I've Heard Worse

What a heavy few days it has been. I was going to announce Big News this week, but that can wait till next Thursday. 

I’m writing this on Claydon Ward at Ipswich Hospital. My 94-year old father is propped up in bed with a nebuliser clamped to his face. He’s eyeing up a tuna sandwich and looking longingly at his crossword. This time last night, I was sitting on the edge of my seat while he tried to get out of bed and pull off his oxygen mask. He was delirious, suffering from pneumonia and heart problems, and possibly not long for this world.

My father is made of stern stuff. A lifelong abstainer from anything harmful (unless you count cake and biscuits), he’s walked purposefully through life avoiding all the usual hurdles and hazards which trip up ordinary mortals. As he lay gasping for air on the sitting room floor on Saturday afternoon, the ambulance crew asked me for his medical history. All I could come up with was his appendectomy at fifteen and his recent diagnosis with Alzheimer’s and heart disease. Not bad going.

I’ve written before about Dad’s experience at Ipswich. Then, as now, the staff were kind, caring, gentle and compassionate. Watching them caring for a confused, weak, elderly man who had no idea where he was, I was touched beyond words. They work so hard. They deserve so much more than what they are given. They pulled Dad round on Tuesday night, giving him strong antibiotics and a sedative to help him sleep. I thought I was going to be planning his funeral. Instead, I’m bellowing at the top of my voice over the nebuliser (no hearing aids, natch) and answering his questions about Mum and the rest of the family over and over again.

Which brings us on to Saturday night. Mum came back to our house for tea and to sleep. This meant she joined us round the table for a multi-generational meal. The diners were aged between eleven and ninety. Our eldest son is growing his hair and currently sports a fine curly auburn mop. Clad in a sleeveless Mötley Crüe T-shirt, he chatted politely to his grandmother about his band and their latest songs. After some gentle encouragement, he selected a track and played it to her on his phone. When it finished, she said, “Hmmm. Well, dear, I’ve heard worse.”

We all erupted into laughter. A ringing endorsement if ever there was one. I could see the posters: “Live on stage – Black Alice on their triumphant European Tour, “I’ve Heard Worse.” I amused myself by inventing imaginary tours for other metal giants.

Alice Cooper – What Time Do You Call This?

Metallica – I Hope You Don’t Think You’re Going Out Looking Like That

Iron Maiden – You’ll Catch Your Death

Motörhead – While You’re Under My Roof

Def Leppard – Turn It Down for Goodness’ Sake

Feel free to join in – what would Anthrax, Slipknot and Led Zeppelin’s grandmothers christen their world tours?

With mum at home along with the kitten who’s taken a shine to her (“It’s because you sit still all the time, Grandma,” explained our daughter), my sister began the long journey up from Hampshire to Suffolk. The poor thing fell foul of the dreaded diversions and had a lively and unexpected journey through hitherto unknown parts of Essex and Suffolk. She arrived at 2 o’clock in the morning and we conversed in whispers over a Twix until 7 o’clock when the rattle of the tea trolley announced the beginning of the day.

Yesterday, desperate for sleep, she tried to start her car, but the battery was dead. I leapt into mine and drove around trying to buy a set of jump leads. People say our society’s in decline (Guns 'n' Roses: What’s the World Coming To?) but I don’t think it is. Lovely Nick in Tesco regretted that he didn’t have any, but suggested I tried the Apple Garage on the hospital roundabout. Sure enough, they had lots. In the meantime, my sister had struck up a conversation in the car park with Jean from Stowmarket who offered a virtual hug. A kind couple, seeing a person in distress, stopped and offered their own jump leads. It did my heart good.

It’s Thursday now. I slept in my own bed last night. It felt pretty good. I left dad surrounded by Twix wrappers doing his Sudoku. He’s looking infinitely better but of course, we don’t know what the future holds. He’ll be 95 in October, God willing, and once again, we’ve got cause to thank our fabulous NHS. Tracey, Leena, Gincy, Roo, Collette, Amy, Alison and all of you on Claydon, plus all your colleagues – thank you, from all of us who rely on you. Because we really do.

The prognosis isn’t as bad as we were expecting. Lots of antibiotics, rest and a pacemaker. I’ve heard worse.

Images by Pixabay

Ruth is a freelance writer. She is married with three children, runs a catering company and keeps chickens and quail. She has her first novel in the editing stage, another two on the go, writes for a number of Christian charities and has her own business writing blogs for small Suffolk businesses. She is a recovering over-achiever who is now able to do the school run in her onesie most days. She blogs at @bigwordsandmadeupstories, covering topics as diverse as King Zog of Albania, a Christingle plagued by punch-ups and tummy upsets, and the inevitable decline of elderly parents. She has abnormally narrow sinuses and a morbid fear of raw tomatoes, but has decided not to let this get in the way of a meaningful life.