Hope crushed
The next day was Saturday the 25th of February. A day that will stick in our minds for ever I think. We phoned the ward that morning and everything was good. Joe was still on low levels of oxygen and seemed to be maintaining his progress. For the first time in over a week there seemed to be something to smile about. The day before I remember that Anna's dad, Joe's granddad, had looked at
us with a big smile on his face and said 'today is a good day'. After the week of misery and fear we had all endured it felt like a huge weight had been lifted and we made our way up to the hospital that afternoon, full of hope and sure that this was the beginning of Joe's recovery.
As Joe had been doing so well we agreed that Stephen, one of his core group of friends, could come through and see him. So, he, his mum and little sister arrived at Jimmy's and we met them in Gledhow Wing. We took them up to the waiting room in ICU and said we would come back up for them as soon as we had seen Joe. We hadn't seen him since the night before so we wanted to see him first, get the latest updates and then let Stephen spend some time with him. As we walked down to Joe's bed we could see that there were problems and our eyes flew straight to the monitor. He was back on 100% oxygen and his saturation levels were at around 70%. Doctors and nurses were all around him and we held his hand briefly but then were asked to leave while they tried to stabilise his condition. We went back up to the waiting room to let Stephen know and Anna's sister and niece had turned up, eager to see Joe opening his eyes. We had no good news for them and just had to wait.
I don't remember how long it was before they came to speak to us, it felt like hours, Anna thinks it was 2 hours. It felt an age but eventually the doctors asked us to come into the relatives' room so they could update us on his condition. When Joe's nurse and the attending doctor came in they explained that Joe appeared to have suffered another huge haemorrhage into his lungs and his oxygen saturation was dangerously low. His blood pressure was very unstable and his heart rate was, once more, through the roof. May, was the name of the nurse who was looking after him that day, I don't remember the name of the doctor. The sympathy in their eyes was almost too much to bear. In a distressing echo of that first meeting in this room the doctor said, 'if you have any relatives in or near the hospital right now it might be a good idea for them to come and see him. He is a very sick boy. We are doing all we can but we are really struggling to keep his blood oxygenated despite the fact that he is on 100% therapy and full pressures.'The shock was immense. Only a few hours earlier he had appeared to be on the mend. This was a major setback. Worse even than that first day when they ventilated him. He had been given so much treatment and it seemed to have been working. Now he was worse than ever.
May kept repeating to us, 'we are doing the best we can, we are doing the best we can. We are trying everything'. Someone, I don't remember who, asked 'how long will you keep trying'? She lifted her hands up and said, 'he is so young', we are doing everything we can.' Her eyes were obviously full of unshed tears and I remember thinking that you don't expect nurses in this situation to show their emotions. I guess we think they become inured to suffering in their job. But, as she said, Joe was so young and I think that touched everyone.
They brought us tea, that age-old panacea, and we prepared ourselves to make some calls.It's a strange feeling being in that position. I felt guilty giving people the bad news about Joe. A curious response perhaps? I desperately didn't want to have to say this to Tracey, Robbie and Beth but they needed to know. I rang Vancouver where my dad and step mum, Maureen, had been staying with my stepsister for several weeks and found myself reluctant to tell dad the bad news. I felt that at 80, dad had suffered enough in his life. Having lost a son and daughter already, he had another son who was dying of oesophageal cancer and now this. After telling him the bad news, he said, almost to himself, 'when will this ever end'?
There were lots of people around Joe's bed that evening and all of us thought he was going to die then. The sight of Anna holding on to him and nuzzling his hair, trying to hang on to his smell for one last time and begging him to hang on is something that never leaves me. Even now, 6 months on, the image is starkly imprinted on my memory. I find myself struggling to convey the utter grief, desperation and disbelief we felt at this turn of events. In 24 hours we had gone from thinking that Joe was on the mend to waiting for him to die.
As Joe had been doing so well we agreed that Stephen, one of his core group of friends, could come through and see him. So, he, his mum and little sister arrived at Jimmy's and we met them in Gledhow Wing. We took them up to the waiting room in ICU and said we would come back up for them as soon as we had seen Joe. We hadn't seen him since the night before so we wanted to see him first, get the latest updates and then let Stephen spend some time with him. As we walked down to Joe's bed we could see that there were problems and our eyes flew straight to the monitor. He was back on 100% oxygen and his saturation levels were at around 70%. Doctors and nurses were all around him and we held his hand briefly but then were asked to leave while they tried to stabilise his condition. We went back up to the waiting room to let Stephen know and Anna's sister and niece had turned up, eager to see Joe opening his eyes. We had no good news for them and just had to wait.
I don't remember how long it was before they came to speak to us, it felt like hours, Anna thinks it was 2 hours. It felt an age but eventually the doctors asked us to come into the relatives' room so they could update us on his condition. When Joe's nurse and the attending doctor came in they explained that Joe appeared to have suffered another huge haemorrhage into his lungs and his oxygen saturation was dangerously low. His blood pressure was very unstable and his heart rate was, once more, through the roof. May, was the name of the nurse who was looking after him that day, I don't remember the name of the doctor. The sympathy in their eyes was almost too much to bear. In a distressing echo of that first meeting in this room the doctor said, 'if you have any relatives in or near the hospital right now it might be a good idea for them to come and see him. He is a very sick boy. We are doing all we can but we are really struggling to keep his blood oxygenated despite the fact that he is on 100% therapy and full pressures.'The shock was immense. Only a few hours earlier he had appeared to be on the mend. This was a major setback. Worse even than that first day when they ventilated him. He had been given so much treatment and it seemed to have been working. Now he was worse than ever.
May kept repeating to us, 'we are doing the best we can, we are doing the best we can. We are trying everything'. Someone, I don't remember who, asked 'how long will you keep trying'? She lifted her hands up and said, 'he is so young', we are doing everything we can.' Her eyes were obviously full of unshed tears and I remember thinking that you don't expect nurses in this situation to show their emotions. I guess we think they become inured to suffering in their job. But, as she said, Joe was so young and I think that touched everyone.
They brought us tea, that age-old panacea, and we prepared ourselves to make some calls.It's a strange feeling being in that position. I felt guilty giving people the bad news about Joe. A curious response perhaps? I desperately didn't want to have to say this to Tracey, Robbie and Beth but they needed to know. I rang Vancouver where my dad and step mum, Maureen, had been staying with my stepsister for several weeks and found myself reluctant to tell dad the bad news. I felt that at 80, dad had suffered enough in his life. Having lost a son and daughter already, he had another son who was dying of oesophageal cancer and now this. After telling him the bad news, he said, almost to himself, 'when will this ever end'?
There were lots of people around Joe's bed that evening and all of us thought he was going to die then. The sight of Anna holding on to him and nuzzling his hair, trying to hang on to his smell for one last time and begging him to hang on is something that never leaves me. Even now, 6 months on, the image is starkly imprinted on my memory. I find myself struggling to convey the utter grief, desperation and disbelief we felt at this turn of events. In 24 hours we had gone from thinking that Joe was on the mend to waiting for him to die.
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