Years Are Like Horses: 22 April - 9 May 2022

Music Colours just because I feel like it! Probably a touch of nostalgia

Where are we?
From March 2020 until June 2021 we lived in the small village of Marediana. It’s quite different living here, in Kissamos, 5 minutes walk from the shops, the cardiologist, the  nearest cafe (The ‘Einstein’) practically at the end of our road. 

Actually we don’t go there because of it’s young, unmasked staff and clientele, although I am intrigued by it.  Marediana requires a car trip into the town, with no shops or cafes  nearer than a 45 minute walk, the return all uphill!  But Marediana, despite being in the country has a peace that the outskirts of Kissamos can’t match, with its scattered apartment blocks, broken up by small field, many with chickens and / or goats.

And yes, we can see the sea!

Getting Sorted
With a little help from an ex-bomb disposal handyman we now have some IKEA bookshelves and the box mountain is a little reduced on the lower slopes.  With a little help from Spiros and his son we have also netted the front balcony so it is safe for OurCat.  That gives us more space and ventilation now the weather is getting warmer.    Noticeboard, paintings and more bookshelves soon.  The aim is to gain a guest room / summer sleeping space in a room with A/C.  (There are two units, neither of them in the bedroom.)

 Stuff Revisited / Who Knows where the time goes? 
I have been here (this subject) before, when we packed up to leave Bristol.  The house had already been ‘de-cluttered’ by a lady called Judy, who did an amazing job of thinning out every room so that it looked a lot like a place you could move into and populate with your own ‘stuff’ whilst still looking like a real lived-in home.
Judy filled around 40 boxes that went into a medium sided storage unit in the local Safestore.  Now those boxes have come home to roost here in Crete, and since Judy hasn’t come with them, I am faced with the task of sorting them out - what to keep, what to try to sell….  Or leave by the bins - local method of Freecycling.

Memories are Made of This

Of course you can’t possibly sift through ‘stuff’ without encountering memories popping out of every corner like naughty Proustian ghosts..  The music track is about memory but more significant is the date of the Dean Martin recording - 1955.  This is one of the songs that has lodged in my brain from childhood.  Housewives Choice, 2-Way Family Favourites, Workers’ Playtime - thank you Lord Reith.   
 

I think I can now acknowledge that I am a hoarder.  Not quite pathological, given what we have seen on TV, but really, at least one box of cook books AND 5 folders of clipped recipes.  4 mini disc recorders - because I thought they would be like gold dust after the apocalypse, a lifetime supply of envelopes, and then some, given that in 2 years I have posted about 3 letters from Greece.  A lifetime’s supply of anything is a reminder that life is short.  Years are like horses that you have ridden to get to this place.  Or, if you prefer, the black bin bag and the skip await us all.
 

On a more positive note, Al’s Mexican EP for BMG is netting thousands of plays on Spotify 😃.  Probably earns the price of a ☕️ but that’s not the point.  You can give it a listen here.  Try Baja Sunset.

And how is Al?  
Still feeling the after effects of the op, of course, with but walking and working in a somewhat measured way, finishing up albums for Universal and the BBC.  The studio room is taking shape with some more of the acoustic material going up today and the new speakers doing a good job.  We are planning a major summer trip, so more about this next time.

Shopping in Kissamos (skip this if not interested in food)
Following on from ’stuff’ - we are still careful about going into shops -  it does put a brake on consuming.  One trip usually on a Tuesday morning to the greengrocer first (what a lovely word) then a 2 minute drive to my favourite supermarket (ΣΚΛΑΒΕΝΗΙΤΗΣ).  With any luck and an early start I can get there when there are only a very few cars in the carpark.  The staff are all familiar faces and I suppose they recognise me too.  In the summer shopkeepers assume we are tourists, and of course that’s always a bit annoying.  They speak in English and that makes me want to shout BUT I LIVE HERE!  
The greengrocers’ is a different experience.  He greets me, and his wife often chats to me a bit, in Greek, of course.  I don’t understand everything she says but I can get the general drift, I think.  Because of the Corona years, the opportunity for conversation with Greek people has been really limited.
What do I buy?  Greengrocer’s is easy - standard list of veg and fruit plus whatever looks good that week - horta (covers a variety of ‘wild’ greens, fresh off the farmer’s pick up, bundled into clear plastic sacks), cauliflowers, many varieties of green beans and spinach that looks like it’s just come out of your own allotment.  Organics tend to be few and expensive.  Most of the produce is from Crete, with the rest mainly Greek.  The Cretan organic lettuce is good - lettuces are large and come bundled up with bunches of rocket, fennel and a few spring onions.
The greengrocer’s wife (time I learned her name) treats my purchases tenderly, as if the soft fruits and tomatoes are precious babies.  She is careful to put the heavy stuff at the bottom before the softer things are laid gently on top.  
 
