Hospital Blog 2: The Ticking Bomb

Just so you know…  we have been home in Kissamos for 5 days (or ’sleeps’ as we are now supposed to say in infant-newspeak).  I am continuing the hospital blog, in instalments until I catch up with myself.  

But first Our Cat.
I always said that if I had a cat, it would be a black cat.  Some of you might remember my two black cats, Serafina and Petronella.  London is a city.  In the city people wear black. So - it follows, black cats.  Well, on Greek islands, you don’t choose the cat, the cat chooses you.  Crete is an island and the cat that chose us is mainly white.  We still wear black clothes, especially Al, especially in Winter.  Our Cat is mainly white.  He is shedding.  He is not crazy about being groomed, although he likes to bite the brush.  I will spend the rest of my life wiping our clothes down with a damp towel. No plan survives encounter with the enemy.

Since I wrote this I have had a minor disaster with the vacuum cleaner.  Never try to vacuum out fireplace ashes WITHOUT A BAG IN THE VAC.  Τηε Μiele I have had for several years will be going into hospital next week!  So cat hair triumphs.  I think a robo-vac is on the cards.

Back to the Ticking Bomb, as Al referred to himself.  We didn’t understand at the time just how loud that tick was and how serious the bomb.  During the period of waiting, he began to take little forays out; he discovered the coffee shop in the basement of the hospital, the garden on sunny afternoons, the balconies around the wards.  A few days before the operation, the nurse in charge told him it was dangerous for him to go ANYWHERE, but he still snuck out to get a coffee.  I tell you this because I think neither of us were completely aware of just how short a fuse he had.

 

So to the the day of the operation.  I am in the waiting area, outside the lifts, next to the ICU on the 4th floor.  It is now after 11PM, more that 45 minutes after Al had been wheeled past me.  After some more time, someone, probably a nurse, came out from the security doors and told me I could come in to see Al, but I had to speak to the doctor first.  Not just the doctor, but other members of the team also in the office.  Empty chairs.  Which one?  After what seemed a long time of orientation I sat opposite Dr Kiparakis, Al’s surgeon.  He explained how the elegantly planned operation did not at all survive the encounter with Al.  I think he said later that it was one of the most stressful times in theatre he had ever had.  The good news - Al is alive.  But he had gone into cardiac arrest at the beginning of the operation, and the concern was that even with heart massage and later a swift transition to bypass, his brain had potentially suffered a dearth of blood, and therefore oxygen.  I said ‘fuck’.  There was a beat before I asked ‘How long?’ And someone said ‘7 minutes’. That seemed like a long time. I think the anaesthetist said that they had done all they could to protect the brain, using open heart massage but the worry was that there could be damage that would not become apparent until they were able to wake him, noon the following day, at the earliest.  The double bypass that had been planned had simply been ditched in favour of speed, and a single bypass using a leg vein.  (We later found out that there had been 2 heart stopping moments - but that was probably judged too complicated for all our states at that time).  There might have been more.  I might have thanked the doctor for saving Al’s life.  I really don’t know.  
Someone walked me out, back to the waiting area.  The thumbs up man was still sitting there.  It was maybe an hour later that the door opened again and I was called back in.
They took me down the corridor, gave me a plastic pinny and took me through the door into the ICU.  Al was in the prime spot, next to the door, opposite the nursing station.  I suppose I was expecting the tubes, the airway pump etc so that was no surprise. Of course he was not awake, still under heavy sedation. I talked to Al about the music he’d written, about our future, about how he would be well again.  I touched his shoulder.  His skin was cool.  After a few minutes I left - there’s no staying in the ICU and because of Covid, I felt lucky to be there at all.  Back outside I zombie my way back down to main reception, out to the car.  What just happened?  I thought we were safe.  I thought this was a straightforward operation.  But the ticking bomb had actually exploded.  I had to get back to my temporary home.  It was after 2am when I got into bed.  I expect I cried.  The cat and I slept for a couple of hours.  At 4am of course I was awake, trying not to think about all the bad things that could happen.  I was wearing a little leather bag of stones that Al always carried around in his backpack.  
In the morning I went back to the hospital. I must have called Tina and asked her whether she could get a clear story about Al - when they would wake him etc.  Communication with the hospital had often been difficult, even with English speakers, it has been difficult sometimes, to get to the right person, and when you do, to ask the right questions.  She spoke to a female doctor in the ICU who explained again what had happened and said that they would wake him in the late afternoon, and see if he could move all his limbs.  They would not try to get him to speak.  I was allowed to see him again briefly.  I talked a little bit, but of course felt completely choked, not knowing whether it was really him that I was talking to.  
Back outside the ICU, no point in staying opposite the lifts again, since they were clear that I wouldn’t be able to see him again that day.  Home again, I got a call from Tina saying that she and Eleni were coming to Heraklion.  No argument.  (Tina and Eleni are our friends from Marediana - initially our hosts for the village house we rented in 2020).  I told them where to meet and fell asleep on my bed.  At 1730 the phone rang next to me.  Tina and Eleni were parked in the street around the corner.  I went out, found them, we re-parked their car, and sat in the sun around the table outside the little house where I stay.  They brought containers of food from Despoina, Tina’s mother.  I can’t imagine how she produced so much at such short notice.  They petted the cat, delighted to be outside, with company.  After an hour or so, we headed over to the hospital.  We parked the cars side by side in the informal car park at the roadside, with doors open.  It was beginning to be chilly outdoors. The main plan was to speak to the doctor to see the result of the wake up.  At around 1900 Tina called the ICU and spoke to the doctor at some length - she’s good at extracting information.  Al had been woken and was able to move arms and legs.  He knew I was close by.  Impossible to explain that feeling.  The whole visit had buoyed me up, almost literally as if they were on either side of me, supporting my head above water.  They stayed and we talked for a while, then they set off for Kissamos, and after a few minutes I left for home, ate some food, had a hot shower and went to bed with a happy cat.  I really didn’t know how much I needed the company of friends.  They left me feeling optimistic about how Al would be the next day.

