WRITING TO HELP HEAL MY BREAKING HEART

YELLOW DOG FARM, 421 Strongs Road, Jaspers Brush.

Sunday, 21st August 2005.

I’m writing this because I don’t know how else to express what I am feeling right now.   I’m terrified of being a drama queen and know I need to get some relief from all the emotions trapped inside.

My Dad is in hospital.   I took him there on Monday in an ambulance after finding him burning hot, vomiting, unable to speak and non compusmentis.    Two hours before that I had had the thought that my Dad may get ill – as my Mom has been ill in bed for 10 days with a virus, vomiting and with flu.    I’ve been back and forth between their house and our house as Gerald has been sick in bed for 5 days with a serious urinary tract infection.   Trying to change sheets for him and for Mom and cook meals for the two families and monitor medication has been a challenge, but one which I thought I’ve handled ineffectively, sometimes bossily, when one or other of them wanted something out of what has had to be a very time structured routine.

When I saw Dad I thought he had had a stroke so it was somewhat reassuring to know after the cat scan that Dad had not had a stroke, at least not a major one – perhaps smaller ones, but it was a virus (they think).     Making the decision to call the ambulance.   Leaving my mother, alone, still sick, at home, so I could go to the hospital with Dad.   Overcoming the practicalities of getting him out of his bed with the ambos and into a chair, and then how to get him out of the house, steps at back and front.   A brand new ambo, on the job 5 weeks, and obviously so, with an experienced older woman.   Both delightful.

At the hospital and relieved to see David Miles, one of the doctors on duty, my old friend, ex Landmark Forum leader.   In the next minute, Sister Patricia, who at my request came to the folks house just two days ago to give them both communion as neither of them were well enough to attend mass with me.   Giving all the details again to a blur of nurses and David – everybody so short staffed, everybody as pleasant as can be.  Thank God we are not in Zambia.

And my Dad.  So frail looking and the first time I think I have seen him without his small dental plate – just one small tooth on one side of his upper jaw, and two smaller ones at the back.    Even in his delirium, asks me to put his plate in.   David suggests not – they need to check his breathing, airways, carotid, swallowing.     Holding his burning head into a plastic sheath to vomit in.    Bright yellow projectile vomit every half hour.    Bright green phlegm.   Anxiously awaiting the physician.  He is the one who decides on a cat scan, tests, whether Dad will be admitted.    Are there any beds?   Dad’s speech is very hard to understand.

I have interpreted what he says and I think what he wanted, as nobody knew what he was saying, except me, not even him … he talked about Uncle Les, which scared me to death.   Uncle Les died in Cape Town in May.  He said a nurse was coming around who looked just like Uncle Les, had I seen him?    When he wanted to pee,  knowing he would not want me to place his penis in a bottle, finding a nurse who could do it, whilst I waited on the other side of the curtain.

He drifts in and out of sleep, there is so much noise – when he, slurring, says “I need to go home to get some rest.” my heart nearly breaks.   I call my Mom and call Gerald on the hospital phone.  In the rush, I’ve come out without my mobile and have to use the phone and find change in the emergency reception.

They don’t actually know what it is – they think it is a virus – Dr. Curran checks him out, after David Miles has, and does the same things – he goes for the CAT scan, I wait.   More vomiting.   The speech pathologist comes and does some tests on his throat, gives him a mouthful or two of fruit which he vomits 10 minutes later.   He is burning up.   They have a drip in him.   He lies back, exhausted, so pale, so hot, looking so vulnerable in a white hospital gown, as he has vomited all over his clothes and the bedclothes, several times.

I leave about 6 pm – we got there at 1 pm – five hours past in a flash.   I call that night and the next morning at 6.30 am.   I go to my Mom’s to get Dad’s walking stick, the ‘new’ one with 4 legs … the one he hid in the garage when Jane came with the kids, along with the walking frame Gerald got him.   I had actually shouted at him on Sunday saying “Do NOT MOVE without this attached to your arm!”    He had hidden from me that he had a fall on Thursday, worried that I had my hands full with both Mom and Gerald sick.  It was only on Sunday morning when he was too sick to go to mass that he admitted he had fallen.    I thought perhaps he had cracked a rib, that the pain was muscular …. All of which could be true.

Twenty four hours later I had to get the ambulance.  

Mom is being a trooper:   not a complaint, managing, cheerful, and guilty.    Mom, this cannot possibly be your fault I hasten to assure her …. “Well, I got sick in the first place, and that set off this whole chain of events.”    I know I cannot argue with my mother’s logic, that I will be wasting my breath – so after my third denial, I let it go, and return to the hospital.