ΣΚΛΑΒΕΝΗΤΗΣ  (Sklavenitis) is a medium-sized supermarket  with a reasonable choice of food, reflecting the Cretan diet - a lot of pasta, pulses, rice, cheese, olives - and a large fruit and veg section, with fresh cheese, meat and fish at the rear of the store.  A few ‘international’ foods - Tabasco, baked beans, mayonnaise, Vegan cheese.   I sometimes pick up more organic veg or fruit at the supermarket - carrots, oranges, avocados, rocket mainly.  But they are usually overpackaged and not very fresh.  Each variety is weighed and bagged by a couple of assistants who  operate the scales and stick tickets on bags, between stacking shelves, putting pineapples through the peeling and cutting machine.  After a few weeks of ‘Οχι plastic’, I now get mine in paper bags or without bags at all, labels stuck to the items themselves.   

Normal Life? 

Maybe this blog is a bit boring because we have returned to 'normal'.  Of course nothing is normal.  Ever, or especially now.  Since we entered the Anthropocene, or at least, The Digitocene, nothing will ever be 'normal' in the sense of repeating the pattern of previous years, or previous generations.  Watching Indie Sage last Friday, one of the panel said wisely that 'normal' was what got us into the Pandemic in the first place.  Could say the same for the global human catastrophe of climate change.

Coming soon: planning the big trip 

Years Are Like Horses: 22 April - 9 May 2022

Music Colours just because I feel like it! Probably a touch of nostalgia

Where are we?
From March 2020 until June 2021 we lived in the small village of Marediana. It’s quite different living here, in Kissamos, 5 minutes walk from the shops, the cardiologist, the  nearest cafe (The ‘Einstein’) practically at the end of our road. 

Actually we don’t go there because of it’s young, unmasked staff and clientele, although I am intrigued by it.  Marediana requires a car trip into the town, with no shops or cafes  nearer than a 45 minute walk, the return all uphill!  But Marediana, despite being in the country has a peace that the outskirts of Kissamos can’t match, with its scattered apartment blocks, broken up by small field, many with chickens and / or goats.

And yes, we can see the sea!

Getting Sorted
With a little help from an ex-bomb disposal handyman we now have some IKEA bookshelves and the box mountain is a little reduced on the lower slopes.  With a little help from Spiros and his son we have also netted the front balcony so it is safe for OurCat.  That gives us more space and ventilation now the weather is getting warmer.    Noticeboard, paintings and more bookshelves soon.  The aim is to gain a guest room / summer sleeping space in a room with A/C.  (There are two units, neither of them in the bedroom.)

 Stuff Revisited / Who Knows where the time goes? 
I have been here (this subject) before, when we packed up to leave Bristol.  The house had already been ‘de-cluttered’ by a lady called Judy, who did an amazing job of thinning out every room so that it looked a lot like a place you could move into and populate with your own ‘stuff’ whilst still looking like a real lived-in home.
Judy filled around 40 boxes that went into a medium sided storage unit in the local Safestore.  Now those boxes have come home to roost here in Crete, and since Judy hasn’t come with them, I am faced with the task of sorting them out - what to keep, what to try to sell….  Or leave by the bins - local method of Freecycling.

Memories are Made of This

Of course you can’t possibly sift through ‘stuff’ without encountering memories popping out of every corner like naughty Proustian ghosts..  The music track is about memory but more significant is the date of the Dean Martin recording - 1955.  This is one of the songs that has lodged in my brain from childhood.  Housewives Choice, 2-Way Family Favourites, Workers’ Playtime - thank you Lord Reith.   
 

