On Wednesday morning we readied ourselves for our departure. All loose
chattels secure, buttons pushed and pegs on blinds (to limit the rattling while
en route), I telephoned my friend who had again offered to accommodate our
Isuzu; no answer. We decided to drive on up to their property, tuck the vehicle
away in its corner and drop the key and a note somewhere safe. Moments before
take-off, my phone rang; that would be Liz getting back to me. But no, it was
my mother ringing from the doctor’s surgery car park in distress. My father had
had a heart attack and was being taken by ambulance to the hospital. We dropped
everything and hurried to her.
The day turned life upside down, although not in an entirely negative
way; the worst could have occurred. We gathered in the A&E department at
the hospital, to learn that my father was to be airlifted by helicopter to
Auckland Hospital, my sister accompanying him, while my mother travelled south
with Chris and I chauffeuring her in her car, a smarter and more comfortable
vehicle than our twenty year old Isuzu.
We found my father and sister in the labyrinths of the city’s hospital,
already attended by a nephew who works in the city and had been able to hurry
to his grandfather’s side. My other sister from Rotorua and her youngest
daughter were on their way north, so finally we all assembled in the
(fortunately) large sterile room, while my father held court from his bed,
tubes and wires dangling, monitors and graphs all proving there was much life
in the patriarch yet.
As the afternoon wore on, we were to learn that it wasn’t this, or that,
or the other, but possibly something else that sounded rather odd, however all
would be correctly revealed the next morning when the consultant and her
entourage did their rounds.
And so we all retired to our various accommodation, my sisters, niece
and mother all having secured beds in the Domain Lodge which caters firstly for
out-of-Auckland patients undergoing treatment for cancer and then tops up with all-comers
such as our crew. But alas there was no more room at the inn for gypsies; we
were referred to a B&B hotel in nearby Parnell which proved to be an
absolute gem. From there we were able to walk up into Parnell, buy a bottle of
red at the local store from the Indian proprietors then dine in a recently
opened Indian restaurant a little way down the hill. The next morning we
learned that the Lodged family had ordered in pizzas and spent a wonderful
evening catching up.
Back up in the ward, we found my father much perkier, as well rested as
one can be, woken every hour or so for signs of life. We spent over an hour enjoying
each other’s company, with our laughter and chatter surely disturbing the folk
down the corridor. This was a rare opportunity for my parents to have their
three daughters under the one ceiling, a first since early 2008; there was the
silver lining to this drama after all.
The consultant, exuding confidence and professional competence, finally
arrived with her own support group, and viewed the six extras with surprised
acceptance; we were after all, from the north and the central thermal area, homes
to Nga Pui and Te Arawa, people who arrive by bus and camp on the floor of the hospital
room of their sick members. We had the decency to sit on the two chairs and
window sill out of the way.
After fifty questions and gentle probing and poking, she announced that
my father had not suffered a heart attack after all, but was suffering a condition
called pericarditis, inflammation of
the two thin layers of sac-like tissue that surround the heart. While painful,
it rarely causes death. This was all good news. The patient could be transferred
back to his local hospital and return home once the pain issues were dealt
with. Rather than the exciting helicopter ride, he would be transported north
by ambulance later in the day, when a back load (human rather than freight)
could be arranged.
We all set off, Cindy and her daughter back to Rotorua, and we four Northlanders
on the road to Whangarei. Half way back we received a call from the hospital to
advise that there was no bed available in Whangarei, so Dad would have to stay
another night in Auckland. It was unfortunate that we had proceeded so far; Mum
was adamant we continue on.
And so as I write this, my father lies in a hospital bed hitched up to
medical machinery over two hundred kilometres away, but safely away from the
claws of death, my mother wanders about her apartment eating an abbreviated
dinner as women do when they are left alone and we are back in our motorhome out
at Parua Bay, wondering what the days ahead will hold. We may delay our
departure until early next week by which time my father should have stabilised
and my mother free of anxiety.
But then we have no deadlines, and now, as the
daily reports flow in from the disaster areas in the South Island, and even
from the capital city at the base of the North Island, the details of our three
month trip away from Whangarei remain in limbo.
