ICU & The Relative's Room #2

Before reading: I spoke to my Dad about whether I could write about this experience and he was fine with it and got the chance to read it before posting here. I've also just included information about the experience for me and some parts about my Dad, but some information may be missed out to maintain privacy for other family members and friends.  

We arrived at the hospital and went to go and find the ICU - thank god for the colour-coded corridors. Once we got there we had to press a buzzer to be let in and a nurse greeted us at the door. My stomach churned at what I was going to see. The nurse explained to Paul and I that we may be in for a shock (considering we had only seen and spoken to my Dad less than 12 hours before) and that his breathing had gotten worse over night to the point he was becoming disoriented, and this is in turn was making his heart work overtime which was exhausting for his body. 

You know in films where they use a zoom effect to make a corridor appear longer? That's what it felt like walking towards my Dad's cubicle, everything slowed down. When we got around the curtain, it was kind of what I was expecting, there were lots of tubes, lots of beeping, the regular rhythm of the ventilator - it was a sensory overload. My Dad was in an induced coma and the fixer in me was screaming internally. I remember desperately wanting to ask the nurses what I could do to help, "Oh, is it time for more injections? Here, let me", "Does he need a new lung? Oh, that's lucky - I've got two!" That was one of the biggest challenges for me, not being able to help. 

Every so often my Dad had to be moved into a different position to prevent him from getting bedsores, so when they had to do that we were ushered out into the relative's room which required a code to get in and consisted of sofas, a toilet, a TV and a hot drinks machine. It was always exciting using the hot drinks machine as you never knew what you were going to get... You press the button for hot chocolate? You got a coffee. You pressed the button for coffee? You got what looked like sewage water, and it changed most days. In the end, we brought in our own teabags and coffee and kept it in the room - I needed something strong and stable (that didn't involve Theresa May) each day, even if that just meant a guaranteed decent cup of tea. 

Our lives for the next 2-3 weeks completely changed and the days consisted of visiting my Dad twice a day and trying to force food down me. If I could do that then the day was a success. There would be days we would laugh and chat whilst sat with my Dad, there were days where we didn't feel as strong and sat quietly. I remember about 1 week into my Dad being in ICU, I  decided to go and visit on my own. I hadn't been sleeping any of the previous nights and wanted some time alone. The nurse looking after my Dad spoke to me and asked how I was doing and I just cried. I cried hard and it even makes me teary-eyed thinking about it now. The nurse said something to me that I still think about now. She said, it's important that you're emotional in front of your family, you don't have to try and hold it together (not that I was successful at this) all the time. They need to know it's OK to cry too. 

I don't know why, but it really hit home for me. Even in a completely different context, say you're having a shit day and someone asks how you are. A lot of the time we do just say we are fine, because it's easier and we don't want to make anyone feel uncomfortable. But, maybe we do need to start being more honest about our emotions and what's on our minds. I'm always ready to listen to anyone who needs to talk and people have done this for me in the past who I am so grateful to. The saying a problem shared is a problem halved couldn't be more fitting and by doing this it may encourage more people to ask for help.

My Dad and I, a few years ago.

Back from the tangent and to my Dad. He started to get a little better in terms of the amount of oxygen he was taking in on his own and how much support he needed from the ventilator. Overnight, however, he took a turn for the worse. One thing I learnt is that there is nothing more unsettling or stomach clenching then a Doctor closing the curtains of the cubicle and taking a seat in front of you with a sympathetic look on their face. All the progress my Dad was making, to then be told that it wasn't good news and essentially they didn't know whether they would be able to wean him off the ventilator. A world without my Dad was inconceivable and I wasn't strong enough to deal with it.