No, not Iraq, Iran or any international hot spot, but instead trauma at a more personal level. The news from back home on my grandfather continues to move in a negative direction.
I am sure I have mentioned this before, maybe on my other blog, but my grandfather has had prostate cancer for at least eight years. There was concern he would slip away quickly after diagnosis, but a move from chilly Wellington to balmy Tauranga means he has been generally okay in the time since. Generally being the operative word, there have been a few trips, slips and falls along the way, a few hospital visits and admissions, as well as the slow, steady, awful arrival of what is in all likelihood dementia.
About three or four months ago the docs discovered a mass on his lungs, which has turned out to be a secondary cancer to the prostate thing. Who knows how long it has been growing there, but from my understanding it happened fast - there had been no issues with the lungs until last winter, when my grandfather started complaining about shortness of breath and other flu-like symptoms.
The docs considered operating, but part of the mass has almost completely encircled one of the main blood vessels - either the aorta or pulmonary artery, I'm not a hundred percent sure which. So in the first instance any type of surgery would have been life threatening, and any subsequent survival likely would be uncomfortable. Typical Paul understatement, and I couldn't quite find the phrase I was thinking of.
So it was decided not to operate. I hot-tailed it over to New Zealand in early February, and my grandfather seemed okay for the most part - he was aware of the environment, was a bit unsteady on his legs a few times, but all in all, relatively okay. Because we have to plan our leave months in advance at work, I even pencilled in a week in November to get over to help celebrate his eightieth birthday.
However, about a month ago I got home from work, and my mother was half packed to head to New Zealand the next day. Her father had been coughing up blood most of the afternoon, and his breathing was very shallow. The doctor had even made a house call, so that was how serious it was.
Mum decided to go over, one way ticket, to help out as she could. Whether staying over for 'the duration' until something happens or coming back when - if? - he gets better, that is still uncertain. Any plan is still very much in the air and being made up as it goes along. And the week in November might not have birthday celebrations attached.
One good thing, one of the few is that with my grandfather being so ill the past few years, Mum has had plenty of time to talk to her work about this. Therefore her bosses are aware of the situation and giving her time off for the forseeable future. Carer's leave, I think it would be classed under.
The last week, in the spotty third person way I prefer to get told things, it has sounded pretty horrid. Definition of spotty third person reporting - Mum talks to Dad, Dad talks to me, I don't go searching for detail. A couple of days ago, my grandfather didn't seem to know where he was, had contracted some sort of bladder infection and had a low blood oxygen level, which required a nurse to come around and bring an oxygen bottle with her. My grandfather also required help getting around the house, I guess his legs were too weak to hold his weight?
The kinda sorta report I just got an hour ago tonight also sounds bleak. My grandfather apparently believes he is living at the family bach thirty to forty years ago. Whether that is dementia or illness, who knows. He is walking around the house with more ease today, but that seems purely due to the availability of an oxygen bottle. His youngest son, my uncle, is up for Easter holidays, and let's just say that uncle has never been known for much of a sense of patience. Highly strung, it's all about him.
Yes, it sounds very bleak. And puts my birthday wishes for an XBox 360 well into context. How bourgeois materialistic of me, when one of the smaller tragedies in the world creates such heartache.
I am sure I have mentioned this before, maybe on my other blog, but my grandfather has had prostate cancer for at least eight years. There was concern he would slip away quickly after diagnosis, but a move from chilly Wellington to balmy Tauranga means he has been generally okay in the time since. Generally being the operative word, there have been a few trips, slips and falls along the way, a few hospital visits and admissions, as well as the slow, steady, awful arrival of what is in all likelihood dementia.
About three or four months ago the docs discovered a mass on his lungs, which has turned out to be a secondary cancer to the prostate thing. Who knows how long it has been growing there, but from my understanding it happened fast - there had been no issues with the lungs until last winter, when my grandfather started complaining about shortness of breath and other flu-like symptoms.
The docs considered operating, but part of the mass has almost completely encircled one of the main blood vessels - either the aorta or pulmonary artery, I'm not a hundred percent sure which. So in the first instance any type of surgery would have been life threatening, and any subsequent survival likely would be uncomfortable. Typical Paul understatement, and I couldn't quite find the phrase I was thinking of.
So it was decided not to operate. I hot-tailed it over to New Zealand in early February, and my grandfather seemed okay for the most part - he was aware of the environment, was a bit unsteady on his legs a few times, but all in all, relatively okay. Because we have to plan our leave months in advance at work, I even pencilled in a week in November to get over to help celebrate his eightieth birthday.
However, about a month ago I got home from work, and my mother was half packed to head to New Zealand the next day. Her father had been coughing up blood most of the afternoon, and his breathing was very shallow. The doctor had even made a house call, so that was how serious it was.
Mum decided to go over, one way ticket, to help out as she could. Whether staying over for 'the duration' until something happens or coming back when - if? - he gets better, that is still uncertain. Any plan is still very much in the air and being made up as it goes along. And the week in November might not have birthday celebrations attached.
One good thing, one of the few is that with my grandfather being so ill the past few years, Mum has had plenty of time to talk to her work about this. Therefore her bosses are aware of the situation and giving her time off for the forseeable future. Carer's leave, I think it would be classed under.
The last week, in the spotty third person way I prefer to get told things, it has sounded pretty horrid. Definition of spotty third person reporting - Mum talks to Dad, Dad talks to me, I don't go searching for detail. A couple of days ago, my grandfather didn't seem to know where he was, had contracted some sort of bladder infection and had a low blood oxygen level, which required a nurse to come around and bring an oxygen bottle with her. My grandfather also required help getting around the house, I guess his legs were too weak to hold his weight?
The kinda sorta report I just got an hour ago tonight also sounds bleak. My grandfather apparently believes he is living at the family bach thirty to forty years ago. Whether that is dementia or illness, who knows. He is walking around the house with more ease today, but that seems purely due to the availability of an oxygen bottle. His youngest son, my uncle, is up for Easter holidays, and let's just say that uncle has never been known for much of a sense of patience. Highly strung, it's all about him.
Yes, it sounds very bleak. And puts my birthday wishes for an XBox 360 well into context. How bourgeois materialistic of me, when one of the smaller tragedies in the world creates such heartache.
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