We All Scream
Now that he is off the ventilator, my dad's number-one priority is to regain all (or at least most) of the weight he's lost over the past couple of months.
The good news is that at his post-op check-up last month, his surgeon said that he could eat or drink anything he wanted—no restrictions whatsoever. Apparently his heart is now in such good shape that cholesterol and coronary-artery disease are of no concern at all.
The not-so-good news is that he is once again being restricted to puréed foods and thickened liquids, at least until he can pass the so-called "swallow test." The concern is that having a tube down his throat for a week may have compromised his swallowing reflex, raising the possibility that food or liquid could "go down the wrong pipe," end up in his lungs, and cause (another) pneumonia, which would be bad.
In the meantime, he has been getting trays of even-less-appetizing-than-usual hospital food, featuring items like "poultry soufflé" and unnaturally bright-colored vegetable blobs. He usually submits to being fed two or three spoonfuls of this stuff before making a face and refusing the rest. Then he moves onto the marginally more satisfying dessert selections—typically applesauce and pudding—which he polishes off with no trouble.
Today, in a further bit of medical torture, he was told that he was going to have a higher-falutin' version of the swallow test, one that required him to fast beforehand. All afternoon, while she waited for him to be called down for the test, his otherwise very kind nurse refused to give him any food. This went on for hours, and my mother's impatience and irritation grew in lockstep with my father's hunger. Eventually, she walked out of his room and demanded to know when he was going to have the test and, more importantly, when he could finally eat.
After a lot of back and forth that yielded no answers, the excellent social worker on duty ultimately interceded. Through her efforts, we learned that the higher-falutin' version of the swallow test isn't even done on Mondays. Which meant the test couldn't be done before tomorrow. Which meant that my dad had been forced to fast for absolutely no reason.
If this were a comic strip, lightning bolts would have started shooting out of my mother's eyes, and someone, somewhere would have imploded under the force of her glare.
If only this were a comic strip.
Because then, perhaps, my dad's huge appetite would have magically transformed the hospital food from predominantly inedible glop into tantalizing morsels of deliciousness.
Instead, we ended up supplementing his tray (well, supplanting it, really) with one of his favorite foods. When we told my dad that we were going to get him some ice cream, he wasted no time: he asked for a gallon.
We had to improvise a little. There wasn't any straight-up ice cream to be had in the hospital, so my mom bought a Klondike bar and a Ben & Jerry's ice-cream pop from the café downstairs, and I carefully cracked and removed the verboten chocolate coating from each.
Ice cream happens to be my all-time favorite food, but I have to say that feeding spoonfuls of it to my dad today was far more delectable than eating it myself has ever been.
The good news is that at his post-op check-up last month, his surgeon said that he could eat or drink anything he wanted—no restrictions whatsoever. Apparently his heart is now in such good shape that cholesterol and coronary-artery disease are of no concern at all.
The not-so-good news is that he is once again being restricted to puréed foods and thickened liquids, at least until he can pass the so-called "swallow test." The concern is that having a tube down his throat for a week may have compromised his swallowing reflex, raising the possibility that food or liquid could "go down the wrong pipe," end up in his lungs, and cause (another) pneumonia, which would be bad.
In the meantime, he has been getting trays of even-less-appetizing-than-usual hospital food, featuring items like "poultry soufflé" and unnaturally bright-colored vegetable blobs. He usually submits to being fed two or three spoonfuls of this stuff before making a face and refusing the rest. Then he moves onto the marginally more satisfying dessert selections—typically applesauce and pudding—which he polishes off with no trouble.
Today, in a further bit of medical torture, he was told that he was going to have a higher-falutin' version of the swallow test, one that required him to fast beforehand. All afternoon, while she waited for him to be called down for the test, his otherwise very kind nurse refused to give him any food. This went on for hours, and my mother's impatience and irritation grew in lockstep with my father's hunger. Eventually, she walked out of his room and demanded to know when he was going to have the test and, more importantly, when he could finally eat.
After a lot of back and forth that yielded no answers, the excellent social worker on duty ultimately interceded. Through her efforts, we learned that the higher-falutin' version of the swallow test isn't even done on Mondays. Which meant the test couldn't be done before tomorrow. Which meant that my dad had been forced to fast for absolutely no reason.
If this were a comic strip, lightning bolts would have started shooting out of my mother's eyes, and someone, somewhere would have imploded under the force of her glare.
If only this were a comic strip.
Because then, perhaps, my dad's huge appetite would have magically transformed the hospital food from predominantly inedible glop into tantalizing morsels of deliciousness.
Instead, we ended up supplementing his tray (well, supplanting it, really) with one of his favorite foods. When we told my dad that we were going to get him some ice cream, he wasted no time: he asked for a gallon.
We had to improvise a little. There wasn't any straight-up ice cream to be had in the hospital, so my mom bought a Klondike bar and a Ben & Jerry's ice-cream pop from the café downstairs, and I carefully cracked and removed the verboten chocolate coating from each.
Ice cream happens to be my all-time favorite food, but I have to say that feeding spoonfuls of it to my dad today was far more delectable than eating it myself has ever been.
posted by Jody Rosen Knower at 8:59 AM
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