Waking
The next morning - now Saturday 19th February - I went to the hospital so that I could be close by when they woke Al and spoke to him.  I arrived around 1030 and Dr Kiparakis came out - here we are by those lifts again - and told me that Al was speaking, knew I was at the hospital, and would be moved down to the ward on the floor below in a couple of hours.  
I wasn’t ready for this!  I went down to the ward below just to check on the timing.  They were expecting him in an hour, they said.  What did I need?  What should I bring?  I asked - the nurse said, just bring water. 

As I drove back, I’m thinking food, clothes, how is this all going to work…. What to expect?  I knew that I would be staying with him, next to the bed for at least a couple of nights, to help him in any way that was needed.  I did a grab pack, charged up the auto cat feeder and drove back to the hospital.  When I got there, Al was already in his bed, with mostly the same array of tubes and wires, but the breathing tube had morphed into an oxygen mask.  I can’t remember what we said but it was an incredible moment.  Again, he was in the ‘high dependency’ position, opposite the nursing station.  It was to be our home for the next 5 days.

Maybe it just didn't feel like the right time for photos - I don't really have any photos of this time, except one of Al with all his tubes and wires and I don't want to share that.

The Hospital Tapes
During the time I was waiting for Al to reappear from the lift after surgery, I listened to the music he had been writing, and I would like to share those tracks, there’s also his account of his experience in the ICU.  It’s quite distressing, but I am sure it has a resonance for any of you who have experienced this form of post operative care.

Al's Hospital Tapes and a description of the ICU  

Coming next: Days and Nights in ward 47

 

 

 

Hospital Blog 2: The Ticking Bomb

Just so you know…  we have been home in Kissamos for 5 days (or ’sleeps’ as we are now supposed to say in infant-newspeak).  I am continuing the hospital blog, in instalments until I catch up with myself.  

But first Our Cat.
I always said that if I had a cat, it would be a black cat.  Some of you might remember my two black cats, Serafina and Petronella.  London is a city.  In the city people wear black. So - it follows, black cats.  Well, on Greek islands, you don’t choose the cat, the cat chooses you.  Crete is an island and the cat that chose us is mainly white.  We still wear black clothes, especially Al, especially in Winter.  Our Cat is mainly white.  He is shedding.  He is not crazy about being groomed, although he likes to bite the brush.  I will spend the rest of my life wiping our clothes down with a damp towel. No plan survives encounter with the enemy.

Since I wrote this I have had a minor disaster with the vacuum cleaner.  Never try to vacuum out fireplace ashes WITHOUT A BAG IN THE VAC.  Τηε Μiele I have had for several years will be going into hospital next week!  So cat hair triumphs.  I think a robo-vac is on the cards.

Back to the Ticking Bomb, as Al referred to himself.  We didn’t understand at the time just how loud that tick was and how serious the bomb.  During the period of waiting, he began to take little forays out; he discovered the coffee shop in the basement of the hospital, the garden on sunny afternoons, the balconies around the wards.  A few days before the operation, the nurse in charge told him it was dangerous for him to go ANYWHERE, but he still snuck out to get a coffee.  I tell you this because I think neither of us were completely aware of just how short a fuse he had.

