Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Wednesay 30 Sept. 2009

Today’s Update told in part by Mom:

His night was quiet, though the sedation worn off more and more. Meaning, of course, that he grew more and more agitated. He’s still in the twilight stage between waking and sleeping, though.

Mom told me that he was opening his eyes more, and that he followed her voice. She also mentioned how, when she was asking him over and over if she could get him anything, he came out and grouched, “Don’t. Want. Anything.”

I went in and spoke with him a bit. Grandpa was there, and as I spoke to Dad, we noticed Dad turned to face me each time.

As I was there, the [guy] nurse took numbers, told me he was doing very well. His temperature was down to 99, and his kidneys were working fine. He sipped water from a spoon, and when the [lady] nurse asked [me] if she he wanted juice, or if she should get him ice, Dad nodded at the ice suggestion. He chewed that easily, almost normally.

I had to leave after that, but Mom told me this next part.

She went in and asked him if he wanted anything. He shook his head slightly, but puckered his lips for a kiss. She gave him one and he smiled a bit. Then he got more difficult.

The drugs wore off enough to a point that he was constantly struggling to get out of bed. Mom was there, telling him to sit down, behave, that he’d just been in surgery, etc. She helped hold him down, tiring herself out in the process.

He said he wanted to “Go. Now.” Mom told him the tubes and everything were coming off tomorrow, but he said, “No, now.” She said, “No, tomorrow.” He made a face, and Mom asked the [guy] nurse if Dad had just sneered at her. He responded with something like, “I was just thinking that.”

She continued her litany of what had happened, how he had to stay in bed. At some point, she and Grandma saw him move his mouth, as if he were mimicking/mocking her—or cursing her out.

When this struggle had gone on for nearly 3 hours, Mom said they had to put him out. She was tired, they were tired, and he needed to rest himself. So they sedated him again.

Mom and I went in after the drugs had settled him. He looked fine, though his sheets were all askew. The [lady] nurse mentioned that Dad had said “Don’t touch” after Mo m had left. Mom and I shared a look—same ole Dad, wanting to be left alone and all.

As we were in the room for a bit, the High Desert manager came in to talk to Mom. High Desert is the medical group we go to, and this guy {Mike} wanted to discuss the future with her. They spoke about therapy, what might be expected. What I really want to mention his that Mike said Dad was doing very well. Mom called Dad a miracle man, and Mike said he’d just started reviewing the file, but that it did look that way. Mike went on to say that he’d seen people who’d had the heart-attack, but not the aneurism [surgery], who looked much worse than Dad. We could tell he was quite impress with the way Dad looked.

We left then, with Dad quiet and resting. We’re going back later today, and we’ll see what happens then.

- Kim

Wednesday Evening

So we go back to the hospital and get to the ICU ward about 6:50pm.

On the way in, we pass Ida, his day nurse, and she says “He pulled out his cords.”

Mom, who’d rested and had been feeling upbeat, suddenly wobbled a bit.

Dad had several cords and wires in him, tubes to bled him from center chest, to the left of his chest, a thing in his wrist to give him blood, and a catheter (for him to pee in the bag).

He’d managed to pull out his left cord, and his catheter.

Ida just rebandaged the side, but had to reapply the catheter.

We went in to see him. He looked fine, the bandage on his side noticeably thick. Less machines around, less cords on him.

The doctor, Dr. Gill, came in to see him, dressed in street clothes. Nice street clothes, but it was still clear this was a personal visit, not a check-up. Dr. Gill was the heart surgeon who more/less saved Dad’s life.

Dr. Gill learned about the incident, and Mom was like, “Can you believe it?”

The doctor said, half-shrugging [but also smiling slightly], “Well, they were going to come out tomorrow.”

Mom pointed out Dad’s not qualified to pull them out. The doctor slightly shrugged and said, “It’s the way they’re pulled out.”

We talked around some more, some serious, some goofy. Before he left, I asked him about Dad’s breathing, and the doctor leaned over to hear—and then requested a chest X-ray. Hah.

Dad got restless a bit, and tried to get out of the bed. He quieted down when I spoke to him, though, and I told him how he was in the hospital, why he was, and why he shouldn’t move.

We had to leave when they brought the x-ray machine in, and Mom called about to update them on Dad’s exploits.

That took forever of course, so I’m just going to skip that.

We go back in and they’re done x-raying him, but he’s still restless. He struggles, he pulls, he holds [too] tight to Mom’s hand.

I grab his hand instead, calling him Dad, and reminding him of his situation. He still struggled a bit, so I told him it hurt me when he pulled on his arm too much, and he stopped. He mumbled some, but I couldn’t make it out.

He went to sleep with me holding his hand, and Mom asked the nurse to douse the lights, and made me [and everyone else] be really quiet.

Eventually we left, and he was still quiet.

- Kim

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