Jan. 31st, 2005
It's been a very, very busy last few days. Dad's condition has been all over the place - sometimes bright and, well, not cheerful, but comfortably grumpy; sometimes almost not there at all and gasping for air. This, however has been nothing compared to the atmosphere at my family's home. When we have the occasional meeting, everything's cordial. The rest of the time, it's the most uncomfortable home arrangement since Big Brother 5.
So that I wouldn't snap under the pressure, when Mary came to visit for an afternoon, I decided to go to London with her to attend Aquarion/AdrianO's birthday party, and I was very glad to see them, old friends (Hippo and Lonecat) and CCDE acquaintances (the Family Hallett). After crashing in Tim's room (thanks mate!), I woke up on Sunday morning and headed back to Hampshire, planning on grabbing my stuff and going back home to Manchester.
Dad was worse. From what the cardiologist said, much worse. But I gritted my teeth, knowing that if I stayed put I was going to turn into a gibbering wreck. So I told Dad I was going home, lectured him soundly on paying attention to the nurses and promised to speak to him after the England/Wales game on Saturday 5th, and then headed north.
I didn't know what to expect this morning, when I called the hospital. I certainly wasn't expecting to be told that Dad's been transferred off the high care ward. To make me even less secure, the staff in the new ward won't tell me anything beyond "he's a lot better" because I'm not there and I can't prove I am who I say I am. Considering my last contact with the hospital, for some reason I doubt that I'm being told everything, and the nurse's jobsworth attitude (especially in comparison to the way I was treated by the staff looking after Dad before) really stuck in my throat.
So now I just have to hope that I'm being paranoid and that he _is_ getting better. Many, many thanks and hugs to everyone who's talked/messaged/followed up to anything I've said over the last little while. Here's hoping this is the way up...
shinyDan
So that I wouldn't snap under the pressure, when Mary came to visit for an afternoon, I decided to go to London with her to attend Aquarion/AdrianO's birthday party, and I was very glad to see them, old friends (Hippo and Lonecat) and CCDE acquaintances (the Family Hallett). After crashing in Tim's room (thanks mate!), I woke up on Sunday morning and headed back to Hampshire, planning on grabbing my stuff and going back home to Manchester.
Dad was worse. From what the cardiologist said, much worse. But I gritted my teeth, knowing that if I stayed put I was going to turn into a gibbering wreck. So I told Dad I was going home, lectured him soundly on paying attention to the nurses and promised to speak to him after the England/Wales game on Saturday 5th, and then headed north.
I didn't know what to expect this morning, when I called the hospital. I certainly wasn't expecting to be told that Dad's been transferred off the high care ward. To make me even less secure, the staff in the new ward won't tell me anything beyond "he's a lot better" because I'm not there and I can't prove I am who I say I am. Considering my last contact with the hospital, for some reason I doubt that I'm being told everything, and the nurse's jobsworth attitude (especially in comparison to the way I was treated by the staff looking after Dad before) really stuck in my throat.
So now I just have to hope that I'm being paranoid and that he _is_ getting better. Many, many thanks and hugs to everyone who's talked/messaged/followed up to anything I've said over the last little while. Here's hoping this is the way up...
shinyDan