 

So to the the day of the operation.  I am in the waiting area, outside the lifts, next to the ICU on the 4th floor.  It is now after 11PM, more that 45 minutes after Al had been wheeled past me.  After some more time, someone, probably a nurse, came out from the security doors and told me I could come in to see Al, but I had to speak to the doctor first.  Not just the doctor, but other members of the team also in the office.  Empty chairs.  Which one?  After what seemed a long time of orientation I sat opposite Dr Kiparakis, Al’s surgeon.  He explained how the elegantly planned operation did not at all survive the encounter with Al.  I think he said later that it was one of the most stressful times in theatre he had ever had.  The good news - Al is alive.  But he had gone into cardiac arrest at the beginning of the operation, and the concern was that even with heart massage and later a swift transition to bypass, his brain had potentially suffered a dearth of blood, and therefore oxygen.  I said ‘fuck’.  There was a beat before I asked ‘How long?’ And someone said ‘7 minutes’. That seemed like a long time. I think the anaesthetist said that they had done all they could to protect the brain, using open heart massage but the worry was that there could be damage that would not become apparent until they were able to wake him, noon the following day, at the earliest.  The double bypass that had been planned had simply been ditched in favour of speed, and a single bypass using a leg vein.  (We later found out that there had been 2 heart stopping moments - but that was probably judged too complicated for all our states at that time).  There might have been more.  I might have thanked the doctor for saving Al’s life.  I really don’t know.  
Someone walked me out, back to the waiting area.  The thumbs up man was still sitting there.  It was maybe an hour later that the door opened again and I was called back in.
They took me down the corridor, gave me a plastic pinny and took me through the door into the ICU.  Al was in the prime spot, next to the door, opposite the nursing station.  I suppose I was expecting the tubes, the airway pump etc so that was no surprise. Of course he was not awake, still under heavy sedation. I talked to Al about the music he’d written, about our future, about how he would be well again.  I touched his shoulder.  His skin was cool.  After a few minutes I left - there’s no staying in the ICU and because of Covid, I felt lucky to be there at all.  Back outside I zombie my way back down to main reception, out to the car.  What just happened?  I thought we were safe.  I thought this was a straightforward operation.  But the ticking bomb had actually exploded.  I had to get back to my temporary home.  It was after 2am when I got into bed.  I expect I cried.  The cat and I slept for a couple of hours.  At 4am of course I was awake, trying not to think about all the bad things that could happen.  I was wearing a little leather bag of stones that Al always carried around in his backpack.  
In the morning I went back to the hospital. I must have called Tina and asked her whether she could get a clear story about Al - when they would wake him etc.  Communication with the hospital had often been difficult, even with English speakers, it has been difficult sometimes, to get to the right person, and when you do, to ask the right questions.  She spoke to a female doctor in the ICU who explained again what had happened and said that they would wake him in the late afternoon, and see if he could move all his limbs.  They would not try to get him to speak.  I was allowed to see him again briefly.  I talked a little bit, but of course felt completely choked, not knowing whether it was really him that I was talking to.  
Back outside the ICU, no point in staying opposite the lifts again, since they were clear that I wouldn’t be able to see him again that day.  Home again, I got a call from Tina saying that she and Eleni were coming to Heraklion.  No argument.  (Tina and Eleni are our friends from Marediana - initially our hosts for the village house we rented in 2020).  I told them where to meet and fell asleep on my bed.  At 1730 the phone rang next to me.  Tina and Eleni were parked in the street around the corner.  I went out, found them, we re-parked their car, and sat in the sun around the table outside the little house where I stay.  They brought containers of food from Despoina, Tina’s mother.  I can’t imagine how she produced so much at such short notice.  They petted the cat, delighted to be outside, with company.  After an hour or so, we headed over to the hospital.  We parked the cars side by side in the informal car park at the roadside, with doors open.  It was beginning to be chilly outdoors. The main plan was to speak to the doctor to see the result of the wake up.  At around 1900 Tina called the ICU and spoke to the doctor at some length - she’s good at extracting information.  Al had been woken and was able to move arms and legs.  He knew I was close by.  Impossible to explain that feeling.  The whole visit had buoyed me up, almost literally as if they were on either side of me, supporting my head above water.  They stayed and we talked for a while, then they set off for Kissamos, and after a few minutes I left for home, ate some food, had a hot shower and went to bed with a happy cat.  I really didn’t know how much I needed the company of friends.  They left me feeling optimistic about how Al would be the next day.

Waking
The next morning - now Saturday 19th February - I went to the hospital so that I could be close by when they woke Al and spoke to him.  I arrived around 1030 and Dr Kiparakis came out - here we are by those lifts again - and told me that Al was speaking, knew I was at the hospital, and would be moved down to the ward on the floor below in a couple of hours.  
I wasn’t ready for this!  I went down to the ward below just to check on the timing.  They were expecting him in an hour, they said.  What did I need?  What should I bring?  I asked - the nurse said, just bring water. 