I think I can now acknowledge that I am a hoarder.  Not quite pathological, given what we have seen on TV, but really, at least one box of cook books AND 5 folders of clipped recipes.  4 mini disc recorders - because I thought they would be like gold dust after the apocalypse, a lifetime supply of envelopes, and then some, given that in 2 years I have posted about 3 letters from Greece.  A lifetime’s supply of anything is a reminder that life is short.  Years are like horses that you have ridden to get to this place.  Or, if you prefer, the black bin bag and the skip await us all.
 

On a more positive note, Al’s Mexican EP for BMG is netting thousands of plays on Spotify 😃.  Probably earns the price of a ☕️ but that’s not the point.  You can give it a listen here.  Try Baja Sunset.

And how is Al?  
Still feeling the after effects of the op, of course, with but walking and working in a somewhat measured way, finishing up albums for Universal and the BBC.  The studio room is taking shape with some more of the acoustic material going up today and the new speakers doing a good job.  We are planning a major summer trip, so more about this next time.

Shopping in Kissamos (skip this if not interested in food)
Following on from ’stuff’ - we are still careful about going into shops -  it does put a brake on consuming.  One trip usually on a Tuesday morning to the greengrocer first (what a lovely word) then a 2 minute drive to my favourite supermarket (ΣΚΛΑΒΕΝΗΙΤΗΣ).  With any luck and an early start I can get there when there are only a very few cars in the carpark.  The staff are all familiar faces and I suppose they recognise me too.  In the summer shopkeepers assume we are tourists, and of course that’s always a bit annoying.  They speak in English and that makes me want to shout BUT I LIVE HERE!  
The greengrocers’ is a different experience.  He greets me, and his wife often chats to me a bit, in Greek, of course.  I don’t understand everything she says but I can get the general drift, I think.  Because of the Corona years, the opportunity for conversation with Greek people has been really limited.
What do I buy?  Greengrocer’s is easy - standard list of veg and fruit plus whatever looks good that week - horta (covers a variety of ‘wild’ greens, fresh off the farmer’s pick up, bundled into clear plastic sacks), cauliflowers, many varieties of green beans and spinach that looks like it’s just come out of your own allotment.  Organics tend to be few and expensive.  Most of the produce is from Crete, with the rest mainly Greek.  The Cretan organic lettuce is good - lettuces are large and come bundled up with bunches of rocket, fennel and a few spring onions.
The greengrocer’s wife (time I learned her name) treats my purchases tenderly, as if the soft fruits and tomatoes are precious babies.  She is careful to put the heavy stuff at the bottom before the softer things are laid gently on top.  
 
ΣΚΛΑΒΕΝΗΤΗΣ  (Sklavenitis) is a medium-sized supermarket  with a reasonable choice of food, reflecting the Cretan diet - a lot of pasta, pulses, rice, cheese, olives - and a large fruit and veg section, with fresh cheese, meat and fish at the rear of the store.  A few ‘international’ foods - Tabasco, baked beans, mayonnaise, Vegan cheese.   I sometimes pick up more organic veg or fruit at the supermarket - carrots, oranges, avocados, rocket mainly.  But they are usually overpackaged and not very fresh.  Each variety is weighed and bagged by a couple of assistants who  operate the scales and stick tickets on bags, between stacking shelves, putting pineapples through the peeling and cutting machine.  After a few weeks of ‘Οχι plastic’, I now get mine in paper bags or without bags at all, labels stuck to the items themselves.   

Normal Life? 

Maybe this blog is a bit boring because we have returned to 'normal'.  Of course nothing is normal.  Ever, or especially now.  Since we entered the Anthropocene, or at least, The Digitocene, nothing will ever be 'normal' in the sense of repeating the pattern of previous years, or previous generations.  Watching Indie Sage last Friday, one of the panel said wisely that 'normal' was what got us into the Pandemic in the first place.  Could say the same for the global human catastrophe of climate change.

