It looks like Mom is going to be okay. Sunday night I kissed her and was undone by her warmth – that’s life – she’s every bit alive. I was hearing her breathing (it was still machine-assisted), and now felt her warmth – that’s all I need – that’s enough.

On Friday, Mom and I sang and played piano – “All I Ask of You”, “Think of Me”…. Carlynn came over for dinner – which is always great fun. I went dancing in the evening – the Ontario Regional Contact Improv Jam was happening this weekend. At 10 pm I came home and danced with Mom. It was a great day.

Saturday at 9 am I was lying in bed, having awoken a few minutes earlier. All was quiet. Then Mom shrieked “Help! Jonathon! Ah! My throat! It hurts!” Mom has had pains shooting through her before – “it’s like someone’s taken a knife right through me”, but always after a few minutes she’s fine. She also has had aches – pains not shooting through her, but making her groan for up to an hour. And she said, years ago, that she had talked to her doctor about it. She’s always been fine. But I have never heard any cry so frightened as this.

Mom was sitting partially upright in bed. I curled up around herand put one hand on her chest and one on her back. She seemed to be relaxing. I was concerned she had had a stroke. She said she thought she might be sick and she wanted to go to the sink. With my help she moved to the edge of the bed. Her lips were hanging incredibly loosely. She was able to stand, and walk – with my help. She was able to move everything, but she had no strength in her muscles. She did not vomit. I was holding her up. We went back to her bed.

I was aching to call 911 but I didn’t want to set her into more of a panic, so I suggested it may be just one of the usual stabbing pains that goes in a few minutes, and I gave her a Tums antacid and suggested it may be acid reflux, and I said how I have awoken sometimes and nothing seems to work, and then I rest, and when I awake, I’m as good as new. Then I went downstairs, closed the kitchen door, and called 911.

I realized Mom may be more at ease knowing the ambulance is on its way, so I told her. We were sitting upright on her bed – I curled up beside her/around her, and together we sang a song which she had sung to me – presumably when I was a baby, and a few dozen times since we re-discovered it 2 years ago when we were on the subway and I was tired and asked her to sing me a lullaby – “Go to sleep my baby, close your weary eyes, Angels up above you, peeping at you deary from the skies. Great big moon am shining. Stars begin to peep. Time for Mommy’s pickaninny to go to sleep.”

At 9:30 the paramedics arrived (10 minutes after my call). Mom was carried downstairs and into the ambulance. I was with her, breathing love, asking if she’d ever been in an ambulance – telling her about when I cut off the 1/4″ tip of my finger (it grew back!), and went in an ambulance – and how she and I had spent my first Christmas Eve in an ambulance and then hospital while I had convulsions.

We arrived at Toronto Western Hospital. I was asked to wait in the waiting room – about 7 minutes later they asked me to come in. Mom was still groaning “Oh Oh Oh Oh – that’s all I can say is Oh”. They didn’t want to give her morphine because they were concerned it would drop her blood pressure (I think) which was already low. They decided to give her ?1 gram? (?) of morphine.

I still thought it was not serious – more an adventure. My underlying belief was Mom has Alzheimer’s – she’s going to die of complications from Alzheimer’s, or “plain old age”. Mom doesn’t have heart problems. She is so vital.

After doing an ultrasound on her heart, they concluded that it was probably a dissection, but that they had to do a CAT Scan of her heart to be sure. This meant they would have to put a kind of dye into her blood (to see the circulatory system with the Scan) – which could damage her kidneys – but it had to be done: major surgery would be required for Mom’s condition, and they won’t initiate surgery without having done a CAT Scan. I didn’t know what a CAT Scan machine looked like, but I do know what an MRI machine looks like – they look the same – Mom would be slid intothis machine. She was slightly jittery and groaning and the CAT Scan operator said he could not put her in if she could not be still for 10 minutes. I said “the morphine calmed her before”. They got more morphine. Mom was slid in. Everyone else was outside the room. A computer voice said “Take a deep breath in — hold it — release and breathe normally … … Take a deep breath in — hold it — release and breathe normally … … Take a deep breath in — hold it — release and breathe normally.” I was sure Mom was not able to sustain the hold for the required length of time, and that that fact would be freaking her out even more.

She was brought back to the original area. When they put the cuff on her to measure her blood pressure (the thing that pumps up and makes you feel like you have a big muscle) – she was flipping out in pain. “Take it off! Stop it!” I was concerned that it was doing more harm than good but they said they had to monitor her blood pressure this way (they also had lots of other cardiogram wires attached to her, and two different monitors (and an IV (intravenus drip)).

I was breathing with her. I was talking softly, and singing, and bringing peaceful energy to her- holding her feet and feeling my heart energy enveloping her- it was actually profoundly peaceful.

Time passed. Lots of time had been passing all along, but especially now. They were trying to find a hospital that could operate on Mom. I presume every hospital can do a “standard heart attack” surgery, but this was not standard. They called Toronto General, St. Mike’s, Mt Sinai, Sunnybrook. They called Barrie, London Ontario, and Buffalo, New York. I said if we’re thinking that far away, surely we should call the local hospitals again and tell them the crisis level has risen – let Mom be in a hallway after surgery, but let’s get the operation done now – if they’ll give me the tools I’ll do it!

They did the ultrasound again, this time recording it to computer – so the surgeon would have a reference. I kissed her cheeks, her shoulders, her elbows. She was still awake, usually still in pain, wanting to change position. I said I know changing position usually helps, but this time it won’t – we need to just be as calm as we can be – the pain will be gone when the doctors finish, but moving won’t help. She grabbed the handlebars and pushed herself up to sitting. So I raised the back for a bit. Earlier they had said she had to keep low to not stress the blood pressure, but they had let up on that themselves at times.

I sang “O Come O Come Immanuel, and ransom captive Israel”. I sang the “Somewhere Over the Rainbow – What a Wonderful World” medley. I sang “All I Ask of You”  No more thoughts of darkness, Forget these wide eyed fears,   I’m here, Nothing can harm you,  My words will warm and calm you.   … Say you’ll share with me one love, one lifetime,   Say the word and I will follow you   Share each breath with you each night, each morning,   Everywhere you go let me go to,   Christine, that’s all I ask of you”

An ambulance arrived for Mom to go to Mississauga’s Trillium Health Centre. 3 of the staff from the hospital came in the hospital too – along with one of the ambulance team in the back with Mom – I was in the front passenger seat.

We arrived and were escorted straight to the pre-op room. I sang  ”The way you make me laugh, the way you make me smile, they can’t take that away from  me”.

I’m off to the hospital now. I’ll write later about waiting during the surgery, and being called to say Mom had survived (“she’s a tough woman”). (There were still complications, but she seems to be coping.)

Newsflash – I had hoped to be there when Mom awoke – I had asked the hospital to let me know when that might happen – they had said she would be so groggy at first that she wouldn’t be able to see or hear anything – at least not able to discern what was being said, but I still hoped to be there.  Anyway, I just got word that Mom has awoken, responded to requests to squeeze a hand, and is now breathing on her own.  I’m off.

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Categories: Caregiving, Newsletter
Tags » Caregiving | Heal Thyself | medical | Momma | newsletter

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