Yesterday was my father’s turn at surgery. He went into St. Joseph’s Health Centre to get one testicle taken out. Because he didn’t do all his pre-op tests the doctors couldn’t have enough references. Seems my father didn’t do his CAT scan.
It’s a little distressing to see my paternal unit lying on a hospital stretcher, looking so small and scared. He had an IV in and he wasn’t moving his arm around, afraid that he might hurt his veins if he moved around too much. Seems my hospital experiences reassured him when I told him he could move his arm around – they no longer put a needle into the vein for an IV but a tiny flexible tube, which won’t pierce his vein.
Surgery was a success, they took out his right testicle. The doctor told me (since my father didn’t have his hearing-aid on so he could barely hear anything) that they will be testing the testicle for cancer. The doctor told me it would probably be either lymphoma or testicular cancer; the latter is the worst of the two and spreads quite quickly while the former can be dealt with some radiation therapy.
My father was to spend the night in the hospital. His only request of me was to tell my mother not to come. She’s a little too fanatical about praying and her hovering would drive him nuts (I know it drives me nuts when I go into hospital) and what with a chapel just down the corridor she would be in her element, demanding a priest come to my father’s bedside.
My father’s antipathy towards my mother isn’t just based on him not liking being coddled, he is ashamed of her. The older both of them have gotten the more my mother has turned to the Church, to the detriment of her family. The Church is everything to her. My brother threatened to smash her statues (which are in my old bedroom) if she didn’t help my father recover at home, if she went to church and prayer groups and rosary groups at all hours of the day. My father wants to go back to LT next year, to apologise for the actions of my mother when she was last there.
Seems that some relatives had made an effort to welcome my father and mother to their “sodas” (rural retreat, almost like a cottage, but surrounded by forests and huge blankets of flowers) – they had carefully prepared a welcoming dinner for them both. Within half an hour my mother was demanding that they get back to Vilnius because she wanted to go to a concert at the Cathedral. It was embarrassing as my mother had violated every custom with regards to hospitality – acknowledging the welcome from the relatives, thankful for the warm-hearted effort they had made on a limited pension to provide a lovely meal, and realising that these people are her husband’s relatives. These two cousins have not spoken to my father because they were deeply offended.
My parents have drifted so far apart and the only thing keeping them together is that it would be highly embarrassing in the community for a 75 year old man to divorce his 66 year old wife.
On a cute note, my father was kicking his covers about to prove that he is still a vital little old man. Accused his nurse of being a very strict sergent-major, and behaved naughtly eating his meal before she could take a reading for his diabetes. Yup, the little old egg has diabetes, I didn’t know this until yesterday.