 |
| Valerie trimming her father's beard in Marseille, a couple of years ago. |
Let us hope that you never hear the words “aortic
dissection” (“dissection de l’aorte”) spoken by anyone in the medical
profession, but if you do, you should know that a crack in the aorta is a life-threatening
condition; it must be addressed immediately if not sooner. The first thing
to do, if you’re in France, is to call SAMU (pronounced “Samoo”) the French
equivalent of 911. The French medical system will take it from there.
This is what Patrick did on January 25. I was in Vermont.
The nurse who answered the phone when I called the hospital the next day
reported that his condition was “extremement
grave.” Meaning “Look, lady, I don’t know where you are but you need to get
here now.”
I was on a plane to France the next day.
I arrived to find my husband unconscious and hooked up to an
astonishing number of machines. Beeps and blips and blinking lights and screens
and tubes everywhere, and in the middle of it all, a puffy, funny-colored
individual that I understood to be my husband.
Don’t ask me what the surgeons did to him; it is too
complicated to explain. It involved lots of prosthetic bits and pieces, many
arteries, several vital organs, and an incision that stretches across the
patient’s entire abdomen and wraps around his side. It took seven hours.
Closing the incision required some 200 staples. As Patrick himself said, many
days later, “They almost cut me in two.”
The recovery unit’s chief honcho called the surgery
miraculous. All of the doctors I spoke with seemed very impressed with themselves.
I tried to show my appreciation, but it wasn’t easy. The patient himself, when
he started to revive, did not seem the least bit appreciative. He seemed to be
in agony.
Patrick was in the ICU for 19 days. He was then transferred
to the cardiovascular surgery unit, where he has been for the past two weeks.
Today he will be transferred again, to the nephrology unit. He has been lying
on his back for almost 5 weeks, and his back is killing him. He is skin and
bones. I do believe I could pick him up and carry him out of the hospital if I
wanted to, and the irrational part of me (which is a rather large part of me at
this point), would really like to do that. The irrational part of me would just
like to wrap my arms around his frail little body and bring him home.
Eventually, when the hospital is finished tinkering with
him, he will go to a rehab center. I hope it is close to home. The daily
round-trip to the hospital takes three hours, minimum. I keep thinking I’ll use
the time to write, but instead I just stare out the window or fall asleep.
Two days ago a kind doctor rustled up an old wheelchair and Patrick
was able to leave his hospital room without being on his back for the first
time in 30 days. I wheeled him to the cafeteria where he ordered a
ham-and-cheese sandwich and a bottle of San Pelligrino. The next day I wheeled
him to the hospital beauty salon for a haircut and a shave.
Do not try to call him. If you want to follow his progress, email
me or check back here. I am in the middle of moving us to a new flat,
surrounded by packing boxes, but I will do my best to keep you posted.
Love, Sadie
