(no subject)
there's a fair chance that carlo might be released tomorrow.
it's hard to really wrap my head around how fast everything is happening, how well he is doing. there are a few concerns. he has developed diabetes, which is troubling. his blood sugar has been sky-high since the surgery, and they simply came into his room two days ago and informed him that he was now a diabetic.
on the plus side, there is a chance that it's related to his medication, so he might be able to get rid of it at some point. realistically, right now he is eating a diabetic diet, checking his blood sugar, and injecting himself in the belly with insulin four times a day. it's been a source of worry for him, which is difficult to see.
his liver seems to be doing well. he's still quite swollen, and has cartoonishly giant feet because of all the fluid in his body. his mood is up and down, i get the sense that the experience is just starting to catch up with him now. he's been putting off really recognizing his situation because his position simply didn't afford him that luxury, but now that it seems like recovery might really happen, he is profoundly sad at times.
it's difficult because the man in the bed beside him, an older gentleman who has been struggling for a while, has been tracing an arc downwards. carlo lay in bed listening while, on the other side of a blue curtain, doctors gathered around his neighbour's bed to explain that they had run out of options. this man had a lung transplant 17 years ago, and his kidneys are failing, and the lungs are no longer working properly. he speaks carefully, and though his voice is tired and pained, without malice.
over the past few days we've listen to him decide to go off of his anti-rejection drugs. to stop his medications. he had made the decision to die.
nurses have come in after the shift change, clucking and prodding at him, trying to get him to take his pills, not having been briefed about his choice. this person is trying to hold on to some dignity, to let go of life in a way that is simply sinking down into suffering. this isn't a quick out, and the mechanics of the hospital institution are exposed as teams of doctors come to take him through 'are you sure' questionnaires. nurses ask about family, whether they will come to take him and bring him home to die.
people come to dissuade him. most of the time he sleeps, or lies with his blanket over his head. i remember the young girl in the montreal general who was across from carlo, ages ago. she'd been wheeled back into the room in her bed, iv bags swinging and foreign machinery beeping in her bed with her. she lay very still with her blanket over her face, not crying, but i knew they had just told her she would die. she did, days after carlo was moved to intensive care.
today the old man's family was here. carlo and i ate outside on the lawn. he is tearful, thinking hard about it. i listen to him talk about it, watch him cry and scrub tears away from his face with i.v. bruised hands.
this afternoon his neighbour's bed was made, the man gone. carlo sat at the edge of his bed and dialed his insulin injector. his hands shake like an alcoholics, he keeps missing his fingertip with the lancet when he tests his blood sugar. i watched him pull aside his robe and stab the short needle into his belly, below the traintrack stapled incision.
i'm relieved that things are finally somewhat well, or seem as though they will be. but these organs aren't permanent, and these medications are poisons. there's still so far to go, and i think he is genuinely beginning to crumble. he's so pinned on being let out of the hospital, so sure they're going to release him, so agonized at the thought of spending another day in that place. i need them to let him go. i need him to be well enough to go.
it's hard to really wrap my head around how fast everything is happening, how well he is doing. there are a few concerns. he has developed diabetes, which is troubling. his blood sugar has been sky-high since the surgery, and they simply came into his room two days ago and informed him that he was now a diabetic.
on the plus side, there is a chance that it's related to his medication, so he might be able to get rid of it at some point. realistically, right now he is eating a diabetic diet, checking his blood sugar, and injecting himself in the belly with insulin four times a day. it's been a source of worry for him, which is difficult to see.
his liver seems to be doing well. he's still quite swollen, and has cartoonishly giant feet because of all the fluid in his body. his mood is up and down, i get the sense that the experience is just starting to catch up with him now. he's been putting off really recognizing his situation because his position simply didn't afford him that luxury, but now that it seems like recovery might really happen, he is profoundly sad at times.
it's difficult because the man in the bed beside him, an older gentleman who has been struggling for a while, has been tracing an arc downwards. carlo lay in bed listening while, on the other side of a blue curtain, doctors gathered around his neighbour's bed to explain that they had run out of options. this man had a lung transplant 17 years ago, and his kidneys are failing, and the lungs are no longer working properly. he speaks carefully, and though his voice is tired and pained, without malice.
over the past few days we've listen to him decide to go off of his anti-rejection drugs. to stop his medications. he had made the decision to die.
nurses have come in after the shift change, clucking and prodding at him, trying to get him to take his pills, not having been briefed about his choice. this person is trying to hold on to some dignity, to let go of life in a way that is simply sinking down into suffering. this isn't a quick out, and the mechanics of the hospital institution are exposed as teams of doctors come to take him through 'are you sure' questionnaires. nurses ask about family, whether they will come to take him and bring him home to die.
people come to dissuade him. most of the time he sleeps, or lies with his blanket over his head. i remember the young girl in the montreal general who was across from carlo, ages ago. she'd been wheeled back into the room in her bed, iv bags swinging and foreign machinery beeping in her bed with her. she lay very still with her blanket over her face, not crying, but i knew they had just told her she would die. she did, days after carlo was moved to intensive care.
today the old man's family was here. carlo and i ate outside on the lawn. he is tearful, thinking hard about it. i listen to him talk about it, watch him cry and scrub tears away from his face with i.v. bruised hands.
this afternoon his neighbour's bed was made, the man gone. carlo sat at the edge of his bed and dialed his insulin injector. his hands shake like an alcoholics, he keeps missing his fingertip with the lancet when he tests his blood sugar. i watched him pull aside his robe and stab the short needle into his belly, below the traintrack stapled incision.
i'm relieved that things are finally somewhat well, or seem as though they will be. but these organs aren't permanent, and these medications are poisons. there's still so far to go, and i think he is genuinely beginning to crumble. he's so pinned on being let out of the hospital, so sure they're going to release him, so agonized at the thought of spending another day in that place. i need them to let him go. i need him to be well enough to go.