Dearest Rachel –
Each day at the hospital is another case of not knowing how things are going to go, and what, if anything, is going to happen. Depending on how well he’s been able to sleep the night before, Dad’s mood could be one of contentment with whatever fate has in store for him, or a desperate longing for it all to be over with. More often than you’d expect, something is, in fact, “over with” by the end of the day; just not… everything. In yesterday’s case, there was the possibility that, as with his episode late in 2023, he might be getting transferred to the same long-tern care and rehabilitation facility to regain mobility to resume his life (such as it was; these days, it’s a matter of getting between the bedroom, the recliner, the puzzle table and the kitchen) back at home.
A word about the place, and why this actually required a decision; on Friday, while he was still in intensive care (but being readied to be transferred to the more standard wing of the hospital while he continued to recover from his pneumonia), he’d been visited by a pair of physical therapists. At the time, they’d managed to get him out of bed and on his feet, and even got him to take a few steps to the side and back. Because of this, they suggested that he might benefit from the rehabilitation regimen offered by the hospital itself, which involved as much as three hours of physical therapy spread out throughout the day. Given that the days he spent at the rehab center three years ago had long stretches of which he considered to be “boring downtime,” he thought it might be a reasonable idea. In an effort to enlist wise counsel on the matter, he contacted our head pastor to confer with about this decision, and he agreed to meet with us on Monday.
However, after the weekend (which included a night or two that didn’t include enough sleep – partly because he was being fed too late in the evening, and had to stay awake to let the food digest, lest it spill out of his stomach and irritate his gastric wound), he concluded that he just didn’t have the strength to accomplish so much effort on a consistent basis. On Monday morning, he’d been visited by a different pair of physical therapists, who’d gotten him out of his bed and into a nearby chair for an hour – which, to be fair, felt like a triumph in and of itself – but that was it for the day. He knew that he couldn’t deal with three hours of actual work when little more than an hour of sitting upright was draining him. Sure, there was the dopamine rush of accomplishing that much, but there was no way he could do more, at least not at this point. Even before our pastor arrived, he’d made the decision – and we’d agreed with him – that he would be transferred to the longer-term care facility. At this point, all we really needed from Pastor was confirmation that this was the right decision, which was readily given.
So yesterday was expected to be moving day at first, since he would be wrapping up his course of antibiotics to combat his pneumonia. Since they wouldn’t be conducting the intensive physical therapy at the hospital, we assumed that they would want him out as soon as possible. However, even as we came to that conclusion – bolstered by the fact that no therapists arrived in the morning like on Monday to get him to the chair – a new pair (well, one new therapist; the other had been part of Monday’s team) arrived at about one in the afternoon.
They even apparently meant to do more than had been done on Monday, as they attempted to get him past the chair at first. I don’t know if they meant for him to just stand for a bit, or walk to the window and back, but in either case, he wasn’t able to do much more than make it to the chair without the pain in his ribs getting to be too much for him. Evidently, by leaning on the walker, he’s setting all his weight on his arm, which in turn is pushing back against the shoulder and rib, further aggravating the pain that had brought him into the emergency room a week ago in the first place. So he immediately retreated to the chair instead of working any further.
Again, that pretty much settled things, as far as where he was going to go, but also indicated that he might not be making the trip that day. After all, there was the bureaucracy that had to be done to facilitate the transfer – including contacting the place and confirming that they even had a room available for him in the first place; otherwise, he might need to be transferred elsewhere. Until then, we were stuck, unmoving, at the hospital.
Which actually turned out to be a good thing, as there were a few physical things that would best be resolved there. For one, his gastric tube was aging out; oh, it was still functional, but evidently they’re only expected to last for three or four months or so, and it was pushing five at this point. So it was decided that, as long as he was already ‘in the shop,’ he could get this part replaced. Dad insisted that I watch the procedure, which turned out to be a surprisingly easy one – I had thought that it would actually require surgery, but it was almost as simple as what he goes through to feed himself. But it was better handled by hospital professionals – and specialists, to boot – than leaving it to the care facility, that’s for sure.
There were a few more minor things that needed to be resolved, too, while we’re waiting to see if the rehab center can take him, but in the waiting, it seems the hospital will be able to resolve them all the same. So while he wasn’t moving yesterday, things were getting done all the same; he’ll be much more ready to go by today.
Not that today’s a guarantee, either, but we’ll have to wait and see. In the meantime, I’d ask you to keep an eye on us, and wish us well. We’re certainly going to need it.
Letters to Rachel 