Watch out for that first step...

Seriously. So, she doesn't really want me to advertise it, but this time we're going to start off with Mom. I get home early (for the last few days anyway) and throw myself into bed. I can't wait to get over 5 hours of sleep, and the phone rings at 10:15 pm. Alright, the only time the phone has rung after 10 in the last few weeks, it was a very bad call.

It's my sister, and she proceeds to let me know that Dad is fine, don't worry about Dad. It's Mom. On the way out of the hospital, she tripped over a speed bump and slammed into the pavement before she realized what had happened. Unfortunately, she slammed her head into the pavement. Fortunately, she's very hard headed.

5 stitches, bruised face, 2 hours and 1 catscan later she headed home. Her first night back in the house since Dad's traumatic injury and she's carrying one of her own. Personally, it seems like a pretty smart strategy to me. Injure yourself significantly enough (but not too much) so that you are sufficiently distracted and can get some sleep.

...


Dad was good at lunch. Really good. Not jump out of the bed and give me a vigorous handshake or proceed to espouse on the importance of being nice to my daughters speech (I get that one a lot). But he was very responsive. His nurse suggested that she could actually remove one of his restraints during our visit, if we promised not to let him remove his feeding tube again. We (my sister and I) looked at Dad and he did that 'thing' with his chin that you do when you can't shrug. I'm not sure how to explain it, but it looks a little like an exaggerated frown. Go try it in the mirror, and you'll see what I mean. Anyway, it was visible, and it was a clear indication that he was listening. Sort of a "let's give it a try, maybe I will, maybe I won't."

Have I mentioned that his only good arm is restrained? Actually, both are restrained although I fail to see the point of restraining his immobile arm. Go through the list.

1) Why am I in the hospital?
2) Why can't I move my right side?
3) Why do I have this annoying tube in my nose and down my throat?
4) Why can't I talk?
5) Why am I tied down?

I would imagine there are endless questions all contingent on his ability to fully comprehend where he is and why he's there. Even if he's one day able to explain his feelings, I don't know that he'll remember these days like the rest of us will. Trying to imagine what he's experiencing, I think of it like one big long nightmare interspersed with random visits from loved ones.

Once free, his first action was to rub his lips, scratch his nose and clear some sort of gunky stuff from the roof of his mouth. If you were expecting something more significant, think about it for a minute. You've been lying immobile in bed for days, without a drink of water, and a tube up your nose. You can't reach your face, or ask anyone to help.

I should have suggested this to the Bush administration as some sort of legal torture. If they can do it in a hospital, how could it be illegal in a detention camp?

...

End of the day, and one last visit. He seems pretty confused to be honest. He was pretty fascinated with his left hand. I'm sure he's trying to accomplish something, or in some way is trying to understand what's going on. I'm sure there's a lot of pathways either not connecting or connnecting to the wrong things.

We're going to visit a rehab clinic tomorrow. Only a couple options for us, one is in the hospital he's in, the other is half an hour away. I'm fortunate that he's 5 minutes from my home, and 10 from my job for now. We'll see what tomorrow brings.

Rollercoaster

I'm sure this is to be expected, but I find my spirits soaring one minute, and then sinking to the floor the next. This has been happening for days, but it's becoming more clear to me recently.

He was alert and very responsive this morning. Per my brother's suggestion last night, I downloaded a nifty voice recorder application for my iphone. I recorded messages from my daughters this morning and played them back for him when I arrived today. I could tell he was focusing intently on what he was hearing.

I also threw out an alternative means of communication. Pointing out to him that this was only temporary, I fully expect to hear his voice again soon. So, I took his hand, and asked for one squeeze for yes, and two for no. He squeezed my hand a single time. That was a good start, but I worried as he'd been squeezing my hand since I arrived. "Okay, good start," I said "now for the 2nd part, is my name Fred?" I was pretty nervous as he squeezed my hand, and then a moment later, he squeezed again.

Speaking of hands. How many times a day do you wash your hands? One of the ICU nurses told me that he washes his hands 100 times a day. More than 10 and mine are so dry they feel like sandpaper.

