Home!

Ava-Jane is home.

We all watched strictly together.

We had a big steak.

I thought you’d want to know.

Day 3 Delirium

Fo and I have long had a theory that one night in hospital is OK, two is bearable but by the third night, you start getting a bit delirious. It’s akin to a very long long-haul flight. It’s the same airless conditions, close proximity to people you don’t know, and with limited food and entertainment choices. You even get a form of jet lag as you are awake when you shouldn’t be and then sleep at strange times during the day to catch up. I am now on my second three-day stint, as Fo is still unwell, and am fast losing the plot.

I guess people are going to want to hear how Ava-Jane is getting on before hearing me moan about my sleep deprivation, the tragedy of the cricket, my choice of books or even my in-hospital eating habits.

She’s definitely improving and much chirpier than when I was last in. Her oxygen levels are holding up during the day unassisted but they still dip at night and she needed an oxygen mask last night. They won’t let us leave until she can get through the night without extra oxygen. We’ve been here before and this stage can drag on a bit.

What we really need is to have oxygen at home and a monitor so we could manage it ourselves, which would be a benefit for everyone as it would free up a bed here and let us get home. But there’s a lot of faff involved in getting an oxygen machine for the home.

But we did get her into her chair and out for a walk round the hospital hunting for Christmas trees. I will post photos below.

On our walk, a lady came up to AJ to say “thank you, you just put a smile on my face – I needed that.” AJ should work in therapy. She says hello to everyone she crosses and gets lots of smiles.

I have said it before and I’ll say it again – nurses are great. Sweet Eve (another palindrome that she was polite enough to feign interest in when I pointed this out), not only does all her meds and obs but also spruced up Ava-Jane’s hair to a much better standard than I ever could.

When the nurses give a patient any medication they first ask you to confirm her name, date of birth and whether she has any allergies. I am sure this is a very sensible cautionary measure to make sure that the wrong drugs aren’t given to the wrong kid. I almost infallibly trip up on the date of birth and have to think about it longer than the nurses seem to think is appropriate. They also ask “Are you Dad?”, which I generally quip about but I think they are happy they asked when they see me looking unsure of my daughter’s DOB. It’s the year that gets me – I have to start from knowing that she is 16 and subtract from there.

But anyway, good measure that it might be, at 4.30 am this morning, I did wonder whether they have to ask every bleeding time! AJ was wide awake all night for some reason, and I had just managed to get to sleep when the nurse was shaking me awake, asking me her name, date of birth and “any allergies?”

I had to stop myself from responding, “no, I have managed to swap her out for an identical looking changeling child that I sneaked into the ward under your noses!”

Fine dining:

A meal deal + GÜ pot for comfort.

The day before AJ went into hospital, my case(s) of Xmas wine arrived – so for once there’ll be enough left for actual Xmas. I can feel them calling me. A spell in hospital is good for sobriety and I am definitely hitting my target of four booze-free days a week under these conditions.

I got the perfect hospital book in our office Secret Santa – Notes on a Scandal. It’s not the sort of book I would generally have chosen but it has great characters, a good story and it’s nice a short. I bombed through it so needed something else.

First I picked up the Elif Shafak book in the hospital WH Smith. She is meant to be one of the great writers of our times. But then I saw Forged in Rome – Conn Iggulden writes just the sort of historical fiction I enjoy. So, I might go for that and keep There are Rivers in the Sky for a quieter moment when I can concentrate better.

I didn’t go for this one – I certainly judged this book by its cover.

The cricket… it’s almost too painful to mention. England are playing Australia in Australia so in theory being kept awake would have been tolerable as I could have been following the match that is going on at the moment. But the only redeeming feature of this match is that England might get thrashed a little less brutally than they have been in the previous two matches. They are going to get thrashed but by a bit less.

Hunting and Judging Christmas Trees

Inspirational quote #2 (very AJ appropriate)

So this is where the lift goes. Ava-Jane, I don’t think we are supposed to be here.

Photo popped up – it’s from 2021 but she does look beautiful.

In for a stretch

It’s December, traditionally a month of traditions: Saint Nicholas in some countries, Advent Calendars, copious food and drink, carols, Christmas, Boxing Day, New Year’s Eve. A special tradition of ours at this time of year is a stint in hospital.

Ava-Jane has picked something up and the force of our wills was not enough to keep her out of hospital. However much Fo and I told ourselves that she’d be better off at home and we could manage… we failed. One ambulance came on Thursday afternoon, pumped her full of oxygen and checked her over and Fo sent them away. Then she got worse so we called another ambulance and two came!

Fo did the first night and then I took over for a jolly weekend in Stoke Mandeville Hospital of sleep deprivation and cheese and ham sandwiches.

It’s Sunday afternoon now and Fo has a stinking cold, so we are thinking she might not be able to take over as Ava-Jane, the paediatric ward, and the NHS more generally don’t need more bugs spread around the place.

Tubes and wires

She’s hooked up to a high volume oxygen machine that goes into her nose. This forces oxygen down into her lungs rather than relying on her breathing it in. It’s pretty effective but must be rather unpleasant.
Every three hours she gets an extra mask on top of this with a nebuliser. I am not sure what is being nebulised but presumably some concoction to clear her lungs.
She’s got a catheter in her vein to connect a drip to give her water. It’s a Baxter-branded drip, so at least we’re keeping it in the family. (Unfortunately we aren’t those Baxters, nor are we the Baxters of the marmalade, nor the soups, nor the butchers).
She’s just had another catheter put up her jacksie as she hadn’t had a wee for 16 hours.
We have to suction her mouth every so often to clear the gunk. Just learnt that this suction device is called a Yankeur – presumably not rhyming slang.
The physios come once or twice a day and shove a much longer suction tube down her throat to make her cough and clear more gunk.
And she’s wired up to a SATs machine (that’s not Standard Assessment Test; it’s an abbreviation for oxygen saturation btw – sorry for the mansplaining).

So, not inexplicably, she’s rather pissed off. Well you would be, wouldn’t you? Tubes and wires coming out of every orifice or attached to various members when you are already feeling grotty can’t be much fun.

I did have plans to write something about what an awful shit Donald Trump is, partly to ensure that if my socials are reviewed, I am summarily thrown out of the US.

I even had note for some ruminations on fatherhood based around a comparative study of Daddy Pig vs Bluey’s dad but that will have to wait for another time.

I’ll spare you those and leave it there and wish you all a very merry Christmas.