Eerily similar to last year, almost to the day, Dad went into the hospital two nights ago because of the flu. His 87-year-old constitution is not too strong, so when he gets a flu bug, no matter how small, it really rattles him physically. Even a tiny bit of dehydration causes much concern. So Ben and I decided it was best to send him in an ambulance to a local hospital. He's received fluids intravenously, he's being monitored through the day and evening, and now he's finally received the go ahead to get his nutrition orally.
But his is a slow journey back to complete recovery. Luckily, unlike last year's bout, I believe we got Dad into the hospital soon enough to nip the intruding virus in the bud; his lungs are nowhere near as fluid-filled and gurgly as last time (sorry for the vivid description, but it's an important fact). He's still needing lots of sleep, LOTS of sleep, but that's his healing process. It's slow and steady. We Turlows haven't been labelled with the epithet "Turtle" for nothing.
My dad is like the woman pictured in the 6 of Swords: hunched over, recovering from something that laid her low, moving from a scary or sad or somehow otherwise "not-so-fun" place, into calmer, clearer waters. And Mark (my dad's caregiver), Ben, Dad's doctors and nurses and therapists, and myself, are manning the oar, moving him steadily and purposefully ahead to safety and health.
Nothing's rushed. All good care is taken. Because turtles have been known to quite often win the race.
In their own good, sweet time.
(Note: I was heartened when Dad's assisting physician referred to him as "a wonderful man". This after only meeting him for, oh, like 11 seconds. Such is his gift to the world.)