Hospital Round 2

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.