Arrangements
As you might imagine, it's been a weird Christmas. Large helpings of lots to do and nothing to do. And an uncomfortable amount of Normal – none of us know how to stay under a black shroud for long, it seems.
For info, Dad's funeral will be Wednesday 9th January 2008, 11.30am at Richmond Hill URC, with a short time at the crem at 12.30 and a social time at Highcliffe Golf Club afterwards. It's an open door all round, in keeping with Dad's life – all welcome.
All is odd. But okay, I think. I just think of this: we've unearthed a ton of photos from the length and breadth of Dad's life for the memorial and it's hard to find one that doesn't make you smile.
Happy New Year, Dad.
x
Monday, December 31, 2007
Arrangements.
Arrangements.
As you might imagine, it's been a weird Christmas. Large helpings of lots to do and nothing to do. And an uncomfortable amount of Normal – none of us know how to stay under a black shroud for long, it seems.
For info, Dad's funeral will be Wednesday 9th January 2008, 11.30am at Richmond Hill URC, with a short time at the crem at 12.30 and a social time at Highcliffe Golf Club afterwards. It's an open door all round, in keeping with Dad's life – all welcome, if you knew him.
All is odd. But okay, I think. I just think of this: we've unearthed a ton of photos from the length and breadth of Dad's life for the memorial and it's hard to find one that doesn't make you smile.
Happy New Year, Dad.
x
As you might imagine, it's been a weird Christmas. Large helpings of lots to do and nothing to do. And an uncomfortable amount of Normal – none of us know how to stay under a black shroud for long, it seems.
For info, Dad's funeral will be Wednesday 9th January 2008, 11.30am at Richmond Hill URC, with a short time at the crem at 12.30 and a social time at Highcliffe Golf Club afterwards. It's an open door all round, in keeping with Dad's life – all welcome, if you knew him.
All is odd. But okay, I think. I just think of this: we've unearthed a ton of photos from the length and breadth of Dad's life for the memorial and it's hard to find one that doesn't make you smile.
Happy New Year, Dad.
x
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Dad. And Dad.
Dad. And Dad.
He had been making remarkable progress. They had taken most of the lines out of him and were daring to contemplate life at home for him. Mum had finally been let out of hospital and had a few days at home at long last, ready to start thinking about the future of care for my Dad. But in the end, he'd fought for long enough.
We had a call at 4.00am this morning. Dad died soon afterwards.
We're okay. We're all kind of okay. Wish I could say more – there's much I could, but it's only twelve hours in and this is just a blog. But my Dad is no longer suffering.
..Wish it was a neat as that, however. Sixteen hours before that call, we'd had another one. My brother in law's dad, David, died one night previous. In the space of a day, Caroline and her sister had both lost their fathers, because that's what both men really were to them. A personal thing to say, and a testimony to both of them. The first of many.
So we're juggling families. And feelings. And practicalities.
Will let you know more details here in time; the blog's been useful to let friends know the news for our folks. And everyone's texts and thoughts have been very kind, very helpful and no surprise at all. Bless you guys for being our family – Mum and Dad were always so pleased you've been there for us.
A little more when we have time.
x
He had been making remarkable progress. They had taken most of the lines out of him and were daring to contemplate life at home for him. Mum had finally been let out of hospital and had a few days at home at long last, ready to start thinking about the future of care for my Dad. But in the end, he'd fought for long enough.
We had a call at 4.00am this morning. Dad died soon afterwards.
We're okay. We're all kind of okay. Wish I could say more – there's much I could, but it's only twelve hours in and this is just a blog. But my Dad is no longer suffering.
..Wish it was a neat as that, however. Sixteen hours before that call, we'd had another one. My brother in law's dad, David, died one night previous. In the space of a day, Caroline and her sister had both lost their fathers, because that's what both men really were to them. A personal thing to say, and a testimony to both of them. The first of many.
So we're juggling families. And feelings. And practicalities.
