So when last we spoke of The Brother, he was banged up in the Royal Free, having avoided dying of sepsis but trying to overcome complete organ failure. That was some months ago. And things were indeed looking brighter as stuff started functioning again and thus one more of his multitude of ‘life support’ could be removed. Until, eventually, about a month ago, they decided to ‘let him go!!!’, like Elsa in the jungle, away from the ICU (they probably needed the bed) and free him… to the kidney ward. As he was still on dialysis. And then… his kidneys started working again. So other than his failed swallow reflex, meaning he had to retain the naso-gastric tube for feeding, he was… unplugged. Not a euphemism for an acoustic set, but literally unplugged. He was doing physio but with no massive degree of success. To spend 15 minutes having a team of nurses shlep you bodily out of bed just to sit on a chair next to the bed for 30 minutes of discomfort can be… demotivating. And produced no discernible improvement to his mobility. But he carried on. Mainly as his diary was otherwise clear.

Just return to the dire depths of January for a small detail of massive importance. The third operation to save him found the cause of the sepsis. A perforated tumour in his colon. We never even knew he had an unperforated one and there ya go, he hit the jackpot. They ‘removed it all, and a big section of colon’. And because we were worried about dying from sepsis, what we’ll term ‘the immediate concern’, we kind’a compartmentalised the whole ‘tumour’ thing. There’s only so many ways you can worry about your brother dying at any one time. So the sepsis and the organ recovery took over our thoughts.

Until we reached the first paragraph above. When it was all going well. And flickers of light could just be seen at the end of a very long tunnel. When they told us that the cancer had spread. Widely. And can’t be treated at all. Palliative care. Two words you never, ever want to hear in the context of anyone you love. And Richard entered a very dark and depressed 6 weeks. Not that any of us were exactly whistling down the corridors of the hospital.

We struggled to find a nursing home that would take him because of his feeding tube. Apparently nurses don’t like them, can’t deal with them. And he couldn’t eat. But eventually we found a lovely place where they would take him, N-G tube and all. Butttt…

It is a very orthodox, Jewish care home. And my brother is an ultra-orthodox Atheist. But, so what? He’s bed-bound and left alone other than the nursing, which is first class. And the food’s great. Which shouldn’t be relevant but the weirdest thing happened the day before he left hospital. He ate a bowl of soup. Swallowed it. As you, kind’a, would do. But he, kind’a, couldn’t do. And then on Wednesday when he moved in, I sat with him as he had a bowl of soup and then ploughed his way through moussaka. HE CAN EATTTTTT!!!! A miracle.

His whole mood lifted when he left the hospital. Its strange, as the room he’s in is very much like the one he left. And now he can eat again. And is talking of getting in a wheelchair, possibly (a thought which hadn’t previously crossed his mind), as he’ll need to be lifted into it, so we can go out and see if he can swallow unkosher food as well. Its the will of God.

Thus in a sea of gloom, we have just a little twinkle of light. Not the brightest of lights, but at this point, we’ll take it gladly.

Happy Friday

A xxxx