mom
She sleeps all the time now. My sister and I sit in the hospital on plastic, soft-backed recliners and surf Facebook. We observe for any movement, any eye flutter, and then jump up when it happens. We fuss. Can we get her water, fluff her pillows, lift her legs, call the nurse? She gets annoyed with us a little. When we were at Forbes, in the Pittsburgh suburbs, I told her the one night "Mom, we're going to leave a little early, OK, get checked into our hotel?" She looked visibly relieved and said, with effort "Go have fun!" Fun is not really a word in our vocabulary right now, but for her, we try.
Not an inch of her forearms is spared from the purple bruises the Heparin and numerous needle sticks have created. She gets skin tears when she shifts or turns. Today they put the tan fingerless sleeves on her again to protect her. She pulls at them, then, resigned, closes her eyes.
We think she may be having another stroke. Her level of communication from even two days ago is much diminished. Today I asked her what her last name was, and she said "Nancy" (my sister.) We tried doing a little of the o/t that her therapist had done with her (like writing five favorite fruits)...she wrote one word we couldn't make out. (But then was able to write, on a slant, that her favorite color was blue.) Then I tried playing tic tac toe with her and she blocked me at every turn, even though she was using my Os for her Xs. The brain is such a mystery...
It is strange to be at this crossroads, not knowing if we are deluding ourselves by thinking there may be a reprieve with valve surgery. It's the weekend, so we've waited two long days for the surgeons' pronouncements, crying and drinking and roaming around Pittsburgh and watching bad movies. If there's hope (and we hold onto that) then we get her for a few more years, perhaps. Stronger, able to breathe, cognizant. If not...well, there are so many pages we can land on in this "Have Your Own Adventure Foisted Upon You" book.
We wait.
Not an inch of her forearms is spared from the purple bruises the Heparin and numerous needle sticks have created. She gets skin tears when she shifts or turns. Today they put the tan fingerless sleeves on her again to protect her. She pulls at them, then, resigned, closes her eyes.
We think she may be having another stroke. Her level of communication from even two days ago is much diminished. Today I asked her what her last name was, and she said "Nancy" (my sister.) We tried doing a little of the o/t that her therapist had done with her (like writing five favorite fruits)...she wrote one word we couldn't make out. (But then was able to write, on a slant, that her favorite color was blue.) Then I tried playing tic tac toe with her and she blocked me at every turn, even though she was using my Os for her Xs. The brain is such a mystery...
It is strange to be at this crossroads, not knowing if we are deluding ourselves by thinking there may be a reprieve with valve surgery. It's the weekend, so we've waited two long days for the surgeons' pronouncements, crying and drinking and roaming around Pittsburgh and watching bad movies. If there's hope (and we hold onto that) then we get her for a few more years, perhaps. Stronger, able to breathe, cognizant. If not...well, there are so many pages we can land on in this "Have Your Own Adventure Foisted Upon You" book.
We wait.