October 2010 London
BLOG 38: a waiting game
In a funny kind of way, we’re getting used to the situation, getting into a kind of routine. My whole day is spent at the hospital, in and out of the family waiting room together with my daughter – my sons have had to return to work. Daughter is a great support. We hold hands just before we go to visit OH’s bedside; we are used to the routine of walking up the corridor, washing hands at the sink, donning our plastic aprons, approaching the bed and getting the nod from the IT nurse that it’s ok to go close. They are gradually reducing the oxygen supply when it seems warranted to encourage him to breathe on his own. This is a good sign. I understand better how the blonde woman, Mavis is her name, in the waiting room feels about the signs relating to her Dad. Daughter and I are buoyant though Daughter warns me that we’ll only know more when he regains consciousness. When will that be? He has undergone so much. Are his kidneys permanently damaged? What about brain damage – a real possibility after the prolonged surgeries with attendant long anaesthetics and massive blood loss. Daughter should know a lot about this. Her field of research is the brain and how it processes language – in this, she is a leader in the field. But she can’t answer these big questions. Only OH will have the answers, when he wakes up and can respond.
He lies there, on his high bed – still as a stone, attached to tubes and monitors.
I whisper in his ear: “Darling OH, wake up now! We need you!”
The nurse passes by to check on the equipment. I say to her, hopefully without despair in my voice: “Do you think he can hear us?”
She is sweet, a young Chinese woman with a ready smile. “I don’t know, but it is possible. When someone is unconscious, hearing is the most likely sense to remain active. Talk to him. It does no harm.”
Until now, I have been stroking him, planting kisses on his forehead (his mouth has a breathing tube stuck inside). What shall I say to him – lying there, so still? We should make the most of our time with him and this gives us a new purpose. Daughter and I discuss it – I think what we say should be meaningful. Daughter says, yes and no. What we say to him should be designed to provoke him into consciousness or remind him of important events in the past. Hmmm. Provoke. OH is very keen on current affairs and politics. Some politicians he admires and some, he positively dislikes. So let’s start with those he dislikes. That should provoke him! I tell Daughter their names and we take turns in reciting them to him together with snippets we gather from newspapers left in the waiting room. We watch carefully for any response. None. If OH can hear, he must think we’ve gone mad.
How about singing to him, suggests Daughter. I laugh. Well, my singing should provoke a response, that’s for sure. I’m tone deaf and whenever I sing when amongst my musical family, one or more will join in to correct me. Particularly OH. He’ll say “repeat after me” and sing the first line of a song, then the first note. I’ll try manfully (or womanfully) and it will come out flat. Then with much patient repetition and trial, I might finally get the note right but the cheer of triumph will be short lived, because the next time, I’ll again sing flat – somewhat disheartening for any teacher. My singing is the subject of a (well meaning) family joke. So, I’ll sing to him, but what song? It must be a song that has some special significance for us. I know! I’ll sing the song he sang for me when I was in labour with our daughter, an amusing song from his childhood in South Africa. He’ll remember it for sure. It’s about a little boy nagging his father to be taken to the cinema (called Bioscope in South Africa) and (sung with a thick Afrikaans accent):
“Ach, pleez Daddy, won’t you take us to the Bioscope, all six seven of us, eight, nine, ten.
There’s gonna be a flic about Tarzan (pronounced Torzan) and the Apeman,
And when the show is over you can take us back again.
(Chorus: )
Popcorn, lollypops, peanuts and bubble gum
Icecream, candyfloss and Eskimo Pie,
We wanna see a flic about Torzan and the Ape Man (pause)
And when the show is over, you can bring us back again!”
I sing it, tunefully or not, I can’t tell, but judging from the odd grimace on Daughter’s face, probably not.
No response from OH, sadly. Daughter says to keep trying, so we do so until our time at bedside is up.
We return dutifully to the family room, throwing our aprons into the bin as we go.
On the way, we pass King-of-the-Jungle, no longer in his jungle gear. He gives us a mournful smile. I don’t smile back. That man irritates me.
. . . to be continued . . .usually posted on Thursday