Coming soon: planning the big trip 

Hospital Blog 3: Day by Day

But First: The Octopus Experience

Today (27 March) was sunny and bright so we headed for the sea.  We went to Nopigia beach.  Not really a beach, but a track runs parallel to the sea, with stones and rocks down to the water’s edge.  We walked for about 20 minutes then scrambled down to the water, sheltered by a boulder from the wind.  I took my Crocs and leggings off and paddled in amongst the stones and next to another boulder.  I had been splashing about for a few minutes when I felt something next to my leg.  I did what any reasonable person would do and screamed ‘sea monster’ and splashed to shore.  I think I might have said ‘it’s chasing me’.  It sort of was, so we got a great view of an octopus in shallow water.  Al offered it a finger, and the octopus, for it was such a creature, suckered it.  Also was able to take a few photos before it headed back home.  What an unusual experience though!  When snorkelling we have searched and searched and only had one sighting, then, when we least expected it…
So, Al is getting back to normal life.  Baby steps.

 

 

At the end of the last Hospital Blog we left Al in his high dependency bed, wired and tubed everywhere.  The full weight of this experience is fading now; that first day, I really can’t remember what we said when I first saw him.  I think I told Al about my experience, and he shared his feelings about the ICU (see Hospital Tapes link in the last blog).   Of course I was overwhelmed with panic and relief.  I sat by the bed, occasionally getting out of the way for nurses taking blood, temperature, pressure, changing bags of stuff going in, stuff coming out.  Al mostly dozed, I read, got out of the way, maybe fetched tea…. It really is a blur now.
The nights were quite peculiar.  By now it is Saturday following his operation on the Thursday.  I think it was this first night when there was a panic over Al’s blood pressure, which was low.  At one time there were 4 people around the bed, including a very nice young female doctor who had been called down from the ICU upstairs since there was no ward doctor on our floor.  They worked away on various stats and eventually decided on a blood transfusion.  Half a bag of blood later, he seemed to have responded well, and panic over.  But Al was very uncomfortable.  Everything was uncomfortable.  he had to be on his back, propped up to help breathing. An awkward line into neck for speedy drug administration.  Thingy in arm for transfusions, drugs etc.  The young doctor from upstairs (Samvika, I think, although I may not have the spelling exactly right) struggled to make him more settled, propping him up with a pillow lifting his left side a little.  
Once we were left quiet again, I curled up on the bed-chair with my toes against Al’s arm so that he could wake me if he needed anything by pulling on them.  It worked!
Each of the following days was pretty much the same with bursts of activity, dozing, reading.  I am shocked at how little I can remember.  After the blood pressure panic, I realised that we were still not completely in the clear.  There could be problems in almost any major organ.  
There was quite a lot of ‘hands on help' - adjusting the bed, pillows, sheet etc.  I can remember that Al was very warm.  He was wearing the green post-op gown for the first few days.    Maybe on the Monday I went back to the house, fed and played with Our Cat, grabbed anything useful and headed back to the hospital.  Each day there was one tube or wire less, like a game of Pick up Sticks.
Nights were still difficult, although I was sleeping more.  Al not so much.  He was waking feeling as though he couldn’t breath, like a panic attack.  Only one other bed in the room, occupied by a heart valve chap, probably in his 40s, and his wife also sleeping next to him on a reclining chair.  (These more comfortable than aeroplane seats, at least in Economy.) They were ideal considerate neighbours.  After what seemed like an eternity of disturbed nights (I think maybe 2), Al was given a sleep inducing tablet, and that made things a little better.  

Maybe on Tuesday the nurses asked me where were Al's clothes.  Nobody had told me what he would need post ICU.  He had no pyjamas, but I had brought a bright green dressing gown that we share. I made a dash to the local supermarket to see what I could find in the pyjama department.  Actually, nothing.  Bottoms, no tops, all too small.  I found
- a pale blue cotton thin shirt, very large
- a red plaid brushed cotton shirt, right size
- a set on women’s XL pyjamas, blue with a white pattern that I hoped could pass.  (They didn't.)
The reason for the flurry of activity?  It was time to get out of bed and get dressed.
Al had been sitting in the chair for a while each day, twice after the first day.  Encouraged to spend as much time as possible in vertical mode.  But today was clearly special in terms of milestones to the exit door.  I modified the shirt, cutting off the collar and sleeves, and it worked fine.  Of course, because of the scar, the dressings etc. a front fastening garment was needed.  That and light track bottoms sorted the costume issue.  

