Last weekend, Lucy and I joined her troop at Camp Texlake for the weekend. The girls in the troop had a great time singing, kayaking, swimming and meeting other scouts. The moms in the troop had a great time chasing the girls around, getting to know each other better and drinking wine out of coffee cups. And getting busted by the director of the event after we were ratted out for aforementioned wine drinking.
You Know You've Been in the Hospital Too Long When...
...you know your way around....you have a regular sandwich order in the "Bistro." ...you've had the same nurse more than once. ...your United Nations of Nurses represents most equatorial countries from the Western and Eastern hemispheres, and you develop a nuanced understanding of the strong British colonial influence on women's names (Jocelyn...from Thailand, Maureen...from Cameroon). ...you've spanned the full spectrum of feelings from deep gratitude ("I love this place, they saved Dad's life!") to appreciation ("We should bake them cookies.") to wearied relief ("Well, they are keeping him pretty healthy.") to anger ("What are you people doing? Why do I know more than you?"). ...you understand that the system works to benefit all the participants — the patients, the nurses, the docs, the techs — but the interests of the group fight the interests of the individual. ...you hate your surgeon and love your internist.
Dad went home yesterday, and he seems to be headed in the right direction. Which, I hope, is the opposite direction of North Austin Freaking Medical Center.
Observations from an ICU, 3
Today is Friday, 9/24/2010 I know this for sure because it's written on the whiteboard in Dad's room. Every room in the ICU has one of the whiteboards where date is rewritten faithfully every day. The days do run together in here. And some of these folks are in sorry enough shape that I see why they'd need to write the year down too.
Dad is definitely on the mend physically, and now his mental health is a concern. He's just been cleared to receive liquids, which means he will get his bipolar meds after four days without them. He's begun to show signs of mania (only got about 1.5 hours of sleep last night -- on his current dose of narcotics, he should be asleep most of the time, which means he's manic in slow-motion). Right now, he's Fun Jim, the mildly manic, jokey version of himself, yukking it up with us and the staff. We just need to get this under control before he's running around the floor with his rear end flapping out of his gown while the staff tries to sedate him.
Did You Know...
...that Lucy used to be in love with Henry, but she fell in love with someone new? His name is Cody and his twin brother was in her kindergarten class, and that is weird because they look the same.
Observations from an ICU, 2
Deep breaths and passed gas. That's what it's going to take to get Dad out of the ICU. The anesthesia, surgery and lying the same spot for too long have slowed his lung and bowel function, and bringing them back to life is essential to getting him healthy again. Coughs and farts: two of life's simpler pleasures.
Observations from an ICU
The film on the windows in the ICU casts the room in perpetual dusk. The fluorescent light, while politely dim, only adds to the gloom. The effect is meant to help the patient sleep, I suppose, but sleep seems to wait at the door for the constant shuffle of clog-clad feet and the business of monitoring, checking, asking, helping. Since we got in here, Dad has been in a half-sleep, like he's covered in the same film from the windows. His surgery went well — less than the four hours we were warned it might take, and they took the ventilator out right after surgery. He lies wizened and tiny in the big hospital bed, arms folded over his chest and whole body covered with a blanket, which hides the various devices and tubes that do more of the business of monitoring, voiding, squeezing and helping him get better. Which it looks like he is doing, thankfully.
Hospital New Hampshire
Last week, I drove all around the state of New Hampshire with a film crew, talking to various community health clinics, physician group practices and hospital-associated groups about a radical new concept called Patient-Centered Medical Home: the idea that every patient should have a primary care doctor in a consistent setting. Where a patient is known and welcomed. Where all aspects of their medical care are coordinated (even those things may not immediately seem related to medical care, like getting a ride or getting all your forms filled out). Where a patient is an active consumer of healthcare, an accountable partner in their own health outcomes. Where healthcare providers are paid not only for a visit or procedure, but for all the services they and their staffs provide, from phone calls to referrals to refills. Where people get better — and the system gets better. Really, the idea is not so radical or new: it's old-fashioned family medicine, the kind my grandfather practiced. They are doing good things in New Hampshire. Wherever you stand politically, we can probably all agree that our very flawed healthcare system should realign around people getting better.
