August 9th - Intensive Care

09/08/2009 by Brigid.

Our lives are, for the time being, dominated by daily, sometimes twice-daily, trips to the hospital, where Mum continues in Intensive Care. Her recovery from a life-saving operation on July 18^th is slow: sometimes to the point of being imperceptible. Each day seems to bring a new challenge: high temperature, low blood pressure, high sodium, sleepless nights, restless days … Since she still requires support from a ventilator, she cannot speak, which tends to keep our visits short. On a good day we will get a beaming grin and, if she is feeling strong enough, a hand wave. But not being able to communicate soon becomes frustrating and, as the banks of monitors behind her head warn us that her heart rate and blood pressure are rising, we reluctantly leave. On a bad day, she might open her eyes for us … but then again, she might not.

Every input and output is measured and recorded by a devoted team of 3 or 4 nurses, who have, over the last three weeks, become like family to us. Other patients come and go from this dimly-lit subterranean world within a day or two, but, for the most part, Mum has the entire staff of the ICU to herself: one nurse permanently stationed at the end of her bed, diligently plotting her progress on a giant chart. And, while Mum concentrates all her efforts on breathing, around her others busy themselves adjusting drips, checking lines, taking bloods, resetting alarms …

No five-minute visit seems to pass without some activity on the part of the medical team and, yesterday, I witnessed Mum’s physiotherapy workout. As she has spent so long lying down, there is now a concerted effort to get her used to being upright again.  This is an undignified process, by which Mum is strapped to a tilt table and gradually inclined to an angle of 45°. Then two physiotherapists, aided by a couple of nurses, help her raise and lower her arms, touch her forehead and squeeze their hands. It is painful to watch the disproportionate level effort and exertion required, but the team seem delighted by her progress. Occupational Therapy brought her a large television so that she could watch Coronation Street, and asked about her hobbies …

Friends and relatives call every day to ask if and when they might visit. Some seem shocked when I tell them Mum is still in Intensive Care and unable to speak. I don’t give it too much thought. There are few other places in the country where she would receive such dedicated care. To some extent, I have become desensitized to discussions around care plans and interventions: topics that would have previously left me faint or weepy. I find myself being almost alarmingly matter-of-fact about Mum’s condition. But the doctors are upbeat about every small improvement, so why shouldn’t I be?

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