I am just about to make the phone call. And even though I’ve dialed the number every day this week, the thought of it ties my stomach in knots. By writing this I know, in a way, I am putting off the moment when I must pick up the handset, tap in the area code, then the number, and wait until a nurse answers at the other end: Hello, Burns Unit.
My mother is in a pitiful state: She has lost seventy per cent of her skin – face, arms and hands, chest, back, tummy, thighs and feet; her breathing is aided by a ventilator through a tracheotomy; tubes come in and out of evey orifice for food, blood, piss, you name it. She is very ill. And all this from a drug allergy.
When my father rang to say that the doctors had given her a less than fifty per cent chance of survival, I dropped everything at work, rented a car and drove the 170-mile journey to her bedside.
The medical staff are amazing. I can’t even begin to express my admiration for, and gratitude to, everyone who is working so tirelessly to save my mother’s life. The nurses are constantly monitoring, testing, adjusting and tending. Registrars, consultants and surgeons are honest yet encouraging in their counsel, answering any question with patience and warm sensitivity. She really couldn’t be in a better place or in better hands.
There is no end to this story; no one knows how it will end – all we can do is hope. Now I’m going to make that phone call.
Recent Comments