As I drove back, I’m thinking food, clothes, how is this all going to work…. What to expect?  I knew that I would be staying with him, next to the bed for at least a couple of nights, to help him in any way that was needed.  I did a grab pack, charged up the auto cat feeder and drove back to the hospital.  When I got there, Al was already in his bed, with mostly the same array of tubes and wires, but the breathing tube had morphed into an oxygen mask.  I can’t remember what we said but it was an incredible moment.  Again, he was in the ‘high dependency’ position, opposite the nursing station.  It was to be our home for the next 5 days.

Maybe it just didn't feel like the right time for photos - I don't really have any photos of this time, except one of Al with all his tubes and wires and I don't want to share that.

The Hospital Tapes
During the time I was waiting for Al to reappear from the lift after surgery, I listened to the music he had been writing, and I would like to share those tracks, there’s also his account of his experience in the ICU.  It’s quite distressing, but I am sure it has a resonance for any of you who have experienced this form of post operative care.

Al's Hospital Tapes and a description of the ICU  

Coming next: Days and Nights in ward 47

 

 

 

Hospital Blog 1 :No Plan Survives an Encounter with the Enemy

 What just happened?

I just re-read  my previous blog from almost a month ago. We are no longer in the queue for the dead drop or the roller coaster but we are definitely still on a ride.  Forgive me if fragments of this blog seem familiar.  I have been communicating piecemeal by WhatsApp, email and a very few phone calls.  
So we expected that Al would have a bypass operation on 15 or 16 February.  He was ready to go both days, then cancelled out mid-afternoon, when it became clear that there was no space in the schedule.  We were resigned to the idea that it could be another week of waiting, since that what was what we had previously gleaned from the cardiologists.  But then Al was told that he needed to prepare by fasting in case there could be an ‘emergency’ operation on Thursday 17th.  Another day with no breakfast.  I went in, I think in the morning, not even sure now.  Al was very quiet and I went out around lunchtime to get a fresh Covid test (necessary every 48 hours for visiting).  I must have come back around 1430 or so.  More sitting around quietly, somehow not much to say.  Sometime in the morning α very young looking anaesthetist came with a clipboard and a lot of questions.  I could see that Al was a bit taken aback by her youth and seeming inexperience.  By 1500 it was still not clear what, if anything, was going to happen, but at around 1530 a young nurse (they mostly seem quite young - I think that is our perspective) came with a set of disposable clothes for Al to put on, and said something about seeing the anaesthetist.  She explained in mime what went where, and left us to it.  There were some tiny expandable sort of short shorts - a bit like elastic Sloggies that almost made us laugh.  Maybe a bit.  I think I asked Al if he was nervous, and he said yes, a bit.  Or that may have been later.
A short time after, a porter came in to move Al and the bed down to the operating level.  So this was really happening. We went down, all together, Al, the bed, the porter and me.  On the first floor we went down a long corridor, through security doors and the bed was placed next to a kind of open bed-sized serving hatch.  The intention was clearly to deliver Al onto the other side.  We had a few moments and I can’t really remember what we said.  I think I might have asked him if he was frightened and reminded him that he would know nothing until he woke up in the ICU.  He worried the anaesthetic might not work.  I told him it would be fine.  Then the ‘real’ anaesthetist appeared, reassuringly mature, and she whipped me round a corner to give me ‘the talk’.  This is when she reminds me of how serious the operation is, that it could affect any of the body’s vital organs etc.  And please print your name and sign here.  I printed my name but I am almost sure that I didn’t sign anything.  She left and I followed but the wall had eaten Al up and I think even the bed had gone.  I was in a complete daze.  I passed back through the one-way doors and had no idea where I was.  It took a couple of goes to find the way out.  I think I went out and sat in the hospital garden for a while. 

 It was 1615 when he went in, and the anaesthetist had warned me that it could be six or seven hours until Al would be delivered to the ICU.
 I thought that this was going to be the most difficult part.  I sat in the garden until it became cool, and also I wanted to be sure that the surgical staff could find me outside the ICU.  I made sure that our temporary host, Nick, could feed OC and settled down to wait opposite the lifts on the 4th floor. 

Sally Randle said that she would call while I was waiting, to help me pass the time, and it really did help, to be able to chat whilst the view outside grew darker.  Thank you Sally!
I had Al’s headphones and his iPad.  I forgot, after taking him to theatre floor, I had to go and pack up his things and take them to the carpark.  Of course I had to stop myself thinking that I was packing things away after a death.  Too familiar a feeling.  So I had his head phones and iPad.  I knew that he had been recording on the iPad - The Hospital Tapes - but I hadn’t heard any of the work.  So I listened.  And was really impressed by what I heard - Al writing in a completely new medium.  

