It's now two weeks since Mum came home from her brief stay at Greenwich Hospital, and we are settling into a routine, albeit one that is slightly different to how it was BH (before hospital).
Mum has always slept well, and still does; which is something that we are both extremely thankful for. However, since her time in hospital (AH), Mum has been regularly waking up with quite severe pain. Sometimes the pain is in her back, sometimes it radiates from the back around to her abdomen, sometimes it's sharp, stabbing pain when she breathes in, sometimes it's a colicky, gut pain, and sometimes it's a combination of two or more of these different kinds of pain.
The medication Mum takes for this breakthrough pain is quite effective, but the problem is that it usually takes up to 2 hours to fully kick in. So this makes the first hour or two of her day pretty rugged going.
Now those of you who know me well, will realise that I am Not A Morning Person, especially these days, as my sleep patterns have been mucked about a bit since being here in Sydney, and I seem to have become even more a 'creature of the night' than I normally am. So it's been getting difficult, as Mum is becoming more dependent on me to help her get up in the morning.
This morning, I woke up to the sound of Mum calling me. When I got into her room, I found her sitting on the side of her bed. She asked me for a pain pill, as she was in a lot of pain and didn't feel that she could get up and go to the bathroom without my help. She told me she'd been sitting there for about an hour, and had called me a number of times, but I didn't hear her at first because I was asleep.
As I looked down at her frail, wasted body, wracked with pain, and the simple, gentle way that she explained how long she'd been waiting for me to respond to her calls, I just melted inside. After getting her a pain pill, I helped her into the bathroom, and then to get dressed.
One of the hardest things for me right now is to see the extent that Mum's body has wasted in the last few months. When I dress her in the mornings, and help her in the shower at night, there is no hiding the sharp angles of her bones, that are covered by skin and not much else; her stick-like arms and legs, and how small and pathetic she appears as she looks up at me with such simple and complete trust.
After Mum is dressed, she wheelie-walks herself to the loungeroom, where she parks herself in her chair, and after I ensure that she's comfortable and settled (with the TV on Fox Sports channel), I give her her pre-breakfast tablets and then have my shower before organising breakfast.
This morning, the first drops to hit the floor of the shower recess were not from the shower; they were my tears, as I considered what it must have been like for Mum to be sitting in pain on the side of her bed for an hour, calling me, and receiving no response. The shower is often my crying place after being confronted by the reality of Mum's situation; a refuge where I can let it all out without having to worry about Mum's or anyone else's reactions. As I have told many people in the course of my ministry, a good cry can be quite cathartic, and for me, crying in the shower is a bit like crying at the beach- there's already so much water around, that you don't notice a little extra.
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2 comments:
Caro,
this won't stop the tears, but may help ease some of your angst. In similar situation we have found a wireless doorbell helpful; your mum has the bit you would normally have at the door, you have the other part. No more yelling, just buzzing.
Ahh, that's a good idea... some other friends on FB have been suggesting things like baby monitors, bells, whistles, saucepans and wooden spoons etc... but this could work. Will have to suggest it to Mum. Thanks P :-)
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