Another topic, particular to this blog as I don't know who all will read it. A sincere thank you to all of the family and friends that have emailed, called or visited since this happened. You'll never know how much you have meant to the entire family. You lifted our spirits, occupied our minds, and filled our bellies. On that last one, maybe too much for me personally. We'll find out at the weigh-in this Saturday.

Lunchtime was different. His fever was up and he was clearly exhausted. After checking on him, I went to lunch with the family. Our spirits are up, but we're worried about the fever.

After work, he was more interactive. Still feverish but more responsive. I tried to get a similar hand squeeze response to this morning, but he didn't respond. It could be that he wasn't interested, or I didn't explain well enough. He didn't want to make a lot of eye contact for some reason. He'd squeeze my hand, but not in reaction to anything I was saying. Maybe I'm expecting too much, too early.

Last visit for the day, and it was pretty similar to earlier. He seemed restless, and was having trouble figuring out how he wanted to hold my hand or my arm. He moved from my elbow to my hand to my wrist and back again. He would smile based on what we were saying, but he was erratic with his hand. I'm puzzled, and sad. It's one thing to hear how long a process this is, as well as the odds against him. It's another to accept it.

The end of the beginning

I'm at home. As soon as I tuck the girls in bed, I'm heading back to the hospital. Something of a reality check for me. This is the first time since Saturday that I'm actually sitting at home between the hours of 9AM and midnight. So, it's day 4, and probably time to start thinking of getting life to a more normal routine. Whatever that's going to be from now on.

Anyway, another good day, all-in-all. He's much more alert, they even removed his restraints until he promptly pulled out the feeding tube. Score one for the feisty stroke victim. I told him funny stories today and he smiled. Well, semi-smiled. As close as he can get with one side of his face, the tube, lots of confusion, etc.

I left the hospital for lunch today. The guys in Norman will laugh when I point out that it was a Ted's day. That means lots of margarita goodness for me.

I need to go to work tomorrow. I need some sense of normal again. I have a three hour meeting scheduled from 9am to noon. I'm not sure I need THAT much normal.

Things are looking up

10:04pm - Visiting hours are almost over for the day. It's a bittersweet realization. Sad that we're going home and leaving him behind, but I'm also exhausted. I need some rest.

It was a good day as far as I'm concerned. They took Dad off the respirator, and the sedative. He's extremely alert and active considering the circumstances. He tries to make eye contact, and seems to like to hold hands. I don't know if it's comforting to him, but it's certainly comforting to me.

When I say hold hands, I'm understating what he does. He switches positions and can communicate simple messages. Simple stuff. He'll squeeze in response to what you're saying. But it's still pretty limited, and he's having trouble staying focused for very long.

He's showing some facial expression. Not much, but I see small indications of a smile from time to time. And it isn't random. It's in response to something we say to him. Something with some humor, or something intended to incite a funny memory.

It's a little tough to look into his eyes while he tries to speak to you. It's only a start, and it's very faint. Little more than groans honestly. But he's trying. I think. There's that little voice in the back of your mind that wonders if you aren't just seeing what you want to see.

Another visit before I go home. He didn't look at me much, and didn't want to hold hands as much. He seems tired. I didn't talk to him as much, I tried to let him rest more. He's still responsive, and when I told him it was time for me to go home, he gave my hand a good squeeze, then let go.

I'll take it for now. I'm going home.

Dad is in trouble

My father suffered a massive stroke at approximately 2AM Sunday morning. My mother called 911, and then her children. 2 of us met her at the hospital, the other lived close enough to arrive in time to see my father being loaded into the ambulance.

Once they arrived, we calmed my mother and went to see my Dad in the ER. He wasn't responsive to our voices exactly, but did make an attempt to look in our direction. He wasn't moving anything on the right side of his body, and the right side of his face was slack and failed to respond when he opened his mouth, or blinked, etc.

Upon examining the results of a catscan, we learned the worse; a blood clot formed the initial stroke. Without circulation, the surrounding tissue died within an hour. This would have been bad enough, but the clot then dissolved and the blood rushed into the weakened blood vessels. They gave way and the blood began to flood into the left hemisphere of his brain. This was most likely when he awoke and simply asked my mother for help.