Somewhere between 1930 and 2000 the same porter that has taken the bed earlier emerged from the ICU pushing a bed.  He said to me ‘it’s for your husband’.  At first that was reassuring then, as the minutes, and then hours passed by, not so much.  Why wasn’t he back?  

Finally at 2215 the lift doors opened and a trolley came out.  I had to move quickly to get a peek at the person lying there.  Hugely relieved to see that it was Al under all the tubes and bags and lines.  A man sitting opposite me, also waiting, put his thumbs up.  I was grateful to him for not speaking.
So at that point you kind of think it’s all over and we can now wander down the sweet path to recovery.  It wasn’t quite like that.

Skipping ahead, we are hoping to leave our small solar sanctuary today, and take a step along the path to ‘real life’ in Kissamos.  But I am not finished with the post-operative experience, and will pick that up in the next blog.

Written between 6 and 9 March, Amadoura

Hospital Blog 1 :No Plan Survives an Encounter with the Enemy

 What just happened?

I just re-read  my previous blog from almost a month ago. We are no longer in the queue for the dead drop or the roller coaster but we are definitely still on a ride.  Forgive me if fragments of this blog seem familiar.  I have been communicating piecemeal by WhatsApp, email and a very few phone calls.  
So we expected that Al would have a bypass operation on 15 or 16 February.  He was ready to go both days, then cancelled out mid-afternoon, when it became clear that there was no space in the schedule.  We were resigned to the idea that it could be another week of waiting, since that what was what we had previously gleaned from the cardiologists.  But then Al was told that he needed to prepare by fasting in case there could be an ‘emergency’ operation on Thursday 17th.  Another day with no breakfast.  I went in, I think in the morning, not even sure now.  Al was very quiet and I went out around lunchtime to get a fresh Covid test (necessary every 48 hours for visiting).  I must have come back around 1430 or so.  More sitting around quietly, somehow not much to say.  Sometime in the morning α very young looking anaesthetist came with a clipboard and a lot of questions.  I could see that Al was a bit taken aback by her youth and seeming inexperience.  By 1500 it was still not clear what, if anything, was going to happen, but at around 1530 a young nurse (they mostly seem quite young - I think that is our perspective) came with a set of disposable clothes for Al to put on, and said something about seeing the anaesthetist.  She explained in mime what went where, and left us to it.  There were some tiny expandable sort of short shorts - a bit like elastic Sloggies that almost made us laugh.  Maybe a bit.  I think I asked Al if he was nervous, and he said yes, a bit.  Or that may have been later.
A short time after, a porter came in to move Al and the bed down to the operating level.  So this was really happening. We went down, all together, Al, the bed, the porter and me.  On the first floor we went down a long corridor, through security doors and the bed was placed next to a kind of open bed-sized serving hatch.  The intention was clearly to deliver Al onto the other side.  We had a few moments and I can’t really remember what we said.  I think I might have asked him if he was frightened and reminded him that he would know nothing until he woke up in the ICU.  He worried the anaesthetic might not work.  I told him it would be fine.  Then the ‘real’ anaesthetist appeared, reassuringly mature, and she whipped me round a corner to give me ‘the talk’.  This is when she reminds me of how serious the operation is, that it could affect any of the body’s vital organs etc.  And please print your name and sign here.  I printed my name but I am almost sure that I didn’t sign anything.  She left and I followed but the wall had eaten Al up and I think even the bed had gone.  I was in a complete daze.  I passed back through the one-way doors and had no idea where I was.  It took a couple of goes to find the way out.  I think I went out and sat in the hospital garden for a while. 

 It was 1615 when he went in, and the anaesthetist had warned me that it could be six or seven hours until Al would be delivered to the ICU.
 I thought that this was going to be the most difficult part.  I sat in the garden until it became cool, and also I wanted to be sure that the surgical staff could find me outside the ICU.  I made sure that our temporary host, Nick, could feed OC and settled down to wait opposite the lifts on the 4th floor. 

Sally Randle said that she would call while I was waiting, to help me pass the time, and it really did help, to be able to chat whilst the view outside grew darker.  Thank you Sally!
I had Al’s headphones and his iPad.  I forgot, after taking him to theatre floor, I had to go and pack up his things and take them to the carpark.  Of course I had to stop myself thinking that I was packing things away after a death.  Too familiar a feeling.  So I had his head phones and iPad.  I knew that he had been recording on the iPad - The Hospital Tapes - but I hadn’t heard any of the work.  So I listened.  And was really impressed by what I heard - Al writing in a completely new medium.  

