continued from chapter 10: part 6
There were some things I would have liked for Hal's comfort but I never had time to track them down and hospitals seldom have more than one of the extras.
Egg crate mattresses topper. Made of soft foam or water-filled plastic, these mattresses prevent sharp bones coming in contact with a standard hospital mattress.
Sheepskin cover. Meant to lie on, with or without the egg crate mattress. Acts as a buffer between the body and the mattress.
Soft pillows.Down-filled pillows are perfect, but anything soft will do. I learned to tuck pillows of various shapes and sizes around Hal for optimum comfort.
Books. If you’re not sure what the patient has read, bring along a catalogue from a book store or the latest book review sections from the newspaper and let him choose.
If your patient is a voracious reader, offer to do a weekly library run.
Sheepskin booties, for want of a better word. They prevent the feet from chafing against each other.
Fruit and flowers. These old stand-by’s are fine, although you might check about allergies first. Hal’s favorite flower arrangement was a dramatic arrangement of Birds of Paradise and they lasted for a long time.
You can look into bringing DVD movies in or the patent's favorite music. find out what equipment the hospital finds acceptable
I'm sure a lot has changed since I made this list but I am certain these items are still needed.
continued in chapter 11: part 1
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
chapter 10: part 6
continued from chapter 10: part 5
We returned to our new house feeling exhausted but looking forward to settling in.
I busily set myself to unpacking, threading my way through the furniture to put things away. Blame it on the tiredness, but I stepped over Hal three times before I realized he was stretched out on the narrow corridor floor, since the bed wasn’t together as yet and he was beyond uncomfortable. I found the bed and the bedding and got him settled. His condition worsened during the day and evening.
The next morning, I packed him into the car and drove him to the emergency room back in our old neighborhood. His blockage had indeed re-occurred and he was admitted for further surgery, this time to do a by-pass of the old surgical site. This was considered palliative surgery; it was intended to make him more comfortable, at least for a while.
Early on the morning of Hal’s surgery, I dressed to prepare the drive to the hospital ; I was frightened and sobbing to myself. I had enough sense to know I had to get myself into a better frame of mind before I left for the hospital, so I pushed past the debris and settled in my favorite chair. When my body felt as relaxed as it was possible to be, I said to that inner light I knew looked after me, "Look, this operation is terribly serious and Hal has been warned there may be complications; what kind of strength can I bring to put him in the best frame of mind for this?"
The answer was short and sweet-- sing. Had I just been short-circuited? There isn’t anyone anywhere who will tell you that I should be encouraged to so much as hum. All right then, I’ll sing. But what? “Oklahoma” came into my head and I don’t know any words past the second line. Fake it. I began to sing at the top of my lungs and quickly the shaky sobs disappeared and the voice got stronger if not prettier.
I dialled the phone to reach Hal.
“Sweetheart, I can’t explain before I get down there, but there is something you must do immediately. Trust me. You must sing, you can sing in your head only but you must sing, and the tune I’m using is Oklahoma.'
He took this very well and promised to begin right away while I prepared to join him.
When I arrived at the hospital he had already been sedated, and as I approached his bed he waggled a finger back and forth and mouthed the words to the song. We sat together, holding hands and humming, mouthing the words we knew, until the porter came to wheel him away. He was smiling and his eyes were twinkling as he left.
His incision healed quickly and he was released in six days. My faithful inner friend had helped again.
Back at the new house I had to cope with deliveries of appliances, then wait for people to hook them up and the usual snafus when people didn’t deliver when promised. I shamelessly called on friends and relatives and they all pitched in without a whimper. This way, I could spend as much time as possible with Hal, and we were now about fifteen miles further from the hospital.
continued in chapter 10: part 7
We returned to our new house feeling exhausted but looking forward to settling in.
I busily set myself to unpacking, threading my way through the furniture to put things away. Blame it on the tiredness, but I stepped over Hal three times before I realized he was stretched out on the narrow corridor floor, since the bed wasn’t together as yet and he was beyond uncomfortable. I found the bed and the bedding and got him settled. His condition worsened during the day and evening.
The next morning, I packed him into the car and drove him to the emergency room back in our old neighborhood. His blockage had indeed re-occurred and he was admitted for further surgery, this time to do a by-pass of the old surgical site. This was considered palliative surgery; it was intended to make him more comfortable, at least for a while.