Will let you know more details here in time; the blog's been useful to let friends know the news for our folks. And everyone's texts and thoughts have been very kind, very helpful and no surprise at all. Bless you guys for being our family – Mum and Dad were always so pleased you've been there for us.
A little more when we have time.
x
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
WARNING! WARD CLOSED.
WARNING! WARD CLOSED.
My Mum now has C-Dif. Or similar. The point is, they've closed her ward entirely and moved her to a side room where she can feel completely lousy in bacterial privacy. Can't see her.
The hospital looks like M*A*S*H. Yellow warning stickers all over wards; crooked bits of wood nailed over the doors. Blood on the lintels. But, amazingly, Melissa and I managed to see Dad this afternoon. We sat and chatted and I tried to put my finger on what was weird about him. Then I twigged – as ill and unhappy as he is, he looks more like himself than I've seen in a month. I figured he must be getting better because he'd been grouchy with the nurses in the night – they'd tried to make him lie down and he took umbridge at not being able to breathe.
We're still not thinking beyond tomorrow, however. Dad's medical condition is as complicated and vulnerable as ever. But they have moved him to a ward tonight.
So we got through today. Seems my parents will both be in hospital until next week at least.
Stop me when this gets boring.
My Mum now has C-Dif. Or similar. The point is, they've closed her ward entirely and moved her to a side room where she can feel completely lousy in bacterial privacy. Can't see her.
The hospital looks like M*A*S*H. Yellow warning stickers all over wards; crooked bits of wood nailed over the doors. Blood on the lintels. But, amazingly, Melissa and I managed to see Dad this afternoon. We sat and chatted and I tried to put my finger on what was weird about him. Then I twigged – as ill and unhappy as he is, he looks more like himself than I've seen in a month. I figured he must be getting better because he'd been grouchy with the nurses in the night – they'd tried to make him lie down and he took umbridge at not being able to breathe.
We're still not thinking beyond tomorrow, however. Dad's medical condition is as complicated and vulnerable as ever. But they have moved him to a ward tonight.
So we got through today. Seems my parents will both be in hospital until next week at least.
Stop me when this gets boring.
Family.
Family.
So, er, what a few days. I have five quiet minutes to scribble an update here, so here is where my family are at:
Kind of okay, today.
After Mum was taken in unexpectedly on Thursday morning, the two of us did what we could to be with Dad and ensure he was looked after; there was just no way for him to be left alone while so unwell. They finally diagnosed his stomach bug that afternoon and prescribed some anti-biotics – so, as Friday rolled through, he seemed to be making progress in some small way at last. I told Melly to sit tight and not come down; Mum too was making slow but sure improvement.
That evening, we popped out together for half an hour to get cat food and one or two other things we don't understand and, when we returned, found Dad looking worried and feeling unwell again.
"I've just had a call from the blood lab" he said. "They're sending a doctor round now; I need to go back to hospital…"
We prepared and waiting and eventually opened the door to the doctor on call that night. A while later, we were wheeling my heartbreakingly frail father into A&E.
The bottom line, in short, is that he was subsequently diagnosed with a combination of very serious stuff – combination being the real point. It took them a couple of hours of testing and hooking him up to things and going through a bound tome of medical records that looked like the Book Of Kells, but eventually faces were grave enough to usher us into a side room. It was very gently done, but we were Given The Talk.
How much do I say about seeing Dad like that?
Nothing really here; you get the point. We had to leave him and go home to try for some sleep. We had to leave him.
----
Walking in again the next morning we knew two things – Dad was in a serious way and Mum didn't know. What we didn't know was how far Dad had come or not during the night.
Y'know, there's plenty of story here to go into at another time but, again, maybe not now. Amazed to say that as Saturday wore on, Dad's vitals began to do the distinctly unexpected – rally. Bloody rally. The senior doctor on Friday night had said to us: "I love it when my patients prove me wrong, but…" and 24hrs later, Dad was adding another 'but' to her statement. I honestly quite can't believe it. But, almost can – my Dad is my Dad everywhere. Seeing him then, that lunchtime, he was still thanking the medical staff and, I began to suspect, warming hearts a little on a frazzled ward. That's him, in that situation.
