My father’s having a fit and he’s unable to breathe. See, my father is a diabetic. Let me back that up. My father is a heavily-smoking, overweight, borderline clinically depressed diabetic with sleep apnoea who periodically binge drinks to help him deal with his problems. OK, I thought, hypoglycaemic seizure, probably exacerbated because he went to the pub yesterday afternoon. It’s not uncommon, but dad takes painstaking care, bordering on obsessive-compulsive, regarding his insulin dosage, and this is the most serious reaction he’s ever had.
He wasn’t violently convulsing, but he was stiff, catatonic and making these awful laboured, nasal snoring sounds which didn’t abate until I rolled him onto his side and made mum call for an ambulance. He was able to breathe a little easier, but he became highly confused and uncooperative with sudden and random panic attacks. Think Gonzo in the bath in Fear And Loathing. I actually had to dig my knees into his back to keep him from rolling back over and possibly swallowing his now badly-bleeding tongue, while he begged and pleaded to be left alone.
The paramedics gave him a glucosamine injection and stayed for about an hour until he became more comfortable and coherent and was able to eat something, but he was still in a highly confused state. His blood sugar level had dipped to around 2, and was at around 11 when they left. We eventually talked him into trying to get some sleep, before we took him to the doctor in the morning.
Two hours later he had another seizure, even worse than the last time. It was clearly something related to, but more serious than, a mere hypo.
Decades of drinking and smoking and stress and bad eating habits have finally caught up with him. Apparently the paramedics told my mother how impressed they were by how I handled the situation. *shrug*
She was distraught, and my sister was sleeping through everything, and I’m the only one in the house with first-aid training and a partial medical education, so what else was I going to do? It does seem true though, I seem to just go on auto-pilot in the few emergencies which have arisen in my life.
My grandmother agreed and told me the same thing happened when she ran in around midnight and told me that my grandfather was paralysed by severe angina last year.
And when he had an actual heart-attack and I had to briefly administer CPR while we waited for the ambulance. Funny how these things tend to happen in the middle of the night. I don’t mean to talk myself up, but I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t some ingrained aspect of myself I wasn’t happy to know I have somewhere in reserve.
Although I’d prefer to never have to use it again. It’s weird. The first thing I found myself doing after we eventually managed to get him struggling and yelling onto the stretcher and the ambulance left was get all the linen stained by the blood-tinged froth and just chuck them in the washing machine.
And maybe it goes some way to explain why I’ve always been interested in the whole health-care system. I’ve always wondered about that, because when I tell people, after they’ve told me their own health horror stories, that I actually like hospitals, they give me funny looks. Maybe it also explains why I’ve been reluctant to move out just yet.
He’s OK, though. Exhausted, and still slightly confused and unable to concentrate, but rational. Alright compared to how bad it could have been. I thought he may have had a stroke, but CAT scans showed no signs of brain aneurysms or haemorrhages, although he’s still waiting for an MRI to determine if there is any noticeable evidence of brain damage, and he should be released on the weekend. Seizures are the worst though.
At least when a patient is conscious and able to cooperate and communicate, or unconscious and able to be manipulated, it’s comparatively easier to solve the problem. When a perfectly intelligent human being is screaming to be left alone while you attempt to help them, with no conception of self-preservation, and struggle while the paramedic attempts to insert a catheter into their hand, and stare wildly at you as if you were a total stranger while their blood spurts down your arm, it’s like they’ve been possessed or something.
Hopefully this is a wake-up call. If he’s smoked his last cigarette and drunk his last bottle of scotch to try to get to sleep, the whole ordeal would have been worth it. Just so he knows that, if my mother’s night-time aural acuity had not been honed by 25+ years of marriage to a chronic sufferer of sleep apnoea, she never would have heard his gasping for breath. And my father would probably be dead right now.
I’m so tired.
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