") -and she insisted on using a low, four-legged stool for support. She would lean on it, move a step along, then pick up the stool, throw it in front of her a few more inches, before taking another step forward.
On this particular evening, the "accident that was waiting to happen," happened. Her foot got tangled up in one of the legs of the footstool, and she went over, landing on the floor. In one way, it was a relief that it was "only" her ankle that at that moment was twisted at an impossible angle; we had nightmares about her hip, or shoulder, being fractured.
The ambulance arrived within a few minutes, and the paramedics were terrific. They got Mum loaded into the ambulance and we drove off to hospital with the blue light flashing; they radioed ahead, so there was someone to meet us at A&E.
Strangely, Mum did not seem to be in much pain, but that of course could have been due to the shock of the fall; in fact, we were all in shock at how swiftly what we thought would be a normal evening, had turned into a trip to the hospital, with an unknown outcome to be faced.
Waiting is the worst part, they say; your mind starts racing, turning over every possibility, and your stomach is churning when you think of operations and anaesthetics and the attendant risks for elderly patients. Whenever someone comes near the door of the relatives' waiting room, you are in a constant state of expectation that a doctor might be on his way to talk to you.
Nurses popped in and out to say they were checking on Mum, and taking her to X-ray, etc., so they did their best to reassure us; after about 3 hours, one of the doctors came out to explain what they had done so far. He said they had not anaesthetised Mum, but she had been very heavily sedated, so that they could manipulate her ankle and get it well supported.
"We are going to admit her on the ward now," he told us, "and your Mum is awake, and quite cheerful. Don't worry; she didn't feel anything, and she won't remember anything we did, either."
When we saw Mum, she was indeed very happy, and chatty! It was such a relief. The doctor went on to say they would keep her in for a few days to monitor how things were going, but there was still a possibility she would have to undergo surgery to have a plate inserted; it was a case of wait and see.
Mum, in spite of what she had just been through, was listening to all of this. Suddenly, very loudly, and very clearly, she said, "I'm NOT having an operation!" and got quite upset - she obviously understood what the doctor meant, and so we all rallied round to soothe her, and explain nothing like that had been decided upon.
Thus mollified, Mum calmed down; we followed her up to the ward and saw her settled in bed. I promised her I would be back, first thing in the morning.
Reassuring Mum like that brought back another, almost forgotten, memory for me.
When I was a little girl, aged 5, I spent a week in hospital in Liverpool, undergoing investigations for persistent tummy trouble - probably a bug I had picked up when we were in East Africa, that had worsened into chronic gastro enteritis. I remember how frightened I was, being left alone, and Mum had sat by my bed, promising, "I will be back, first thing tomorrow." These were the years when hospital visiting hours, even for children, were very limited, and strictly adhered to. Nevertheless, early the next morning, whilst I was feeling especially small and scared, and wondering what tests I was in for, I heard my Mum's voice at the far end of the ward, telling the Sister on duty she had come to see me.
My mother would brook no argument; she made sure she saw me twice a day. That gave me such confidence, to know that she would be back later on as well, that I was able to bear the long hours in between. At 5, I could read, but I think the staff didn't believe I would have liked a book, or something to do! and so fear of the unknown was coupled with boredom.
Being able to tell Mum, at her age of 92, that I would also be back first thing in the morning, made me realise, yet again, that everything we learn in life is never wasted.
On 4 November 2011, one week after celebrating her 92nd birthday, Mum broke her ankle. For years, she had refused to use the equipment physiotherapists had recommended for her - Zimmer frames were absolutely not part of Mum's idea of how she could be helped to walk. They were not good for her image as a keen walker - ("I don't need any help!" she would say, "I can walk ten miles a day!") -and she insisted on using a low, four-legged stool for support. She would lean on it, move a step along, then pick up the stool, throw it in front of her a few more inches, before taking another step forward.
On this particular evening, the "accident that was waiting to happen," happened. Her foot got tangled up in one of the legs of the footstool, and she went over, landing on the floor. In one way, it was a relief that it was "only" her ankle that at that moment was twisted at an impossible angle; we had nightmares about her hip, or shoulder, being fractured.
The ambulance arrived within a few minutes, and the paramedics were terrific. They got Mum loaded into the ambulance and we drove off to hospital with the blue light flashing; they radioed ahead, so there was someone to meet us at A&E.
Strangely, Mum did not seem to be in much pain, but that of course could have been due to the shock of the fall; in fact, we were all in shock at how swiftly what we thought would be a normal evening, had turned into a trip to the hospital, with an unknown outcome to be faced.
Waiting is the worst part, they say; your mind starts racing, turning over every possibility, and your stomach is churning when you think of operations and anaesthetics and the attendant risks for elderly patients. Whenever someone comes near the door of the relatives' waiting room, you are in a constant state of expectation that a doctor might be on his way to talk to you.
Nurses popped in and out to say they were checking on Mum, and taking her to X-ray, etc., so they did their best to reassure us; after about 3 hours, one of the doctors came out to explain what they had done so far. He said they had not anaesthetised Mum, but she had been very heavily sedated, so that they could manipulate her ankle and get it well supported.
"We are going to admit her on the ward now," he told us, "and your Mum is awake, and quite cheerful. Don't worry; she didn't feel anything, and she won't remember anything we did, either."
When we saw Mum, she was indeed very happy, and chatty! It was such a relief. The doctor went on to say they would keep her in for a few days to monitor how things were going, but there was still a possibility she would have to undergo surgery to have a plate inserted; it was a case of wait and see.
Mum, in spite of what she had just been through, was listening to all of this. Suddenly, very loudly, and very clearly, she said, "I'm NOT having an operation!" and got quite upset - she obviously understood what the doctor meant, and so we all rallied round to soothe her, and explain nothing like that had been decided upon.
Thus mollified, Mum calmed down; we followed her up to the ward and saw her settled in bed. I promised her I would be back, first thing in the morning.
Reassuring Mum like that brought back another, almost forgotten, memory for me.
When I was a little girl, aged 5, I spent a week in hospital in Liverpool, undergoing investigations for persistent tummy trouble - probably a bug I had picked up when we were in East Africa, that had worsened into chronic gastro enteritis. I remember how frightened I was, being left alone, and Mum had sat by my bed, promising, "I will be back, first thing tomorrow." These were the years when hospital visiting hours, even for children, were very limited, and strictly adhered to. Nevertheless, early the next morning, whilst I was feeling especially small and scared, and wondering what tests I was in for, I heard my Mum's voice at the far end of the ward, telling the Sister on duty she had come to see me.
My mother would brook no argument; she made sure she saw me twice a day. That gave me such confidence, to know that she would be back later on as well, that I was able to bear the long hours in between. At 5, I could read, but I think the staff didn't believe I would have liked a book, or something to do! and so fear of the unknown was coupled with boredom.
Being able to tell Mum, at her age of 92, that I would also be back first thing in the morning, made me realise, yet again, that everything we learn in life is never wasted.
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