Somewhere between 1930 and 2000 the same porter that has taken the bed earlier emerged from the ICU pushing a bed.  He said to me ‘it’s for your husband’.  At first that was reassuring then, as the minutes, and then hours passed by, not so much.  Why wasn’t he back?  

Finally at 2215 the lift doors opened and a trolley came out.  I had to move quickly to get a peek at the person lying there.  Hugely relieved to see that it was Al under all the tubes and bags and lines.  A man sitting opposite me, also waiting, put his thumbs up.  I was grateful to him for not speaking.
So at that point you kind of think it’s all over and we can now wander down the sweet path to recovery.  It wasn’t quite like that.

Skipping ahead, we are hoping to leave our small solar sanctuary today, and take a step along the path to ‘real life’ in Kissamos.  But I am not finished with the post-operative experience, and will pick that up in the next blog.

Written between 6 and 9 March, Amadoura

The Nature of the Animal

music Just remembered I used to like this track. It reminds me of waking upo in my sunny mini-penthouse in Shepherd's Bush

12 February 2022

It is 0620 and I am lying in bed, on a Greek Island, face to fur with a cat, reading Guardian food porn and wondering ‘what just happened’?  As most of you know, Al is in hospital here in Heraklion, Crete, waiting for what turns out to be a double bypass.  Coronary arteries apparently have an inconvenient design feature that means, like traffic, they bung up at junctions.

We have been here for almost a month, while Al underwent investigations, monitoring and just plain waiting for a slot in the schedule.  3 days ago I moved from the AirBnb flat to a small, solar powered house, not far from the sea.  Although I was reluctant to make it, It turned out to be a really good move.  For some reason I can’t quite put my finger on, it feels much more like home.  I have a garden, wild with some struggling young trees, a sliding gate behind which I can park the car, a washing machine and a workable kitchen.  The bedroom is small, but comfortable, the air source heating unit copes pretty well in this chilly winter, and it’s quiet.  Life has taken on a rhythm of early mornings, probably down to the furry alarm clock, but also my preference.   Tea in bed with the papers, then yoga, shopping, Greek, depending on what seems most important at the time.  I shop early because the supermarket is huge and almost deserted at 0800.  It is more important than ever to keep the dreaded virus at bay.  If I catch it now, there would be a serious knock-on effect - not being able to visit Al, take in clean clothes, water food etc all of which are pretty necessary.  Let alone the pleasure of company. 

 

And how’s Al?  

After all that’s why I’m writing this!  And probably why you’re reading it!**
He’s taking all this remarkably well, he claims because he isn’t yet taking it seriously.  I don’t think that’s quite true, but we are moving into a new phase.  The waiting time stretched out as if it would last forever. I invite you think about it like a long queue for a roller coaster, or a sky dive, or Oblivion, the vertical drop ride at Alton Towers. So far we have been shuffling along, maybe chatting, reading a book (or Facebook, how times have changed) with a kind of infinite feeling, all the time in the world.  Then you’re just one car load away from the thing you’ve been waiting for and that’s when the dread and anticipation kicks in.  Well, this is not exactly like that, but it’s as near as I can get.
If there aren’t too many emergencies, Al’s operation will be next week, by which I mean next Tuesday or Wednesday.  He is being ‘prepped’ with lung conditioning exercise and some different drugs.  It will be a double bypass, apparently because of the exact geographical situation in the vicinity of his heart.  Enough detail I think.  On the bright side, we expect that the parachute will open and he will float down to the sunny uplands on, let’s say, Thursday.  I will report back. Sorry for the mixed imagery, but I’m sure you get the idea.  

Of Cats and Wo/Men
INFP A/T
Those 6 letters won’t mean much unless you’re into personality theory and / or the work of C. G. Jung.  Hey, that’s what Google’s for, right?
Unfortunately no-one has yet devised a personality profiler for cats!  One thing I find interesting about Felis catus is that depending on where they are, not just the personality but the whole animal changes.  Here’s a quote from a recent Animal Behaviour text _“Life in proximity to humans and other domestic animals has led to a symbiotic social adaptation in cats, and cats may express great affection toward humans or other animals. Ethologically, the human keeper of a cat functions as a sort of surrogate for the cat's mother.”_
This is interesting.  It is how our cat behaves indoors, when he’s a house cat.  

