She had a Q. Look

So at 3am on Monday morning I was sitting up in an ED ward at Palmerston North Hospital, reading a book of Leonard Coen poetry I happened to have in my bag to try and keep awake.

* * *

I'd arrived at my Dad's for a visit, and soon after my step-ma had emerged from her nap saying she couldn't breathe. She was walking and taking very short breaths, but they sounded really gurgly, like there was fluid in her lungs. She'd been to the doctor and got steroids for asthma symptoms earlier in the day.

So at 10.30 or so an ambulance came, then I had to drive Dad up to Palmy following it. I hate driving country roads at night, so that was especially not fun. We then sat in the ward waiting for a doctor to see her for from 11.30pm til 3am.

There was only one chair, so we had to take turns sitting. I perched up on the end of Lynne's bed reading my poetry as she took a nap, having been somewhat relieved by the oxygen and medicine they gave her.

Luckily I had thought to bring some snacks in case we were there for a long time. I wasn't particularly useful, other than packing snacks and putting together an overnight bag for Lynne. Clean pjamas are important when you have vomited lung-mucus on your old ones. And a change of real clothes in case it was daylight by the time she was released. And a tooth brush. And she had requested perfume, though that may have just been a slightly disoriented suggestion. I packed it anyhow.

Once the doctor came and decided to admit Lynne, me and Dad drove home, since she was being taken off for x-rays and all that guff.

It was very foggy on the drive home, which played further on my dislike of country roads at night. We listened to the Forrest Gump sound-track, which is inappropriately uplifting in that context. 'Joy to the World' seems wrong to be singing along to after you've just admitted your wife to hospital.

Turns out she has pneumonia. Again. Third time.

I must explain that while it's always horrible when someone's in pain and shock, that there was a four week period a few years ago where she was in hospital four times (each for something different). Her poor old body is a bit rubbish, mostly because of nerve damage in her back.

Hospitals are nothing new to dad and me. We used to have to drive up to see Mum in there every day after school. 40 minutes each way.

And since then Dad and Lynne have had about four operations between them.

This is the first time I've seen triage up close. It was interesting. Then boring. And a bit frustrating. Patch 'em up, then leave 'em for a few hours.

It's simultaneously frustrating and satisfying when the doctor then decides to admit the person you're with. It'd be much easier to just take them home with you now (especially when you live in a different town) but it's good to know that you weren't over-reacting and there is actually something legitimately wrong.

Dad left messages with her kids the next day, but left them on the wrong types of phones. One he left on a cell-phone, but she hadn't been checking her voice-mail all day. The other he left on a land-line but they were actually on holiday (ironically drove back from Taupo to Wellington that day, so could have stopped in to visit her on the way....).

You can but try.

I bought her some trashy magazines and kept Dad company at home the next night.

Dramas eh.