After five days in New Hampshire, I landed in Austin and fetched my much-missed children, only to receive the phone call that Jim Dear (Granddaddy) was being admitted to the hospital with an abdominal aortic aneurysm. The fact that they caught it is a miracle, and while the situation is serious, we are optimistic that Dad will recover from the surgery scheduled on Tuesday. We've been happy with the care he's received so far: mostly efficient, caring and effective.
But it's nothing like what I witnessed in New Hampshire. It would mean the world to me and my sisters and my dad to have a Medical Home right now: someone to call and ask the 72 odd questions we have, someone to help us understand what the hell the out-of-pocket maximum is for Medicare Part A (oh, and what the hell is the difference between Part A and Part B), someone to help us get a second opinion about the stent vs. the open surgery. We are Medical Home...less. For all the good care he is receiving, we are adrift in a sea of questions.
Ah, New Hampshire. Keep up the good work.
First Steps
Milo has been dangerously — and I do mean dangerously — close to walking for about a week. So I've been watching his teetering more closely than usual. I admit, I have not watched him as closely as I should have at times. I shudder to think of the THREE, count them, THREE seconds I turned my back on him in the kitchen last week with the dishwasher open and I turned around and he was holding a KNIFE. Gingerly. In my direction. As though to say, "Woman, hello? I am holding a knife?" Why am I telling you this? I am not that bad of a mother. I am just a bad editor.
Milo's first real steps happened on Saturday at Kevin and Patrick's house. We spent a delightful weekend with them in Dallas, where we had better accommodations than the Four Seasons. Patrick kept asking Lucy, "Are your needs being met?" Um, unlimited limeade, Duck Tales, and princess-style bubble baths in a sunken tub? The answer is "Yes, thank you." Although the first time he asked her, she said, "I don't know how to answer that question." Patsy even came to help babysit, while Jason and I went to the Rangers/Yankees game Saturday night (thank you!).
It was only fair that Patrick and Kevin got to see Milo's first steps and I didn't: I was taking an extra-long shower in their fantastic guest bathroom, perfectly decorated with a subtle island theme. Of course Milo first wobbedly-walked around their thoughtful house filled with breakable decorative items, expensive electronics and fresh paint — early signs of good taste (or a death wish).
Free Advice
Dear friends, Don't leave a poopy diaper cooking in a plastic bag overnight in your newish car. Ever. Doing that will make you sad.
Sincerely, Kate
One
One year ago today, one year ago RIGHT NOW, we were sitting quietly in a hospital room with a mewling, darling new creature. He'd been born at 7 oh something p.m. with minimal-to-medium fanfare. The fanfare: there had been the ruckus with the driving to the hospital at about 7 centimeters dilated, which makes Mopac feel like a VERY BUMPY ROAD. Then there was the waiting in the seemingly closed waiting area, after pressing the buzzer, which made such a lonely sound, like no one would answer EVER. Then there was the filling out of forms, which no one really wants to do EVER, but certainly not at EIGHT CENTIMETERS. Lastly, the news that the dreaded VERY HANDSOME DOCTOR would be delivering this baby: I clung to my doula, said several curse words and repeated my strong opinion that this good-looking doctor should not be allowed to see my private parts without several dates beforehand. Alas, we had no time for dates. There was some more gnashing of teeth and cursing before the real work started.
I pushed. They proclaimed: GOOD JOB, GREAT PUSHING!
I pushed more. More praise.
Pushing. Praise.
Pushing. I was feeling the lack of results. "WHAT AM I DOING WRONG?"
Pushing. Much encouragement and news of a head with dark hair. Dark hair? I made a creature with dark hair?
I pushed some more and [there is no punctuation, no drumroll fitting this]...
Milo.
Not too long later, we had this cone-headed animal, all cleaned up and swaddled. He smacked and snorted, but hardly cried. I had been reluctant to have another baby. HA. I kept saying to his bundled self, "Are you kidding me?"
Milo is such easy joy. He has blonde hair now, and he looks like me. He delights in the opening of doors, the turning on of lights, Beyonce, whoever he sees when he first wakes up. He wrinkles his nose when he smiles and he probably likes you, but he plays hard to get.