Dad is a little better, has eaten something and his words are not slurring as much.  He has had another fall however, in the shower, to add to his collection.   He got out of the shower chair when the nurse left him to do something else.    I rebuke him for this and try to have him understand the consequences of his actions – that he MUST wait for help, he cannot afford to get any sicker.   Mom needs him at home, etc. etc.    He promises to do as I ask.   I get him a newspaper, cannot get his beloved Telegraph for the crossword, and he has to make do with the Herald, he thinks that crossword is for “intellectuals like Gerald” – and is very proud that he can do both crosswords in the Tele.   The Herald makes him feel ‘not smart’ I think.   He has cheered up a lot and is profuse in his thanks to me.    He says “The day you were born I knew you were specia!”   He cannot stand on his own, and is still very tired.   I stay with him until about 2 pm and then go back to Mom and see how she is.   Gerald is now out of bed and feeling somewhat better, I am so grateful – he has had two batches of antibiotics.

The day I took Dad to hospital I telephoned my brother and left a message on his mobile, and texted Susan on her phone, on holiday in England.  That was Monday.  On Thursday night Ian rang my Mom who told him to call me, and he did, but I was too sick to talk to him then, and so he spoke to Gerald.   I have yet to hear from Susan.   However, friends have called from Sydney and Brisbane, lots of emails – Marjan, the Reelers, Graeme, Veronica, and bless Jane for all her texts and emails and calls and today a card.

I feel overwhelmed by death and illness.    Two days before I left for Norway to deliver a paper for the Coaching Federation in May, Mom and I went to Kevin Robinsons’s funeral in Berry – a man with 12 children  whose tiny wife Dawn  accompanied by 62 of their kin left the church with his coffin in a horse drawn carriage, with the family following behind.    A moving spectacle of pride and family.    Two weeks later in Bergen I learned that my Uncle Les le Sueur had died in Cape Town.    Since then, it seems to have been a non stop bad news review.  Starting with the comedian, Graham Kennedy, who I never knew, but felt was part of my life died.

Kate’s husband George died before I got home.   Paula Blanch’s Mom, died just after I got home, a funeral with a guard of honour of her bowling mates.    I felt so lucky to have my own Mom with me.     Jenny Spinks our beloved vet nurse died unexpectedly of a heart problem:   Jenny of the tiny body and vast heart who held both me and Geordie when the vet put the needle in to end her life last year.   Mom and I took Moet, wearing a big purple ribbon, with us to the funeral.        Then Michelle rang to say that Aunty Lydia had been diagnosed with cancer and had 2 months to live.   That diagnosis was reversed three days later with a more hopeful one, but not without a torrent of tears and anguish for Mom – and for us, to a slightly less degree.   There have been many phone calls back and forth.  Michelle is absolutely marvellous with her Mom, and so ‘of service’ and loving. 

Tim our builder rang last month – his father died – this whilst he was still grieving the death of his motor cycling buddy earlier this year.  Yvonne Andrews from World Youth in Adelaide – I had a phone call to say she was expected to die two weeks ago – I’ve spoken with her and her family since, and she is still hanging in.    Then an email from Marian to say that Mrs. Cooney passed away – not long after the first anniversary of Quinton’s suicide.    Marian Cooney emails to tell me that Mary McIntosh, our childhood friend, is very ill with a brain disease.   Hayley Stevenson emails to say Mauro’s Dad just died.   This last week was the second anniversary of Greg’s death.   Two years in June since brother in law David Parker died.   Sue Hobson has been in mourning as her Grandad died, he and his wife insistent on not wanting anybody at the funeral, and so we did not go.      

So much death.   So much illness.

Today, Sunday 21st August 2005– there is a phone call from Mom to say that my Uncle Tommy is very ill in hospital in Hartlepool.      

I feel I have confronted losing some of the most important people in my life in the space of two weeks:   firstly my husband, and facing the fear of knowing his family are genetically inclined to cancer and that we need to see a neurologist, pronto.   Then my Mom, and her determination not to be a nuisance, and insisting she was getting better.   And then my Dad, and that I think is a very real possibility.    Today I have just talked to him, and he sounds very chesty – apparently he was NOT on antibiotics as I heard Dr. Curran suggest on Wednesday …. They only put him on them today.   He also has had another fall today, despite using his frame.   Paula thinks, and I have no reason to disagree, that he is very depressed:  and that he needs to move around to get the mucous off his chest:  rehab at David Berry Hospital and a referral to Dr. Jeremy Christley – the office opens tomorrow morning at 10 am.      

I’ve also dealt with the sorrow and pain of other people whom I care about and realized how little anyone can really assist another in the process of their grief.    Other than be there.    I feel fearful.   I saw a future of my Dad in a wheelchair and my Mom looking after Dad and me looking after both of them.   Today I feel fearful that there may not even be a wheelchair.   I remind myself that David Miles says “He’s a tough old guy, isn’t he?”    Yes, and he’s 83.

