Sabotage

I may have mentioned that the smaller portion is not a good convalescent.

He is still in hospital.  He has moved on from Nil by Mouth where he was only allowed ice, which he held in his mouth until it melted and then swallowed.

The next step was Clear Fluids.  He complained bitterly that he could not tell the soup he was offered from the water for his tea.  For some reason clear fluids included jelly - but he could stand a spoon up in it and refused it.

Then onto Free Fluids.  Here he is allowed milk in his tea or coffee, porridge, custard and somewhat thicker (but not chunky) soups.

The tea and coffee were both vile, but he bravely managed half a cup.
The porridge was wall paper paste and he could not (would not) eat it.
The custard had lumps in it the size of peas and he could not (would not) eat it.
The soup was mushroom and he hates mushrooms so he could not (would not) eat it.

They have removed all of the tubes/bells and whistles he was connected to but have now had to replace the drain coming from the hole in his side.

Both his sister and I are exhausted.  We come home and tell ourselves that we cannot tell our dinner from the water for our tea and coffee, complain about the lumps and go to bed smiling wryly.  We are not of course anywhere near as tired as the wounded warrior. 

While he is diligently refusing to eat his digestion is not being tested.  He tells us, which I doubt, that he has been told that a 'good fart' will be sufficient to come home on.

I hope not.  I really, really hope not.  I do not want another dash to hospital with him.

PS:  I forgot to share a moment of shared mirth.  At 55 my smaller portion is one of the youngest (if not the youngest) in his shared ward.  The day before yesterday a nurse trotted from bed to bed asking earnestly 'Have you done pooh-pooh or wee-wee today?'.  It was a good thing that the curtains were drawn because our faces were all convulsed with the effort of not laughing loudly.  And his sister and I cravenly bolted before she got to him.

Unexpected Dietary Requirements.

Before the Smaller Portion was released from hospital a dietician came to see him.  She was young, she was earnest and she stressed that his diet would have to change radically for the next six to eight weeks while his gut settles down.

As little fibre as possible.


A maximum of one piece of fruit a day (and preferably less).  With a perfectly straight face she told him that if he ate grapes they had to be seedless and peeled.

Vegetables to be kept to a minimum and if he must have them they should be peeled, boiled and mashed to within an inch of their lives.  


Water is bad.


Lemonade is good.


Increased salt.

No spicy food (which, if he was eating, would make him suffer)

Listening to her, I struggled.  I badly wanted to laugh.  Although I do understand that this is about being as gentle to his intestines as possible it almost completely contradicts any dietary advice I have ever heard or read.  After she left I told the Smaller Portion that it sounded like he should just eat at Maccas for the next eight weeks.  He didn't laugh.  I did.

The dietician added that he would need to eat often to ensure that the ileostomy was working as it should.  The pharmacist who dispensed the medication he left hospital with added that he was likely to be nauseous and that the remedy was small amounts of food.

The Smaller Portion has eating issues at the best of times.  This is not the best of times.  Since he was admitted to hospital on Tuesday of last week he has kept down three or four strawberries and a teeny weeny bowl of yogurt.  He waits until he is on the verge of vomiting, has a little food and throws up.  He then tells me (either explicitly or with meaningful stares) that he knew that eating was a bad idea.

To say that I am angry and frustrated is an understatement.  He is a grown man and it is his decision but it is not an easy one to watch.  So I did a shift at Lifeline yesterday as a form of respite.  And it was.

Failure

This morning for something completely different we have been in the garden.

The smaller portion has planted over 100 bulbs. Daffodils, a mixture of the doubles and the split coronas.  I have planted maybe twenty and done some weeding and wept some bitter tears.  I can't keep up.   I am sore, frustrated and beating up on myself better than anyone else can.

And yes I know I am not being reasonable.  He planted in areas I had already weeded.  He can get up and down again without pain.

But feelings (for me anyway) are not reasonable.  I still compare myself to a person without a disability and come off badly.  And my expectations are perhaps too high.  Aaaaargh.

I am inside having a cup of tea and calming down (a bit).  Possibly two cups of tea.  After which I am going back outside armed with secateurs and loppers.  I intend to wrestle the stinking honeysuckle into submission so I can plant the last of the daffodil  bulbs where I want them.

And tomorrow I will start again.