They put him through the MRI late Sunday afternoon, and the neurosurgeon confirmed the spread of blood, and the increasing size of the damage. The surgeon presented us with the option to perform surgery. He wasn't convinced the bleeding had stopped. Much more and Dad would slip away. While surgery would likely preserve his life, it wouldn't preserve the quality of his life. Effectively, my father and one of my closest friends is gone.

I think the surgeon really wanted us to consciously make the decision to commit to a much more difficult process of helping Dad in whatever rehabilitation he can make. 5% chance to walk, 25% chance to talk. That's assuming that he makes it through surgery and the subsequent 48 hour window within which the bleeding could begin again.

I can't tell you how often my father and I discussed situations like this. I really don't know why. I don't think many of us really look forward to death, regardless of your personal beliefs on an afterlife. Dad always made it clear, he wanted every opportunity to live that we could give him. "Don't let your mother pull the plug", he'd jokingly say.

So, I spoke up when we got together to make the decision. I was adamant to keep my promise to him. I don't know what will happen at the end of this. I really hope we did the right thing. I believe we did. I feel this much very strongly. For a variety of reasons, but really, if nothing else, I desperately want to honor my commitments to him.

So, here I sit. 24 hours after the surgery. I think around 12 hours of sleep over the last 3 nights. I'm tired. I'm sad. I miss my father, and I miss my friend. I've cried a lot over the 2 days. Heh, I'm tearing up now. I hope it's healthy for my young daughters to see their father so vulnerable. I don't know.

I talk to Dad when I'm in the room. He's heavily sedated, his arms are restrained. The rhythmic sounds of the breathing machine are soothing in a way, and at the same time, discerning. So many tubes.

My mother just exchanged hugs with another mother from the Bahamas. I don't know why she's in Oklahoma, except that her daughter is also in the intensive care unit. She's alone. She cries a lot too. There seem to be a lot of stories like this. I'm sure that we have a relatively small hospital. But the ICU is huge. Lots of families in the waiting room. The same room that has become my 2nd home recently. It feels like weeks, and we've only been here 2 days. Weird.

I argued with a nurse today. Well, sort of argued. Really, I gained an immediate dislike for the guy when I first arrived. He was cussing at a computer. He has this good old boy attitude going on. Maybe it's too much time in the medical field? Oh, we come and go in the ICU. Trading places with the 2 visitor limit. Trying to see him around the weird visiting times of the unit. Something like 4 visiting periods during a 17 hour window.

So anyway. Later in the morning, my Mom and I arrive in time to see him shoving this tube up my Dad's nose. Not something I recommend viewing. It was upsetting. Watching my helpless shell of a father thrashing around on the bed, while captain jackass was calling him by his given name (he goes by something else) and saying something about steak and taters. When we walked up, I said something. I don't remember what, but I think it was appropriate. He said something back about being almost done, and then pulled a curtain so we couldn't watch anymore.

Afterwards, I stopped him and asked to talk. I asked him to please treat my father with dignity. To remember that he had sons and daughters, grandchildren, and a wife that he loved very much. He snapped back something about always using dignity, and then, I really sort of blocked him out. I checked on Dad. Tube now securely bandaged to his nose, there was some sort of stuff dribbling out of his mouth. It looked a little bit like applesauce. It ran out of his mouth, down his neck and was pooling on his chest. I wondered to myself about how dignified my Dad felt at the moment.

I cleaned him up, and told him that he wouldn't have to worry about the nurse again.

It's ironic that church softball comes into play here. But it just so happens one of my old buddies from softball is now the Executive VP of the hospital. This sort of thing provides tremendous confidence when asking the charge nurse to make a change. I didn't use his name when making the request, but I was confident all the same.

We're approaching the end of visiting hours for today. It's my turn to go in and talk with him. I like the night shift nurse. His name is Mac (I hear Frank Sinatra in my head every time I speak with him). He's young and covered with tattoos. But he seems to understand that he has a person to take care of. A father. A husband. A grandfather. A person.