Day 5: Morbid thoughts

My visits to Dad start off with him beckoning to me as soon as I arrive. Some little thing will need to be done: an adjustment of a pillow, the handing over of the shaver. Then I provide Dad with his 'ents' - basically the Daily Mail with its tiresome tirades about Eastern Europeans flooding the UK. We chat a little about what has happened: has he been to the loo? did he sleep OK? Today, the occupational therapist had taken dad to the toilet and taught him how to wash himself. He was pleased at that.

But I fear that I am probably not very entertaining for him and his thoughts turned quite morbid. "Remember, don't burn me!" (a reference to Muslim burial customs), "I wish I was back in my hometown [in China]", "Get the bus to Regent's Park Mosque - they will tell you what to do." I find I am constantly saying to him, "Don't be silly!" It's a rather lame reply.

Mind you, when I look at the other patients on the ward, I have to count my lucky stars that dad's stroke was relatively minor. He's in a bay of 6 beds though there's only 5 of them there at the moment. Next to him is patient B who's stroke has left him unable to speak properly. He has an alphabet list on his table for him to spell out words. Everybody tries to guess what he mumbles out. It must be so frustrating as he knows himself what he wants to say. I never knew what 'NIL BY MOUTH' meant until I saw the sign above his bed. He can't swallow properly. No food no water should pass through his mouth.

Then near the window is patient J. His visitor: "George is coming to see you tomorrow." Patient J: "Who's George?" Visitor: "Your son!" Heartbreaking.

Patient A is a jolly enough chap. And then next to him is patient Q who must be, what forty? Forty years old and struck down by a stroke. Luckily he is in the final stages of 'recovery'. Still, it's shocking how many people and the range of ages a stroke can strike out on.

Dad had an intense physio session today. He managed to walk (supported by the physio) quite quickly halfway up the corridor. Then he went to the 'gym' to run through a series of tests: raising arms, maneouvering to sitting positions, tapping feet. Boxes were ticked accordingly. He tried so hard in the tests, his face scrunching up awfully with the effort. The session ended with him trying out a metal frame with wheels - a zimmerframe?

The intense effort exhausted him, but he'd done well. Later on, my brother and mum took him down in a wheelchair to the canteen. It was good to get out of the bay.

I had written to a couple of dad's friends to tell them what happened. One of them wrote back, pointing out how dad's vision problems were one of the earliest signs of an impending stroke. I felt guilty and cursed myself. Why hadn't I pushed dad earlier into getting it all checked out properly? NHS inefficiencies aside, why hadn't I urged a private checkup instead? I felt bad.