Right now, he’s on my lap, sleeping with one paw over his face.  Yes, cute!  But take him outside and he behaves like a kid in a playground affected by sudden deafness.  He doesn’t quite treat me as a stranger, but he’s a bit like a human five year old who doesn’t want to put his coat on. I let OC go outside for the first time today - I knew it was what he wanted most in his little cat world - at least when not sleeping or eating.  The downside is that he now reaches inside himself and finds a loud plaintive MIOUW-OUW when he catches sight of the outside world through a window.  All this seems completely driven by a chemical bath mediated by sensory input and is as elegant an example of the interaction between nature and environment as you can find in your own home.  Excluding yourself, of course.  In some ways, the parallels are not too hard to find.
This brush with death - not too strong  a statement - has caused me to feel the hormonal / neural /chemical bath that my cells live in.  Fear, relief, wariness, love and a kind of absent mindedness that I think means that part of my brain is busy ‘coping’.   If you allow it in, yoga trains the mind-body in perceiving internal states and maybe this is playing a part in my experience.  

SEGUE back to Al
I visited this afternoon, and we sat in Reception - too cold and cloudy to be outside, but the reception area is huge and very sparsely populated at the weekends.  Al talked to me about his brother Eric who lives in Brazil.  Eric has also been in hospital recently - nothing life threatening.  We talked about the imminent operation.  Al’s sanguine.  I am just scared.  
We get back to  Cardiology and find that the nurses have been looking for him to change a thingy on his wrist - and he needs a CT scan.  The nurse in charge asks me if I am Al’s wife.  I say yes and I am swiftly co-opted to push him in a wheelchair down to radiology.  Something you need to know is that in Greek hospitals, care as opposed to actual nursing, is expected to come from the patient’s family - wife,  mother, sister etc.  Not yet clear what happens to women who fall sick!  (I realise this is a bit sexist, but most of the patients are older men and its really hard to imagine them doing the job.) Hiring a private nurse is also an option, but I trust myself to do what’s needed .
 

One of the things that we can share is the view of the snow covered mountains to the South of Heraklion.  This is what I could see from the garden this morning.

more soon

 

The Nature of the Animal

music Just remembered I used to like this track. It reminds me of waking upo in my sunny mini-penthouse in Shepherd's Bush

12 February 2022

It is 0620 and I am lying in bed, on a Greek Island, face to fur with a cat, reading Guardian food porn and wondering ‘what just happened’?  As most of you know, Al is in hospital here in Heraklion, Crete, waiting for what turns out to be a double bypass.  Coronary arteries apparently have an inconvenient design feature that means, like traffic, they bung up at junctions.

We have been here for almost a month, while Al underwent investigations, monitoring and just plain waiting for a slot in the schedule.  3 days ago I moved from the AirBnb flat to a small, solar powered house, not far from the sea.  Although I was reluctant to make it, It turned out to be a really good move.  For some reason I can’t quite put my finger on, it feels much more like home.  I have a garden, wild with some struggling young trees, a sliding gate behind which I can park the car, a washing machine and a workable kitchen.  The bedroom is small, but comfortable, the air source heating unit copes pretty well in this chilly winter, and it’s quiet.  Life has taken on a rhythm of early mornings, probably down to the furry alarm clock, but also my preference.   Tea in bed with the papers, then yoga, shopping, Greek, depending on what seems most important at the time.  I shop early because the supermarket is huge and almost deserted at 0800.  It is more important than ever to keep the dreaded virus at bay.  If I catch it now, there would be a serious knock-on effect - not being able to visit Al, take in clean clothes, water food etc all of which are pretty necessary.  Let alone the pleasure of company. 

 

And how’s Al?  

After all that’s why I’m writing this!  And probably why you’re reading it!**
He’s taking all this remarkably well, he claims because he isn’t yet taking it seriously.  I don’t think that’s quite true, but we are moving into a new phase.  The waiting time stretched out as if it would last forever. I invite you think about it like a long queue for a roller coaster, or a sky dive, or Oblivion, the vertical drop ride at Alton Towers. So far we have been shuffling along, maybe chatting, reading a book (or Facebook, how times have changed) with a kind of infinite feeling, all the time in the world.  Then you’re just one car load away from the thing you’ve been waiting for and that’s when the dread and anticipation kicks in.  Well, this is not exactly like that, but it’s as near as I can get.
If there aren’t too many emergencies, Al’s operation will be next week, by which I mean next Tuesday or Wednesday.  He is being ‘prepped’ with lung conditioning exercise and some different drugs.  It will be a double bypass, apparently because of the exact geographical situation in the vicinity of his heart.  Enough detail I think.  On the bright side, we expect that the parachute will open and he will float down to the sunny uplands on, let’s say, Thursday.  I will report back. Sorry for the mixed imagery, but I’m sure you get the idea.  