We spent much of that day at the hospital, of course. By the time Melly had joined us, we'd actually managed to grab a kip on the sofa at home, as ward infections were barring us from seeing Dad much. But before we came home that tea time, we'd managed to do the one thing I'd most prayed for – get Mum down to see Dad. Touching, and kind of funny. Oh my lord, my blummen' parents. Having them both in the same hospital does start to feel like a Carry On farce…
----
Since then. Well, Dad is still in a very bad way. No one is talking about what to do, medium term – and by that I mean anything after next week. It is hour by hour, day by day. I'm running Momo at half speed and not travelling out of town at the moment. But Dad's vitals are on a very slow climb in the right direction. After three days.
Thing is, farce fans, we had some more news about Mum yesterday. Looking very much herself – thankfully enough for me to be facetious to her again, though this admittedly needs little more than a pulse showing on her ECG – and bored daft, she was not let out yesterday as planned. And here are her consultant's words:
"Well, Mrs Peach, we hardly want to let you out of here if you're cooking up a heart attack."
Subtle.
So we have both parents in there for indeterminate lengths of stay. ..Now, do I add here or leave it 'till later? Their elderly cat doesn't half look dicky at home too…
Anyway, there we are. On call. But okay. Today. Strangely grateful for how things have fallen to help us deal with things so far. And grateful too for the wider family's kindness. ..That's you guys.
Caroline is making for London today, to hand in an essay. I'm trying to get a presentation out of the way and Melissa is getting some more things down to Mum. Each day, we're waiting for a call and hoping for progress.
Let you know when we know more.
x
So, er, what a few days. I have five quiet minutes to scribble an update here, so here is where my family are at:
Kind of okay, today.
After Mum was taken in unexpectedly on Thursday morning, the two of us did what we could to be with Dad and ensure he was looked after; there was just no way for him to be left alone while so unwell. They finally diagnosed his stomach bug that afternoon and prescribed some anti-biotics – so, as Friday rolled through, he seemed to be making progress in some small way at last. I told Melly to sit tight and not come down; Mum too was making slow but sure improvement.
That evening, we popped out together for half an hour to get cat food and one or two other things we don't understand and, when we returned, found Dad looking worried and feeling unwell again.
"I've just had a call from the blood lab" he said. "They're sending a doctor round now; I need to go back to hospital…"
We prepared and waiting and eventually opened the door to the doctor on call that night. A while later, we were wheeling my heartbreakingly frail father into A&E.
The bottom line, in short, is that he was subsequently diagnosed with a combination of very serious stuff – combination being the real point. It took them a couple of hours of testing and hooking him up to things and going through a bound tome of medical records that looked like the Book Of Kells, but eventually faces were grave enough to usher us into a side room. It was very gently done, but we were Given The Talk.
How much do I say about seeing Dad like that?
Nothing really here; you get the point. We had to leave him and go home to try for some sleep. We had to leave him.
----
Walking in again the next morning we knew two things – Dad was in a serious way and Mum didn't know. What we didn't know was how far Dad had come or not during the night.
Y'know, there's plenty of story here to go into at another time but, again, maybe not now. Amazed to say that as Saturday wore on, Dad's vitals began to do the distinctly unexpected – rally. Bloody rally. The senior doctor on Friday night had said to us: "I love it when my patients prove me wrong, but…" and 24hrs later, Dad was adding another 'but' to her statement. I honestly quite can't believe it. But, almost can – my Dad is my Dad everywhere. Seeing him then, that lunchtime, he was still thanking the medical staff and, I began to suspect, warming hearts a little on a frazzled ward. That's him, in that situation.