On Wednesday it was bath time.  Two jolly nurses gave him a bed bath, including, at Al’s request, a hair wash, ingeniously rigged up using a bin liner as a washbasin.  I will draw a modesty veil over the rest.  Then we were shunted out to a sort of limbo ward where we were pretty much left to get on with ourselves, preparatory to going home.  Al was still getting a little dizzy at this stage, not sleeping well at all, and blood pressure still lower than the surgeon would like.  So instead of being discharged on Thursday, just a week after the operation, he was given an extra day.  By this time I had discovered the coffee shop in the basement, the mini market that sold chocolate digestives and the take away across the road from the hospital that did souvlaki and a couple of vegetarian dishes every day..

This room mate was cheerful but in pain with his kidneys and definitely did not suffer in silence.  Who could blame him for the moans and groans?  Also no wife to help him out, so I added him to the morning cafe  and tiropeta run.  
Nights were still difficult with breathlessness and panic attacks - seemed interminable to Al.  One night I got into bed with him.  A nurse came, took his blood pressure and left again, like a ghost without disturbing us at all. Always a relief when 7 o’clock rolled around and we could start the day. 

On Friday 25 February, one last check from Dr Kiparakis in the morning and we were pretty much free to go.
I packed our bags - fetched the car.  Went to buy a pillow.  Got a Covid test so that I could get back into the hospital.  Al was given a wheelchair for the long trek to the main entrance, and eventually, with a pillow between his chest and the seatbelt, off we went to the little house in Amoudara and a very grateful cat.  
Looking back on it all, it seems amazing that  only 8 days elapsed between the life-saving hours in the operating theatre and leaving the hospital under our own steam.  
The recovery period had begun.

                                            ***
 

It's probably time to bring the blog up to date now, staying in the present.  But thank you for accompanying us through the hospital experience.  Writing has helped me process this, and knowing that you have read it has also made me feel less alone.  Of course some of you respond, and I love that.  But thanks also to the silent readers. 

Hospital Blog 3: Day by Day

But First: The Octopus Experience

Today (27 March) was sunny and bright so we headed for the sea.  We went to Nopigia beach.  Not really a beach, but a track runs parallel to the sea, with stones and rocks down to the water’s edge.  We walked for about 20 minutes then scrambled down to the water, sheltered by a boulder from the wind.  I took my Crocs and leggings off and paddled in amongst the stones and next to another boulder.  I had been splashing about for a few minutes when I felt something next to my leg.  I did what any reasonable person would do and screamed ‘sea monster’ and splashed to shore.  I think I might have said ‘it’s chasing me’.  It sort of was, so we got a great view of an octopus in shallow water.  Al offered it a finger, and the octopus, for it was such a creature, suckered it.  Also was able to take a few photos before it headed back home.  What an unusual experience though!  When snorkelling we have searched and searched and only had one sighting, then, when we least expected it…
So, Al is getting back to normal life.  Baby steps.

 

 

