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By Mike on Wednesday 27 August 2008, 15:01 - Journal - Permalink
I received a call from Rachel at 8:30 this morning, to say that the retirement
village had called her with the news that dad had gone into renal
failure.
Rachel sounded upset, and was getting ready to go over to see dad straight away. I resolved to do the same thing, and we arrived there about the same time. Dad was flat on his back in bed, his bed extension was in place. He was slightly restless, not much. And he showed almost no signs of recognition when we spoke to him and announced that we were there.
Over the next 90 minutes, we watched him. His breathing pattern has shifted somewhat - for the worse, I think. He is breathing maybe 9 to 15 times and then not breathing for 45 seconds. Towards the end of this spell he often started to raise his arms high off the bed, as if to get something off his chest, as if he felt his lungs were being compressed. The staff and nurses kept popping in every 10 minutes or so, to give him some liquid, move him, leave things for him, and so on. One thing that absolutely amazed me was when two of the retirement village staff came in and moved dad. They were so gentle and soft with him, one even kissing him before they left. It was touching.
Meanwhile, Rachel and I could do nothing. We talked to dad and patted him on the shoulder, but there was barely any sign that he knows we are there. One eye is shut and the other is open just a fraction, but not over the pupil.We didn't get a single coherent word out of him all the time we were there. He seems to be going, but he's recovered before. And we don't know how long any of this is going to take.
I left first and went to see mum, but she was having lunch and I therefore decided not to disturb her. I drove over to the house and checked progress: very little. Rachel then turned up too. I answered a call from Greg and filled him in on the day. He is out of town today, and wanted to hear what the doctor has got to say. Then, finally, I collected the mail from the mailbox and drove home. It was after 2 pm when I got here.
The funny thing is that I feel completely resolved about all this. Dad is dying, and I am reconciled to it. In fact, now when I look back I feel that this blog has served over the last two years for me to air all my thoughts and feelings about mum and dad, their lives and their imminent deaths. It is not as if death now is a surprise, since it is inevitable in any case, cannot be too far off for either of them, and we pretty much knew that it is not Alzheimers disease that kills people, but the concomitant conditions brought on by forgetting how to do one thing after another, until even the basics are beyond the sufferer, and losing the power of recognition and therefore the ability to react or respond correctly to the world around them - leading to accidents, sedentary lifestyles, poor diet, poor hygiene, and a host of other problems that we have been trying to mitigate. So, this current situation was to be expected at one level and, at one level, I expected it. The fact that is has been a particular sequence of events starting in May with dad, leading to two stays at the hospital and two big drops, now possibly a third, in capability, was the unpredictable part, but that is now with us, and no longer requires a preamble. I hope Greg and Rachel feel the same way, but I suspect not. I wonder how Derek feels, so far away from all this and hearing only our second-hand reports.
I took a photograph of dad today, lying in bed, looking very thin, mouth agape. I was thinking that it may be the last living photograph we have of him. I must remember to take others each time I visit.
Rachel sounded upset, and was getting ready to go over to see dad straight away. I resolved to do the same thing, and we arrived there about the same time. Dad was flat on his back in bed, his bed extension was in place. He was slightly restless, not much. And he showed almost no signs of recognition when we spoke to him and announced that we were there.
Over the next 90 minutes, we watched him. His breathing pattern has shifted somewhat - for the worse, I think. He is breathing maybe 9 to 15 times and then not breathing for 45 seconds. Towards the end of this spell he often started to raise his arms high off the bed, as if to get something off his chest, as if he felt his lungs were being compressed. The staff and nurses kept popping in every 10 minutes or so, to give him some liquid, move him, leave things for him, and so on. One thing that absolutely amazed me was when two of the retirement village staff came in and moved dad. They were so gentle and soft with him, one even kissing him before they left. It was touching.
Meanwhile, Rachel and I could do nothing. We talked to dad and patted him on the shoulder, but there was barely any sign that he knows we are there. One eye is shut and the other is open just a fraction, but not over the pupil.We didn't get a single coherent word out of him all the time we were there. He seems to be going, but he's recovered before. And we don't know how long any of this is going to take.
I left first and went to see mum, but she was having lunch and I therefore decided not to disturb her. I drove over to the house and checked progress: very little. Rachel then turned up too. I answered a call from Greg and filled him in on the day. He is out of town today, and wanted to hear what the doctor has got to say. Then, finally, I collected the mail from the mailbox and drove home. It was after 2 pm when I got here.
The funny thing is that I feel completely resolved about all this. Dad is dying, and I am reconciled to it. In fact, now when I look back I feel that this blog has served over the last two years for me to air all my thoughts and feelings about mum and dad, their lives and their imminent deaths. It is not as if death now is a surprise, since it is inevitable in any case, cannot be too far off for either of them, and we pretty much knew that it is not Alzheimers disease that kills people, but the concomitant conditions brought on by forgetting how to do one thing after another, until even the basics are beyond the sufferer, and losing the power of recognition and therefore the ability to react or respond correctly to the world around them - leading to accidents, sedentary lifestyles, poor diet, poor hygiene, and a host of other problems that we have been trying to mitigate. So, this current situation was to be expected at one level and, at one level, I expected it. The fact that is has been a particular sequence of events starting in May with dad, leading to two stays at the hospital and two big drops, now possibly a third, in capability, was the unpredictable part, but that is now with us, and no longer requires a preamble. I hope Greg and Rachel feel the same way, but I suspect not. I wonder how Derek feels, so far away from all this and hearing only our second-hand reports.
I took a photograph of dad today, lying in bed, looking very thin, mouth agape. I was thinking that it may be the last living photograph we have of him. I must remember to take others each time I visit.