It's fucking pouring
When it rains...
My dad's in the hospital, and has been for about two and a half, three weeks, something like that. He's in the intensive care ward. He has pneomonia, which is one of the main causes of death in people with Shy-Drager's Syndrome, a neoro-degenerative disorder that's kind of like Parkinson's layered with dementia. The underlying illness is preventing him from battling the pneomonia, because his body is simply too tired to deal with both at once. His nerves are weakening, meaning he doesn't really repond to touch any more. It also means his muscles are weakening, including his lungs, making it almost impossible for him to get rid of the fluid in his lungs with a good cough. He's on a ventilator. He's mostly breathing on his own, but the ventilator is making it easier for him to breath, as doing it on his own wears him out. The doctors, a whole team of them, agree that he's not improving significantly on the ventilator. Soon, the machine will actually cause him more harm than good, as it leads to the risk of infection and hospital-based pneomonia. The options are to perform a traquiotomy (the hole in the throat thing) or simply take him off the ventilator and see how he does. The traq option will require him to be on a ventilator and in a nursing home for the rest of his life, a situation my mother, sisters and I all agree my dad wouldn't want. So, within the next few days, he'll be taken off the ventilator. At that time, one of two things will happen. The less likely scenario is the miracle play; he'll continue breathing on his own, start fighting the pneomonia more agressively, and start to get better. The more likely outcome is that he will start to fail, within minutes or hours, and die shortly afterward. If he starts to fail, the doctors can medicate him, ensuring he will feel no pain or panic.
That's where we're at. My sister, the last one to see him, is here today. She drove over from Pennsylvania last night.
A few days ago, my mom told me that my aunt, her favorite sister, has a walnut-size tumor in the center of her brain. her neurosurgeon or neurologist (I'm not sure which) recently retired from Mayo (spell?) Clinic, and he said he's only seen one other case like hers in thirty years. Her case will be presented to a panel of doctors in about two weeks; they deal with unusual cases, and they'll propose treatment options. My aunt and her husband have already decided to treat it as aggressively as possible, starting with six weeks of chemo, then laser treatment.
So it looks like I'm going to Wisconsin next.
My mom and I are holding up fine, we have family around us and everything we need. The nurses here are amazing, so upbeat and warm. I've gotten calls from people asking for updates, so I thought I'd take care of that here. Oh, speaking of calls. I love you guys, but the hospital kind of sucks all the energy out of you. Normally, I'd be up until at least 2 AM, but lately, I'm out by 11:30 or 12, and my mom even earlier, so try not to call my cell after midnight here, which is 1 AM in Virginia, Georgia, Florida, and Maine, 10 PM in California, and god knows when in England (you're on your own Timmy).
I love you guys, and I miss you. Thanks for all the love and prayers and calls. It really does help.
Talk to you soon.
My dad's in the hospital, and has been for about two and a half, three weeks, something like that. He's in the intensive care ward. He has pneomonia, which is one of the main causes of death in people with Shy-Drager's Syndrome, a neoro-degenerative disorder that's kind of like Parkinson's layered with dementia. The underlying illness is preventing him from battling the pneomonia, because his body is simply too tired to deal with both at once. His nerves are weakening, meaning he doesn't really repond to touch any more. It also means his muscles are weakening, including his lungs, making it almost impossible for him to get rid of the fluid in his lungs with a good cough. He's on a ventilator. He's mostly breathing on his own, but the ventilator is making it easier for him to breath, as doing it on his own wears him out. The doctors, a whole team of them, agree that he's not improving significantly on the ventilator. Soon, the machine will actually cause him more harm than good, as it leads to the risk of infection and hospital-based pneomonia. The options are to perform a traquiotomy (the hole in the throat thing) or simply take him off the ventilator and see how he does. The traq option will require him to be on a ventilator and in a nursing home for the rest of his life, a situation my mother, sisters and I all agree my dad wouldn't want. So, within the next few days, he'll be taken off the ventilator. At that time, one of two things will happen. The less likely scenario is the miracle play; he'll continue breathing on his own, start fighting the pneomonia more agressively, and start to get better. The more likely outcome is that he will start to fail, within minutes or hours, and die shortly afterward. If he starts to fail, the doctors can medicate him, ensuring he will feel no pain or panic.
That's where we're at. My sister, the last one to see him, is here today. She drove over from Pennsylvania last night.
A few days ago, my mom told me that my aunt, her favorite sister, has a walnut-size tumor in the center of her brain. her neurosurgeon or neurologist (I'm not sure which) recently retired from Mayo (spell?) Clinic, and he said he's only seen one other case like hers in thirty years. Her case will be presented to a panel of doctors in about two weeks; they deal with unusual cases, and they'll propose treatment options. My aunt and her husband have already decided to treat it as aggressively as possible, starting with six weeks of chemo, then laser treatment.
So it looks like I'm going to Wisconsin next.
My mom and I are holding up fine, we have family around us and everything we need. The nurses here are amazing, so upbeat and warm. I've gotten calls from people asking for updates, so I thought I'd take care of that here. Oh, speaking of calls. I love you guys, but the hospital kind of sucks all the energy out of you. Normally, I'd be up until at least 2 AM, but lately, I'm out by 11:30 or 12, and my mom even earlier, so try not to call my cell after midnight here, which is 1 AM in Virginia, Georgia, Florida, and Maine, 10 PM in California, and god knows when in England (you're on your own Timmy).
I love you guys, and I miss you. Thanks for all the love and prayers and calls. It really does help.
Talk to you soon.