We spent much of that day at the hospital, of course. By the time Melly had joined us, we'd actually managed to grab a kip on the sofa at home, as ward infections were barring us from seeing Dad much. But before we came home that tea time, we'd managed to do the one thing I'd most prayed for – get Mum down to see Dad. Touching, and kind of funny. Oh my lord, my blummen' parents. Having them both in the same hospital does start to feel like a Carry On farce…
----
Since then. Well, Dad is still in a very bad way. No one is talking about what to do, medium term – and by that I mean anything after next week. It is hour by hour, day by day. I'm running Momo at half speed and not travelling out of town at the moment. But Dad's vitals are on a very slow climb in the right direction. After three days.
Thing is, farce fans, we had some more news about Mum yesterday. Looking very much herself – thankfully enough for me to be facetious to her again, though this admittedly needs little more than a pulse showing on her ECG – and bored daft, she was not let out yesterday as planned. And here are her consultant's words:
"Well, Mrs Peach, we hardly want to let you out of here if you're cooking up a heart attack."
Subtle.
So we have both parents in there for indeterminate lengths of stay. ..Now, do I add here or leave it 'till later? Their elderly cat doesn't half look dicky at home too…
Anyway, there we are. On call. But okay. Today. Strangely grateful for how things have fallen to help us deal with things so far. And grateful too for the wider family's kindness. ..That's you guys.
Caroline is making for London today, to hand in an essay. I'm trying to get a presentation out of the way and Melissa is getting some more things down to Mum. Each day, we're waiting for a call and hoping for progress.
Let you know when we know more.
x
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Up and down.
Up and down.
It's becoming a leeeetle bit of a tragic farce now. Phone rang this morning, not long after my alarm had gone off. Early. In fact, I was still dead to the world and didn't hear the phone when Caroline leapt out of bed.
It was Mum. Badly out of breath. Being carted off to A&E.
She'd woken up unable to breathe and Dad had called an ambulance. Four of them plugged her into things and carried her away, with my Dad left behind, wondering what was going on.
We got over there pronto and realised we'd better imagine settling in for the day. I left it an hour and rang the hospital. Turns out Mum had run out of some of her meds and this caught up with her rather suddenly. So, assuring Dad we'd both be on hand, Caroline unfolded the laptop to try and make headway on an essay, and I began a multi-pointed dash through the south coast rain to run errands – main one being, to see Mum.
She'd been moved to Acute Admissions by the time I arrived, and she was stable. But under a mask and drowsy. Various tubes in her arm. As I sat with her a while, I looked at her and thought: this is Dad's primary carer?
It seems likely she'll recover fine once the missing meds balance out in her system – but she'll be in for at least a night and possibly two. Think we'll have to stick around for Dad all night. We're waiting on some test results today from a sample from Dad that Mum managed to get to a lab yesterday, smart lady. If it's not the rampant Norwood bug, or whatever it's called, they'll admit him to hospital to start trying to get some food and fluids into him at last. He's had a month of sickness and diarrhoea now; a month.
Mum and Dad live at the top of the hill. At the bottom of the hill, meanwhile, just a skateboard ride away, a rather different major medical moment is overdue – Kev and Fee's tiddler. They both keep scaring me with emails and texts, but so far these have been all about dancing elves.
So it's all a bit up and down here at the moment. Good job I'm not trying to run a business single handed, eh?
It's becoming a leeeetle bit of a tragic farce now. Phone rang this morning, not long after my alarm had gone off. Early. In fact, I was still dead to the world and didn't hear the phone when Caroline leapt out of bed.
It was Mum. Badly out of breath. Being carted off to A&E.
She'd woken up unable to breathe and Dad had called an ambulance. Four of them plugged her into things and carried her away, with my Dad left behind, wondering what was going on.
We got over there pronto and realised we'd better imagine settling in for the day. I left it an hour and rang the hospital. Turns out Mum had run out of some of her meds and this caught up with her rather suddenly. So, assuring Dad we'd both be on hand, Caroline unfolded the laptop to try and make headway on an essay, and I began a multi-pointed dash through the south coast rain to run errands – main one being, to see Mum.
She'd been moved to Acute Admissions by the time I arrived, and she was stable. But under a mask and drowsy. Various tubes in her arm. As I sat with her a while, I looked at her and thought: this is Dad's primary carer?