Early on the morning of Hal’s surgery, I dressed to prepare the drive to the hospital ; I was frightened and sobbing to myself. I had enough sense to know I had to get myself into a better frame of mind before I left for the hospital, so I pushed past the debris and settled in my favorite chair. When my body felt as relaxed as it was possible to be, I said to that inner light I knew looked after me, "Look, this operation is terribly serious and Hal has been warned there may be complications; what kind of strength can I bring to put him in the best frame of mind for this?"
The answer was short and sweet-- sing. Had I just been short-circuited? There isn’t anyone anywhere who will tell you that I should be encouraged to so much as hum. All right then, I’ll sing. But what? “Oklahoma” came into my head and I don’t know any words past the second line. Fake it. I began to sing at the top of my lungs and quickly the shaky sobs disappeared and the voice got stronger if not prettier.
I dialled the phone to reach Hal.
“Sweetheart, I can’t explain before I get down there, but there is something you must do immediately. Trust me. You must sing, you can sing in your head only but you must sing, and the tune I’m using is Oklahoma.'
He took this very well and promised to begin right away while I prepared to join him.
When I arrived at the hospital he had already been sedated, and as I approached his bed he waggled a finger back and forth and mouthed the words to the song. We sat together, holding hands and humming, mouthing the words we knew, until the porter came to wheel him away. He was smiling and his eyes were twinkling as he left.
His incision healed quickly and he was released in six days. My faithful inner friend had helped again.
Back at the new house I had to cope with deliveries of appliances, then wait for people to hook them up and the usual snafus when people didn’t deliver when promised. I shamelessly called on friends and relatives and they all pitched in without a whimper. This way, I could spend as much time as possible with Hal, and we were now about fifteen miles further from the hospital.
continued in chapter 10: part 7
Monday, September 3, 2007
chapter 10: part 5
continued from chapter 10: part 4
The inn we booked into had so much wrong with it that you’ll think I invented this, but every word is true. We were directed to a room that hadn’t been made up, and the tables were littered with dirty cups and overflowing ashtrays. We skipped the idea of room service and went back to the desk to get that straightened out.
That’s when we learned they did not have a dining room let alone room service. What they had was proximity to a restaurant next door, so we tramped across the snow to join a wildly enthusiastic Friday night crowd. We were so tired that one drink and barbecued brochette shrimps tasted just fine and we headed off to our room feeling much better.
At two in the morning Hal called the front desk to ask if the people on the other side of our adjoining door could be asked to stop the partying and douse the cigarettes. The door was far from airtight. At seven o’clock I called the front desk and politely told the man he had five minutes to clear that room or I would stand in the hallway and scream, "Fire!" at the top of my lungs. The party ended in three minutes and twelve seconds.
We decided we’d had enough and wearily dressed, skipping showers because there were two tiny hand towels and no face cloths and by that time we stopped caring. There was also one coat hanger in the closet. The sounds through the walls of flushing toilets and thundering bath water was just another irritant.
As we prepared to leave, I wrote DUST ME on the television and as the final insult, I found an empty cupcake paper and wad of gum left by some other happy camper in the drawer of the bedside table.
I roughed out a stinging letter to the manager, but in all the moving-in confusion the letter was never mailed.
Too bad. The manager probably thinks he/she is adequate.
continued in chapter 10: part 6
The inn we booked into had so much wrong with it that you’ll think I invented this, but every word is true. We were directed to a room that hadn’t been made up, and the tables were littered with dirty cups and overflowing ashtrays. We skipped the idea of room service and went back to the desk to get that straightened out.
That’s when we learned they did not have a dining room let alone room service. What they had was proximity to a restaurant next door, so we tramped across the snow to join a wildly enthusiastic Friday night crowd. We were so tired that one drink and barbecued brochette shrimps tasted just fine and we headed off to our room feeling much better.
At two in the morning Hal called the front desk to ask if the people on the other side of our adjoining door could be asked to stop the partying and douse the cigarettes. The door was far from airtight. At seven o’clock I called the front desk and politely told the man he had five minutes to clear that room or I would stand in the hallway and scream, "Fire!" at the top of my lungs. The party ended in three minutes and twelve seconds.
We decided we’d had enough and wearily dressed, skipping showers because there were two tiny hand towels and no face cloths and by that time we stopped caring. There was also one coat hanger in the closet. The sounds through the walls of flushing toilets and thundering bath water was just another irritant.
As we prepared to leave, I wrote DUST ME on the television and as the final insult, I found an empty cupcake paper and wad of gum left by some other happy camper in the drawer of the bedside table.
I roughed out a stinging letter to the manager, but in all the moving-in confusion the letter was never mailed.
Too bad. The manager probably thinks he/she is adequate.
continued in chapter 10: part 6
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