Well, yesterday was fairly horific. It still is.
Mum went with her Brother-in-law to the hospital at 1 am, and he didn't play balls after all, so that they could speak Auntie Ros's specialist. My cousin and myself arrived at five pm, and we met in the carpark. The look on their faces showed that things weren't good. My Uncle drove off crying, saying he couldn't cope, Mum stayed with us.
The specialist told them that whatever is wrong has caused her to have cirrhosis, and that there isn't much hope, as they still don't know what has caused this, or why there is such a high copper content in her body.
She is still having two enemas a day, to rid her body of the toxins her liver isn't shifting, which has left her drained.
We were allowed to stay until 10.30 pm, although she couldn't bear us to touch her, or even to open her eyes. She did become agitated when they had to change her soiled bed linen. She screamed at the top of her voice that she didn't want anymore enemas. The firey red head spirit is still there, just beaten back a bit.
Mum, my cousin and myself sat with her trying to sooth her torment. Whispering to her to fight, and that she's won harder battles than this in her life. She's so weak she doesn't even mention the paranoid demons she sees. Her lips are scabbed because she won't or can't drink, she has thrush in her mouth, and also a temperature. She's a very sick girl.
Lot's of other patients on the ward are alcoholics, and stupidly you think to yourself, they deserve it, my Auntie has a glass of wine when she goes out for a meal, she doesn't deserve this. Daft of course, alcoholism is a disease as well, and no one deserves sickness, it's just a lottery.
I was sat there watching her, tears rolling down my cheeks. I worked out she was only sixteen when I was born, not seventeen. She's loved her daughter and me and my brother like a tigress, she couldn't have been a better Aunt.
I have no God, just love. I have no prayers, just love. Tonight my love is winging it's way to ward 25 in the orange zone at Manchester's Royal Infirmary.
There is always some hope.
Mum went with her Brother-in-law to the hospital at 1 am, and he didn't play balls after all, so that they could speak Auntie Ros's specialist. My cousin and myself arrived at five pm, and we met in the carpark. The look on their faces showed that things weren't good. My Uncle drove off crying, saying he couldn't cope, Mum stayed with us.
The specialist told them that whatever is wrong has caused her to have cirrhosis, and that there isn't much hope, as they still don't know what has caused this, or why there is such a high copper content in her body.
She is still having two enemas a day, to rid her body of the toxins her liver isn't shifting, which has left her drained.
We were allowed to stay until 10.30 pm, although she couldn't bear us to touch her, or even to open her eyes. She did become agitated when they had to change her soiled bed linen. She screamed at the top of her voice that she didn't want anymore enemas. The firey red head spirit is still there, just beaten back a bit.
Mum, my cousin and myself sat with her trying to sooth her torment. Whispering to her to fight, and that she's won harder battles than this in her life. She's so weak she doesn't even mention the paranoid demons she sees. Her lips are scabbed because she won't or can't drink, she has thrush in her mouth, and also a temperature. She's a very sick girl.
Lot's of other patients on the ward are alcoholics, and stupidly you think to yourself, they deserve it, my Auntie has a glass of wine when she goes out for a meal, she doesn't deserve this. Daft of course, alcoholism is a disease as well, and no one deserves sickness, it's just a lottery.
I was sat there watching her, tears rolling down my cheeks. I worked out she was only sixteen when I was born, not seventeen. She's loved her daughter and me and my brother like a tigress, she couldn't have been a better Aunt.
I have no God, just love. I have no prayers, just love. Tonight my love is winging it's way to ward 25 in the orange zone at Manchester's Royal Infirmary.
There is always some hope.
