Saturday night of Memorial Day weekend, Dad started having
severe stomach pains accompanied by lots of burping. He likes to burp,
especially on purpose with the comment, “I’m a professional” or “Kings Point”
(the US Merchant Marine Academy where apparently avoiding loud burps is not
part of their impeccable manners while in uniform), but this was not the norm.
Sunday morning he had the additional burden of not sleeping much because of the
pain and gas, so he stayed home. He didn’t remember the pain from Saturday
night, which is standard for him now if a physical problem persists from day to
day (or sometimes within a day). I checked on him before I headed to church,
and he was still cracking the occasional joke, but definitely not himself. He
didn’t want to eat—even skipped crab legs that afternoon.
Monday was no better, but Mom waited until Tuesday to take
him to the doctor since it didn’t seem to be a true emergency, and he wasn’t
worse. Dad followed his usual pattern there of having no idea he had been
hurting and spent the visit joking with medical staff, which made Mom look like
she was the one with a mental problem. Physical exam didn’t reveal anything
definitive, so the doctor built on what he tried a few months ago when this
happened with more dietary restrictions, medicine to help the gas, and an
antibiotic in case there was an infection causing the slightly elevated fever.
To the hospital
Thursday Dad was in enough pain that Mom braved the rain and
flooding to take him to a stand-alone ER that’s part of one of Houston’s major
hospital systems. They diagnosed pancreatitis, and the test also showed a spot
on the pancreas, so they transferred him to the hospital via ambulance. Mom
held together incredibly well through all that. I think she was relieved to
have an answer. She didn’t want me to postpone a major editing project at that
point, stopped by the house to get a few items, and then headed to the
hospital.
Last summer we experienced what it is like with Mom in the
hospital. Now we got to see how Dad did. When Alice and I arrived about three
hours later, Dad was sitting in a chair and wearing the hospital gown with his
slacks, socks and shoes still on. He was cracking more jokes and acting pretty
much like his usual self. He was even hungry, but now he wasn’t allowed
anything to eat or drink—only an IV, which they had not yet hooked up. I
understood why Mom wanted to smack him upside the head in situations like this.
I was glad he was doing better but suspected it might not last.
Friday was one of the few times I have been thankful to have
little editing. I completed two projects due that day and started one due
Monday before checking with Mom. She no longer sounded like she was holding
together well. Around two o’clock in the morning Dad had awakened totally
disoriented and instead of waking her, had gotten out of bed, ripped out his
IV, and bled everywhere. I suspect the effect was something like a crime scene
from her description. She doesn’t sleep
well in new locations anyway, was on the bench-sofa-bed in the room with no
pillow, had nurses coming in regularly to see if he was sleeping, and then had
that chaos pouring on the adrenaline.
The doctor had been by and said that if Dad tolerated some
soft food well at lunch, he could go home. We were surprised since our
understanding from when he was admitted was three days there and nothing but
liquids for a couple of days. Mom gave me a list of stuff they needed in case
they stayed, and I brought that and more, figuring it would work like washing
cars and rain.
This time Dad was in the chair again, looking none the worse
for wear after his night and was joking with four friends from church who had
come to visit. I could have smacked him. Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful and
relieved that he was feeling good, but he’s supposed to be sick. He had eaten only a few bites of his lunch, which was
probably good as their definition of soft food and ours were two different
things. He was still a gentleman offering me his chair, several times even, but
my upbringing is ingrained in me, and as the youngest in the room, I did not
sit while my elders stood. I find it so odd what sticks with someone who has
dementia and what does not.
Three of us went down to the cafeteria for lunch and left
one friend with Dad. I had brought lunch for Mom since it had been over $20 the
night before for not much food. When she opened the thermos, she said, “When
you said you were bringing lunch, I said, ‘I hope she brings pasta,’ and you
did!” I love it when we are on the same wavelength without knowing it. She’s
pretty good at thinking loudly, apparently even from several miles away. About
the time she was finishing, our friend called and said that Dad had started
burping and said he hurt. That was the closest I saw Mom come to freaking. She
made only a soft comment about wanting to go home, but the look in her eyes
spoke volumes as she headed upstairs.
Thankfully, whatever had been wrong didn’t persist, and
within a couple of hours, Mom called and said, “We are in the car and headed
home!” Generals winning a major battle have sounded less triumphant. She got
him settled. I made a run to the store for her and also fixed dinner so she
could get settled and relax. Again, what perfect timing to have no other
editing to do. I commented to Alice that when Mom was hospitalized, it would
have taken some major rearranging for me to get the day off—not impossible, but
difficult—and this time when Alice couldn’t easily get off, I could.
Home again
Dad has continued to improve since being home, although
we’re not leaving him alone. While I was with him Sunday morning, he went out and
thwacked snails crawling on the window by the kitchen. We read and discussed
parts of the newspaper, several times on a few of the topics like why the
comics are arranged so poorly and whether the Houston Zoo is getting a new
gorilla, and he ate a piece of toast. He complained about Mom’s “NO SOLID FOOD”
note on the pantry door and wanted to know how long that will last. “Until it
doesn’t hurt you to eat.” He purposely burped in response. I stifled the urge
to smack him and opted for “Don’t do that” instead. He moved on from the pantry
and focused on hoping Mom would bring him fried chicken. That was somewhere
between “fat chance” and “Are you kidding me????” If the doctors limit him to a
low-fat diet, we are all in trouble. He will not understand giving up James
Coney Island hot dogs and his friend chicken.
This morning he went to the gastroenterologist for a
follow-up. Mom really likes the doctor and the office. I spoke with her only
briefly when they returned, but it sounds like Dad is doing well. The doctor
wants him on probiotics and prescribed a pancreatic enzyme pill to take before
meals that will tell the pancreas it doesn’t need to work. That will stop the
pain.
Dad will need to see a specialist at the Texas Medical Center
for tests on that spot. That could be as simple as a cyst or stone. Hopefully,
the results will not turn into another blog, especially not a series of blogs.
I already know he won’t remember what all has gone on last week and can safely
bet that he will give the medical staff a hard time.
