Back To The Nightmare

It is 6.15 a.m. and the house phone is ringing. Hardly anyone except cold callers rings the house phone and my sleepy brain doesn't register the ring tone until it cuts out and the answering machine kicks in. I listen drowsily as the announcement plays faintly through the bedroom door then the sharp tone of an ended call. I relax. Wrong number.

Thirty seconds later my mobile rings. I feel adrenaline flooding my system. There is only one likely caller. In my haste to grab the phone I knock it to the floor and by the time I have picked it up it has gone to voicemail. I try to focus my bleary eyes on the last number on the call log. I don't recognise it but it is the right area code for the Care Home. I press callback.

As the ringing starts I find myself desperately hoping this is a dream, but the cold dead weight in my stomach convinces me otherwise.

A voice answers. It is the Care Home. I give my name. "I have a missed call from you."

"I'll transfer you."

Ten long seconds of the most banal music on hold.

The duty nurse on Rosemarie's floor answers. Brief, professional communication: Two carers were changing Rosemarie at 6 a.m. and she had an epileptic fit. The on call doctor has been contacted and will call back within half an hour.

I feel myself climbing onto the rollercoaster. 

I try to formulate the important questions. The answers come back brisk and convincing.

How long did the fit last? Three to five minutes (!)
Is she OK? She is alright now.
What does that mean? She is asleep now.

I am groggily trying to do some maths here.

It happened at 6? Just before.
Did they wake her up or was she awake? Don't know. (Why did I ask that?)
Did she hurt herself...bite her tongue? No.

My mind is spinning. 

"Call me as soon as the doctor calls you back and tell me what he says."
"OK"

My ceiling is hypnotically interesting. I get up and go to the bathroom for a quick wash and shave. My heart is pounding and I feel sick. 

As I am getting dressed I hear my son getting up for work. I knock on his door and we talk for a few minutes about what has happened. I tell him I don't think he needs to take the day off and I will keep him updated. If he needs to come to the Care Home he can get there quite quickly.

I get in the car and head off to the Care Home, calling my daughter on the hands free and letting her know what is happening. She says she will be along mid afternoon or earlier if needed.

Either the traffic is eerily thin or I am driving aggressively, but I am there by 7.15.

There is nobody at the Nurse's Station on Rosemarie's floor and I have to go in search of staff. I find the two carers on duty and check what I have been told then ask them to tell the nurse I have arrived and head off to Rosemarie's room. One of the Walkers is slumped asleep in a chair near her door.

She is sleeping. I try to remember the last time I saw her sleeping and can't. She doesn't look particularly peaceful but her breathing is regular. I have just sat down when there is a knock on the door: it is the New Nurse. I like her: she likes Rosemarie.

We go outside to talk. The fit lasted less than a minute. The carers saw her turn dark pink and pressed the emergency button to summon the nurse. Rosemarie was put in the lateral position to recover. She did not seem particularly distressed and fell asleep almost immediately. Hmmm.

I go back in the room and sit down. Rosemarie is still sleeping. I get out my phone and start going through emails. At about 7.45 Rosemarie starts some severe jolting, which slowly settles down.

Just after 8 the handover happens and Good Nurse comes in. I am relieved - New Nurse is good but Good Nurse is diamond. We talk for a few minutes and she goes away.

Rosemarie starts to move again and I think she is waking up. For a minute she moves her arms and legs in a jerky fashion with her eyes closed, then her eyes spring open and she starts making strange sounds: a cross between a moan and whooping cough. Her eyes grow wide and frightened and she begins to jerk violently. My heart thumps in my chest and I stab the emergency call button with one hand while trying to cuddle a Rosemarie that now seems to consist of flailing limbs and wild staring eyes. 

The beeping seems to go on for an age before the door opens and one of the daytime shift carers comes in. She assesses the situation in a heartbeat and presses the call button again. The beeping becomes a rapid staccato and within what seems like seconds there is the Good Nurse, the New Nurse, the Male Nurse and another carer in the room. A bustle of efficient activity that I see through tunnel vision as I am gently eased aside.  

I have seen people have fits before but it was different this time. There was something terrible about being inches away from a face I love so much that is contorted beyond recognition and voicing an eerie soundtrack. 

They have checked her airway and taken her blood pressure and temperature and fixed a small device to her finger. She is already falling asleep (going unconscious?), with her teeth clenched and making bubbly sounds as she tries to breathe through her nose. 

I have a strong sense of Here We Go Again.

The assembled nurses queue up to reassure me that Rosemarie is in no immediate danger but caution me that if she has another fit they will have to call an ambulance. When they have said the same thing enough times for me to get it they leave - all reassuring smiles - and a carer comes in to sit next to Rosemarie.

I think this is going to be a long day.

This is all I can write tonight. I need food and sleep.