Sept. 13 - two weeks along

Looks like it's been almost two weeks since I last updated you on dad's situation, and looking back over the last missive, there's a bit to update.

 

First, there's no way he's coming home yet.

 

Second, dad is now at his third address at Royal Jubilee Hospital, which is starting to rival his son for shiftlessness (I've had no fewer than 17 addresses since 1988): after about 10 days in the regular ward, he was moved on Saturday into the Richmond Pavilion, where they do physical therapy and basically work on getting people mobile again.  This is good news, and he's been able to get himself to the bathroom and back and take longer strolls down the hall and back under the watchful eye of a physiotherapist.  He still has to rest and get his breath back after these excursions.  The pneumonia is gradually clearing up, but it's a long process.

 

Mentally, he's still sharp and his face lit up when Amelia walked in yesterday. Any kind of contact with family and friends boosts him -- he got two long and thoughtful letters from friends last week, which definitely blessed him.  But he also talks of strange dreams, and one of his nurses told me he has periods of delerium, which are not uncommon, she says, but are cause for, if not concern, certainly vigilance.

 

As you can see, I try to keep upbeat while dealing with realities.  One of those is determining what kind of care and what level of care he'll need once they do release him.  I hope to meet with the hospital social worker and some of the medical team today to get a better picture of that.

 

One of the blessings has been the amount of time we've been able to spend talking.  We talk about faith and about life and all sorts of things: the dreams and what he plans to do at home when he goes back.  For a while, he talked a lot about his childhood, but the last couple of visits, we've talked about the future.  I read to him from Return to Antarctica, although he's also been reading it by himself when I'm not there -- he likes to say, "I read it until my lips get tired" -- so I've been missing bits and pieces of it.  (Adrian, what did Scott do after he got back from the South Pole?)

 

He said, "I love you" at least three times in conversation yesterday: more than I've heard him say it in about 35 years. 

 

On Friday, as I was leaving to go back to Vancouver (we came back over on Sunday morning), he called me back.  Actually, I didn't hear him call: a nurse passing by the room caught me and said, "are you Drew?"  I admitted it, and she said, "you're dad's calling you".  I went back.  He held my hand for a moment and prayed quietly.  I've never seen him pray.

 

You think God isn't working this through for His glory?

 

Speaking of prayer, Amelia stepped in during Saturday's service at Gospel Mission -- just after Worship -- and told the guys (some women come to the Mission, but they're all known, generically, as "the guys") about the situation with dad and asked for prayer: not for him, but for me.  "Drew's having a rough time of it," she said, which is true, "and while you guys rely on him, he relies on you."  Also true.  We are family.  And they all prayed.

 

And something interesting happened.  One of the guys spoke up and asked for prayer, too, since his mother is in her final days with Alzheimer's.  So he was prayed for as well ... and I was reminded I'm not the only one going through this.

 

While it's positive news that dad's been moved to a rehab unit at Royal Jubilee, there is a down-side: he's no longer under the care of Nurse Olga.  Despite any mental image the name might conjure up ("lovely like steppes -- delicate like tractor"), Olga is a lovely, caring person who was able to give me the straight goods on dad's condition in such a way that I was able to get a handle on his future prospects and needs.  She was also the first person in the hospital who was able to shave dad without carving him like a salmon and give him showers -- one of dad's favorite things: "they hose me down front and back with this lovely hot soapy water -- it's beautiful!" -- and she told me of one night when they actually wheeled dad out to the nursing station to sleep, because he was having difficulty (she didn't elaborate) and they wanted to keep a close eye on him.

 

Why would someone do that?  Why go to such lengths to make an 87-year-old man with pneumonia and who was recovering from a massive heart attack comfortable and prolong his life and not just leave him be -- or not be?  Why would they be so caring?  In fact, why would they double-check and confirm that, if something further happened, "do not resuscitate" was, indeed, his desire?  Certainly, with the media hype about "failings" in our health-care system, I'd point to Olga, her colleagues and the doctors treating dad and say, "case dismissed".  I think that's what it means to be human, God's workmanship created for good works.