This is me, not coping. Before I go into the details, I’ll list what I’m dealing with right now:
1) I’m unable to go to my mother-in-law’s funeral, because
2) my dad is in hospital
3) with bacterial meningitis.
4) My mom can’t drive, so I’m having to fetch her each day to visit my dad.
5) Not that I mind. If I could, I’d be with him every minute of every day.
6) Hannah woke up with wheezing and a temperature this morning.
7) I’m taking her to the doctor this afternoon and hoping to Heaven she doesn’t have to be nebulised.
I need to write this down, so even though I said I would be away for awhile, here’s the story so far:
In the midst of grieving my husband’s mom, who died on Friday of Alzheimers at age 65, my dad got sick. He’d been diagnosed with bronchitis last week, which we felt was manageable, because he’s asthmatic and generally, a bad cold moves to his chest. He was on antibiotics and steroids. For some reason, though, he wasn’t getting any better.
On Saturday afternoon, having given Scott a few hours away on his own to grieve a bit and entertaining the kids even though I didn’t feel like it, I got a call from my mom. She thought that maybe my dad needed to go to the emergency room. His breathing was laboured and he was feeling very weak.
My first thought was that he’d developed pneumonia. I wasn’t too worried, because I knew it could be managed as long as we got him to the hospital soon. I told her I had to do my grocery shopping and I’d fetch him after that.
I arrived at 5pm and buzzed their flat. Over the intercom, I heard the hysteria in my mom’s voice: “Janine, I’m coming down to let you in.” When she came down, she said he was on the floor upstairs, unable to understand her. I ran upstairs and found him trying to pick up something that wasn’t there. I had to speak very firmly to get him to sit down. Whenever he tried to speak, he wasn’t making sense. He lay under a blanket, shivering and moaning.
There was nothing to do but call an ambulance. My parents aren’t on medical aid, so I asked what it would cost. Between R1500 and R3000, they said, depending on the mileage. Would I like to phone around to see whether someone else is cheaper? Would I like to fanny about, phoning around, while my father was lying there shivering and unable to speak? No thanks. Just send the damn ambulance.
We got him to the nearest private hospital. At this stage, I was still fairly confident that it was a bad fever that had him so confused, so I wasn’t too worried about him being admitted. It would cost approximately R10000 to admit him, they said.
He was seen by an ER doctor. He couldn’t understand my dad’s confusion. Had he been drinking he asked. Not for 30 years, no. They took chest xrays and confirmed pneumonia. But the confusion was worrying. Had he had any head trauma recently? My mom told them he’d fallen and hit his head the previous night. What else, he asked. He’d started vomiting this afternoon and suddenly became confused.
It was decided that he need a CT scan and to be admitted. This meant that, to avoid paying the R10000 to a private hospital, he would have to be transferred to the nearest government hospital, Groote Schuur.
The trauma ward at Grotties isn’t for the faint hearted. My dad was wheeled in and examined. While he was laying there, my mom and I watched men being brought in at all hours of the night with broken limbs, wounds from stabbings and trauma from being in car accidents. (I noticed that they were all men – interesting that at that time of the night, the women are all sensibly tucked up in bed with the children…)
At around midnight, they did a blood test to determine whether they could do the scan. We waited until about 1am before the results came back and he was wheeled away to have his head scanned.
At this point, the doctor deigned to come back to us and let us know that, whatever the outcome, he would be staying in the ward for the night and that we should probably go home.
We left him, still in the dark about what exactly was wrong with him.
I phoned the next morning at 6, and was told that he was still in the same bed. I asked about the results of the scan and was told that no, there was no head trauma and that it was probably due to the sepsis that he was so confused.
Breathe. Relief. He’ll be ok. It’s just pneumonia. He just needs antibiotics to get the fever down and he’ll be ok.
My mom, my sister and I went to visit him. After about 30 minutes, we got to speak to the doctor. What I remember was how jolly he was when he said that my dad was very sick and that he “might pass away because of this.” “This?” Viral encephalitis, he said. There’s swelling of the brain and if he doesn’t die from it, he might suffer brain damage. The next 48 hours were crucial, he said.
I left at that point, on the pretext of fetching something from the car. It’s a long walk to the parking lot, and I sobbed my heart out all the way. At some point, someone put their hand on my shoulder and told me to have faith. Yes, I thought, I’ll do that. And then I descended into panic immediately afterwards.
My sister and I left my mom at the hospital. She was going to stay there, she said, until he woke up.
I cried the whole day. I cried so much that the skin under my eyes stung. I cried so much that I had a permanent headache.
I didn’t sleep well that night and phoned the next morning at 6am to find out how he was doing. He’d been moved to the intensive care ward and he hadn’t slept well either.
My dad usually looks after Jonah every day, so I stayed at home to look after him. During the morning, while worrying about my dad, I threw up.
I fetched my mom in the afternoon so we could go and visit him. In the new ward, I got to speak to his new doctor, Doctor Number 3. He had drawn fluid from his brain, he said, and found that what he actually has is bacterial meningitis. What happened to viral encephalitis, I’m not sure. He’s doing very well on the antibiotics, he said, but the risks in the next two weeks are legion: stroke, blindness, hearing loss, loss of cognitive function.
I went over to be with my dad. He opened his eyes and said, “Hello”. It was the sweetest sound I’ve heard in years. He said he wanted juice. Orange, mind you. When I asked whether he wanted ice cream, he smiled a little and nodded. “I’m glad,” he said. “I’m glad.” What are you glad about, daddy?” I asked. “I’m glad I have a daughter like you.” I cried again, but this time, out of relief to be speaking to my dad.
He’s not out of the woods, and I’m still nauseous from worry. It’s a struggle trying to find someone to watch the children every day so that I can go and visit him, but I’m doing it.
I’ll keep you posted…
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