I feel disappointed in Joshua - he hasn’t been understanding or compassionate.    It seemed to me that his basketball game on Tuesday night was more important than his Grandad’s hospitalization.   His lack of concern and calls upset me …. I feel fearful he may have inherited a disagreeable male Guthrie trait which prevails in our family, along the lines of ‘as long as I’M OK, all is well.’   The Centre of the Universe Syndrome.     And then I feel mean spirited – he is only 28.   And then, I think only 28?   Was I like that at 28?  I know I wasn’t. 

We went to see Mom this afternoon, the first time out of bed for me in a few days.   Mom was standing at the kitchen bench in her trakkie pants and vest and crying, and just off the phone.  She had called Ian to ask him to please call his Dad – he had called Dad once earlier in the week, and not since.   Mom’s sobs are gut wrenching:   why, she asks, why can’t he think to call his Dad?   How much it means to his Dad?    She doesn’t say, why doesn’t he call ME either, but I know that is there.    He told her he was at work today on Sunday and didn’t have the number to call.    Gerald attempts to improve things by saying “that’s an expectation Mom.   Ian has not done that stuff for 10 years or more.”  – but it doesn’t help her, all she wants is to be heard and some compassion, and I am so full of flu I am afraid to cuddle her in case she gets sick again.   I hope Gerald will but he doesn’t, not until she goes to cuddle him just before we leave.    She says her whole world is collapsing, and I understand.    She’s facing the possibly of losing her life long partner, her best friend, and Uncle Tommy – she is sick, both Gerald and I are sick – and Ian and Susan faraway, and not of any emotional support.   Mom tells me that Susan rang yesterday and said “I don’t have much money on this card, call Aunty Pat …” phone cut off.    Mom went into a panic, looking for Aunty Pat’s number in West Hartlepool, trying to work out the digits to dial etc – not calling me as I was sick.    What on earth would have Susan think that was a good thing to do?   Especially given all that our Mom is dealing with right now?   If Susan had bad news to impart about Uncle Tommy, surely she could have put some money on the card and done it carefully and compassionately?   Or not at all – called me perhaps?    What is that glee that Susan seems to get in imparting bad news?

Mom has been trying to get Aunty Dot iin South Africa and cannot – so we get her card and dial the number and get through.    We leave her talking – she has 1.5 hours on the card:  I know it will help her.

Gerald and I have a conversation when we get home and I sob loudly and tell him my fears.     That he or my Mom or my Dad could die – this is what I’ve faced in the last two weeks – that he could have cancer.     What would happen?   What will happen with Mom if Dad dies?    How will she manage?     Live?    Finances?    The bloody court case with Woolworths when Mom slipped on the floor and fell heavily) is stilll in progress and still taking up so much of my time and energy, physically and emotionally, and Mom is just worn out.

I also call my cousin Carole in Stamford UK and tell her about her own Dad and ask her to ring him.   She refuses.   I ask again.   She still refuses.     I call Aunty Pat, (Carol’s Mum) and when I ask her the same question, avoids it and tells me that when she left the hospital last night Uncle Tommy called out after her “I love you, Mrs. Webb!” and she yelled back “And I love you, Mr. Webb!” – he is seriously ill, this is the first time she has ever been on her own – and doesn’t know how to do it.   I rang Michael my cousin and asked him if he will call and tell Carol about her Dad and he agrees.   At last I have his email address.

Here are:  Aunty Lydia and Uncle Les, 60 years married – and he died in May.    Here is Aunty Pat and Uncle Tommy, married for 65 years …. And Uncle Tommy seriously ill in hospital.   And here is my Mom and Dad, married nearly 63 years and my Dad so sick in hospital.   How many people do we know who are married 60 plus years and still alive and still together?  This is extraordinary.

Today we have an unexpected visitor …. Kevin Masters, Susanne Rix’s friend who came from Sydney to stay here with us and attend the Berry Ball.    A great dancer and a thoughtful intelligent man.   He brings me a gift in bright balloon paper:    his deceased, beloved wife Mavis’s ‘butterfly sequin blouse’ with a letter telling me where they bought it, on a cruise, and how much he wants me to have it.   She only died 3 years ago and he loves her so still …. I cry my eyes out, and he, embarrassed, says I didn’t mean to upset you.

Monday 22nd August 2005.  I cannot get through to the hospital as the phone goes to fax despite several attempts.   Mom is being picked up by a friend to take her to the hospital.    Dad had another fall last night, according to the nurse when I rang about 9 pm.    I feel so helpless and want to see him but my own flu is so full on it would not be good for him.   Or me, I guess.

Graeme Soljan calls again, as he has done, every single day, bless him.    My beautiful gay friend who I love so dearly.  He is more like my brother than my own brother, sadly.

SANDRA GROOM