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.
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