It seems likely she'll recover fine once the missing meds balance out in her system – but she'll be in for at least a night and possibly two. Think we'll have to stick around for Dad all night. We're waiting on some test results today from a sample from Dad that Mum managed to get to a lab yesterday, smart lady. If it's not the rampant Norwood bug, or whatever it's called, they'll admit him to hospital to start trying to get some food and fluids into him at last. He's had a month of sickness and diarrhoea now; a month.
Mum and Dad live at the top of the hill. At the bottom of the hill, meanwhile, just a skateboard ride away, a rather different major medical moment is overdue – Kev and Fee's tiddler. They both keep scaring me with emails and texts, but so far these have been all about dancing elves.
So it's all a bit up and down here at the moment. Good job I'm not trying to run a business single handed, eh?
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
Waiting.
Waiting.
Saw Dad again yesterday. Things are in a bad way.
He's not improving his ability to eat or keep his stomach settled. A month of this in his condition is… not good. The virus seems too hefty for him to shift, which sounds like the bug that hospitals across the UK are apparently struggling with. Don't know.
All I know is, Dad is basically very ill. And we all feel helpless, while waiting for tablets to work and doctors to call.
At the same time, I think of my brother-in-law's father, pastor of their big Baptist church. The chap who married us, in fact, and a big part of our family in Sussex. He's currently in hospital awaiting a delayed re-bypass operation to try and stop an infection in the original valve replacement, done a few weeks ago. Doctors have had serious expressions around his bedside over the last two weeks. Another larger-than-life man in a grave condition. Another family trying to get on with normal stuff while waiting around for news. And praying.
Thing is, this is normal stuff. And under the circumstances, so is praying. Let's just see how today pans out.
Saw Dad again yesterday. Things are in a bad way.
He's not improving his ability to eat or keep his stomach settled. A month of this in his condition is… not good. The virus seems too hefty for him to shift, which sounds like the bug that hospitals across the UK are apparently struggling with. Don't know.
All I know is, Dad is basically very ill. And we all feel helpless, while waiting for tablets to work and doctors to call.
At the same time, I think of my brother-in-law's father, pastor of their big Baptist church. The chap who married us, in fact, and a big part of our family in Sussex. He's currently in hospital awaiting a delayed re-bypass operation to try and stop an infection in the original valve replacement, done a few weeks ago. Doctors have had serious expressions around his bedside over the last two weeks. Another larger-than-life man in a grave condition. Another family trying to get on with normal stuff while waiting around for news. And praying.
Thing is, this is normal stuff. And under the circumstances, so is praying. Let's just see how today pans out.
Sunday, December 02, 2007
Growing up and getting down.
Growing up and getting down.
Number of reasons to feel old this week. As usual, I don't really – but I really should. Because, apart from anything else, they tell me it's exactly twenty-five years since Thriller was released.
I queued for that record when it came out. Or at least, I kept having to go back to John Menzies in Christchurch to get new copies of it because there was a whole funny batch of them badly pressed that made Billy Jean jump. ..And with a courageous stiff upper lip that would make one of Queen Victoria's finest cavalry front-liners proud to stand next to me, I admit that I bought this fabled Michael Jackson epic along with George Michael's beat combo debut – Wham! Fantastic! I did. I just admitted it, there. What have you got now?
So Thriller seems both quainter and sweeter second time around. Found it in a bargain bin at Borders on a rain-lashed Friday evening, after a Goodbye Old Chum drink with Kev; little baby Marshall is scheduled for much-anticipated poolside entrance tomorrow. Jeeeeepers. There again – a reason to feel old.
Another reason to feel old is watching your Father do enough aging for both of you in front of your eyes. We went over to help mine celebrate his 73rd today – but there's no escaping how his current illness has given him extra years. I won't put into idle words here how it feels, but he and Mum seem to have everything queuing up against them. And I love my Dad, and my Mum.