Of Cats and Wo/Men
INFP A/T
Those 6 letters won’t mean much unless you’re into personality theory and / or the work of C. G. Jung.  Hey, that’s what Google’s for, right?
Unfortunately no-one has yet devised a personality profiler for cats!  One thing I find interesting about Felis catus is that depending on where they are, not just the personality but the whole animal changes.  Here’s a quote from a recent Animal Behaviour text _“Life in proximity to humans and other domestic animals has led to a symbiotic social adaptation in cats, and cats may express great affection toward humans or other animals. Ethologically, the human keeper of a cat functions as a sort of surrogate for the cat's mother.”_
This is interesting.  It is how our cat behaves indoors, when he’s a house cat.  

Right now, he’s on my lap, sleeping with one paw over his face.  Yes, cute!  But take him outside and he behaves like a kid in a playground affected by sudden deafness.  He doesn’t quite treat me as a stranger, but he’s a bit like a human five year old who doesn’t want to put his coat on. I let OC go outside for the first time today - I knew it was what he wanted most in his little cat world - at least when not sleeping or eating.  The downside is that he now reaches inside himself and finds a loud plaintive MIOUW-OUW when he catches sight of the outside world through a window.  All this seems completely driven by a chemical bath mediated by sensory input and is as elegant an example of the interaction between nature and environment as you can find in your own home.  Excluding yourself, of course.  In some ways, the parallels are not too hard to find.
This brush with death - not too strong  a statement - has caused me to feel the hormonal / neural /chemical bath that my cells live in.  Fear, relief, wariness, love and a kind of absent mindedness that I think means that part of my brain is busy ‘coping’.   If you allow it in, yoga trains the mind-body in perceiving internal states and maybe this is playing a part in my experience.  

SEGUE back to Al
I visited this afternoon, and we sat in Reception - too cold and cloudy to be outside, but the reception area is huge and very sparsely populated at the weekends.  Al talked to me about his brother Eric who lives in Brazil.  Eric has also been in hospital recently - nothing life threatening.  We talked about the imminent operation.  Al’s sanguine.  I am just scared.  
We get back to  Cardiology and find that the nurses have been looking for him to change a thingy on his wrist - and he needs a CT scan.  The nurse in charge asks me if I am Al’s wife.  I say yes and I am swiftly co-opted to push him in a wheelchair down to radiology.  Something you need to know is that in Greek hospitals, care as opposed to actual nursing, is expected to come from the patient’s family - wife,  mother, sister etc.  Not yet clear what happens to women who fall sick!  (I realise this is a bit sexist, but most of the patients are older men and its really hard to imagine them doing the job.) Hiring a private nurse is also an option, but I trust myself to do what’s needed .
 

One of the things that we can share is the view of the snow covered mountains to the South of Heraklion.  This is what I could see from the garden this morning.

more soon

 

Cats and Dogs

 Thought that if I titled the blog More Waiting, you probably wouldn’t read it.  Plus I am running out of photo material.  Two dogs seem to belong to the hospital. I wouldn’t call them guard dogs.  There’s one that looks like a large black and white sort of collie, and his friend is a smaller black dog.  They hang out at the entrance but don’t seem to belong to any particular security guard.  They look healthy so someone must feed them.  

Our Cat is always obligingly cute, when he’s not trying to eat everything in sight.  I suppose being a village cat by nature, he was prepared for a life of bin diving.  We both watch the passing traffic.  He is definitely under the impression that I am holding him captive, and I suppose I am.  He’s making more determined efforts to get out when I come in.  He’s less than a year old, and although he’s neutered (to put it politely) he has a lot of energy and loves to explore.  Bursts of activity are mercifully short and he is a champion sleeper.  When he’s on my lap, he completes his bliss by sucking on his leg.  So far as I can see, it’s harmless.

Now for the waiting.  We saw the consultant surgeon today, since it seemed to be the only way to find out how long Al can expect to wait before the operation.  We waited to see the surgeon.  He told us 2-3 weeks.  The cardiologists say firmly that Al needs to stay put to avoid the not negligible risk of a major heart attack.  I suppose that would get him into theatre faster, but not the best option.  He told the surgeon he felt guilty about occupying the bed - although I am not sure he really does.  The surgeon reassured him that it’s not a problem.  The real issue is ICU space.  One of the doctors said that last night they were flat out and trying to work out what they would do if they had one more case to accommodate.  So the theatres are not working to capacity.  A side effect of Covid.  It’s more than a bit galling that these beds are largely occupied by the unvaccinated.  

Covid is rife here, as in the UK and most of Europe.  Most people might only get a mild infection, but the brunt is certainly being felt in the hospitals.

I will rest the blog for a few days while we settle into some sort of routine and live out the time of waiting.