At the end of the last Hospital Blog we left Al in his high dependency bed, wired and tubed everywhere.  The full weight of this experience is fading now; that first day, I really can’t remember what we said when I first saw him.  I think I told Al about my experience, and he shared his feelings about the ICU (see Hospital Tapes link in the last blog).   Of course I was overwhelmed with panic and relief.  I sat by the bed, occasionally getting out of the way for nurses taking blood, temperature, pressure, changing bags of stuff going in, stuff coming out.  Al mostly dozed, I read, got out of the way, maybe fetched tea…. It really is a blur now.
The nights were quite peculiar.  By now it is Saturday following his operation on the Thursday.  I think it was this first night when there was a panic over Al’s blood pressure, which was low.  At one time there were 4 people around the bed, including a very nice young female doctor who had been called down from the ICU upstairs since there was no ward doctor on our floor.  They worked away on various stats and eventually decided on a blood transfusion.  Half a bag of blood later, he seemed to have responded well, and panic over.  But Al was very uncomfortable.  Everything was uncomfortable.  he had to be on his back, propped up to help breathing. An awkward line into neck for speedy drug administration.  Thingy in arm for transfusions, drugs etc.  The young doctor from upstairs (Samvika, I think, although I may not have the spelling exactly right) struggled to make him more settled, propping him up with a pillow lifting his left side a little.  
Once we were left quiet again, I curled up on the bed-chair with my toes against Al’s arm so that he could wake me if he needed anything by pulling on them.  It worked!
Each of the following days was pretty much the same with bursts of activity, dozing, reading.  I am shocked at how little I can remember.  After the blood pressure panic, I realised that we were still not completely in the clear.  There could be problems in almost any major organ.  
There was quite a lot of ‘hands on help' - adjusting the bed, pillows, sheet etc.  I can remember that Al was very warm.  He was wearing the green post-op gown for the first few days.    Maybe on the Monday I went back to the house, fed and played with Our Cat, grabbed anything useful and headed back to the hospital.  Each day there was one tube or wire less, like a game of Pick up Sticks.
Nights were still difficult, although I was sleeping more.  Al not so much.  He was waking feeling as though he couldn’t breath, like a panic attack.  Only one other bed in the room, occupied by a heart valve chap, probably in his 40s, and his wife also sleeping next to him on a reclining chair.  (These more comfortable than aeroplane seats, at least in Economy.) They were ideal considerate neighbours.  After what seemed like an eternity of disturbed nights (I think maybe 2), Al was given a sleep inducing tablet, and that made things a little better.  

Maybe on Tuesday the nurses asked me where were Al's clothes.  Nobody had told me what he would need post ICU.  He had no pyjamas, but I had brought a bright green dressing gown that we share. I made a dash to the local supermarket to see what I could find in the pyjama department.  Actually, nothing.  Bottoms, no tops, all too small.  I found
- a pale blue cotton thin shirt, very large
- a red plaid brushed cotton shirt, right size
- a set on women’s XL pyjamas, blue with a white pattern that I hoped could pass.  (They didn't.)
The reason for the flurry of activity?  It was time to get out of bed and get dressed.
Al had been sitting in the chair for a while each day, twice after the first day.  Encouraged to spend as much time as possible in vertical mode.  But today was clearly special in terms of milestones to the exit door.  I modified the shirt, cutting off the collar and sleeves, and it worked fine.  Of course, because of the scar, the dressings etc. a front fastening garment was needed.  That and light track bottoms sorted the costume issue.  

On Wednesday it was bath time.  Two jolly nurses gave him a bed bath, including, at Al’s request, a hair wash, ingeniously rigged up using a bin liner as a washbasin.  I will draw a modesty veil over the rest.  Then we were shunted out to a sort of limbo ward where we were pretty much left to get on with ourselves, preparatory to going home.  Al was still getting a little dizzy at this stage, not sleeping well at all, and blood pressure still lower than the surgeon would like.  So instead of being discharged on Thursday, just a week after the operation, he was given an extra day.  By this time I had discovered the coffee shop in the basement, the mini market that sold chocolate digestives and the take away across the road from the hospital that did souvlaki and a couple of vegetarian dishes every day..

This room mate was cheerful but in pain with his kidneys and definitely did not suffer in silence.  Who could blame him for the moans and groans?  Also no wife to help him out, so I added him to the morning cafe  and tiropeta run.  
Nights were still difficult with breathlessness and panic attacks - seemed interminable to Al.  One night I got into bed with him.  A nurse came, took his blood pressure and left again, like a ghost without disturbing us at all. Always a relief when 7 o’clock rolled around and we could start the day. 

On Friday 25 February, one last check from Dr Kiparakis in the morning and we were pretty much free to go.
I packed our bags - fetched the car.  Went to buy a pillow.  Got a Covid test so that I could get back into the hospital.  Al was given a wheelchair for the long trek to the main entrance, and eventually, with a pillow between his chest and the seatbelt, off we went to the little house in Amoudara and a very grateful cat.  
Looking back on it all, it seems amazing that  only 8 days elapsed between the life-saving hours in the operating theatre and leaving the hospital under our own steam.  
The recovery period had begun.

                                            ***
 

It's probably time to bring the blog up to date now, staying in the present.  But thank you for accompanying us through the hospital experience.  Writing has helped me process this, and knowing that you have read it has also made me feel less alone.  Of course some of you respond, and I love that.  But thanks also to the silent readers. 

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