When I cycled from school to spend my meagre Advertiser delivery money on Thriller the first time, I was enjoying a very happy end of childhood – and looking forward to a very groovy adulthood, thanks in giant part to my groovy parents. Though 'groovy' in the Eddie Izzard sense, rather than the would-honestly-ever-dance-to-Thriller sense. Like most people's parents back then.
As an aside, today – against the natural order of things or not – most of my be-parenthooded friends seem to be doing a remarkably good job of being groovy in a way that wouldn't have made sense twenty five years ago – ie: still reasonably sexy young Got Its. As much as any of them ever had it, they still seem to have the funk for getting down –no different to two and a half decades ago to my eye. Is this right? Or am I old after all? When do we all become Real Adults?
But look at us as a generation – we still bang on about blummen' Star Wars and Stardust and Atari home video games and Thriller – and refuse to fully accept we're no longer that age, even as our heroic creatives and everything else we love slide into mediocrity and decline.
And a bloody good thing too, after all. Maybe. All I know is that, full blast in the earphones, Thriller is making me fug round the studio like a disco zombie – I am doing the dance, yes. Damn right. Do it too. Get the record and do it too, with me.
Because, however grown-up life is trying to make me, I'm still going to fight it. Somehow. And help my Dad fight it. ..Somehow.
Though I'm not sure suggesting a moonwalking class to Michael Jackson would say it right for him – or assure him I've taken up the mantle of responsibility at last.
Which would probably reassure my Dad after all.
Number of reasons to feel old this week. As usual, I don't really – but I really should. Because, apart from anything else, they tell me it's exactly twenty-five years since Thriller was released.
I queued for that record when it came out. Or at least, I kept having to go back to John Menzies in Christchurch to get new copies of it because there was a whole funny batch of them badly pressed that made Billy Jean jump. ..And with a courageous stiff upper lip that would make one of Queen Victoria's finest cavalry front-liners proud to stand next to me, I admit that I bought this fabled Michael Jackson epic along with George Michael's beat combo debut – Wham! Fantastic! I did. I just admitted it, there. What have you got now?
So Thriller seems both quainter and sweeter second time around. Found it in a bargain bin at Borders on a rain-lashed Friday evening, after a Goodbye Old Chum drink with Kev; little baby Marshall is scheduled for much-anticipated poolside entrance tomorrow. Jeeeeepers. There again – a reason to feel old.
Another reason to feel old is watching your Father do enough aging for both of you in front of your eyes. We went over to help mine celebrate his 73rd today – but there's no escaping how his current illness has given him extra years. I won't put into idle words here how it feels, but he and Mum seem to have everything queuing up against them. And I love my Dad, and my Mum.
When I cycled from school to spend my meagre Advertiser delivery money on Thriller the first time, I was enjoying a very happy end of childhood – and looking forward to a very groovy adulthood, thanks in giant part to my groovy parents. Though 'groovy' in the Eddie Izzard sense, rather than the would-honestly-ever-dance-to-Thriller sense. Like most people's parents back then.
As an aside, today – against the natural order of things or not – most of my be-parenthooded friends seem to be doing a remarkably good job of being groovy in a way that wouldn't have made sense twenty five years ago – ie: still reasonably sexy young Got Its. As much as any of them ever had it, they still seem to have the funk for getting down –no different to two and a half decades ago to my eye. Is this right? Or am I old after all? When do we all become Real Adults?
But look at us as a generation – we still bang on about blummen' Star Wars and Stardust and Atari home video games and Thriller – and refuse to fully accept we're no longer that age, even as our heroic creatives and everything else we love slide into mediocrity and decline.
And a bloody good thing too, after all. Maybe. All I know is that, full blast in the earphones, Thriller is making me fug round the studio like a disco zombie – I am doing the dance, yes. Damn right. Do it too. Get the record and do it too, with me.
Because, however grown-up life is trying to make me, I'm still going to fight it. Somehow. And help my Dad fight it. ..Somehow.
Though I'm not sure suggesting a moonwalking class to Michael Jackson would say it right for him – or assure him I've taken up the mantle of responsibility at last.
Which would probably reassure my Dad after all.
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