Communication

Today was a day of firsts. The first day off the ventilator. Writing clear words. Sitting in a chair.

Watching you write clearly one word at a time until you got an entire question on paper was pure joy. Real communication. What a great accomplishment you've made. You had several questions for me to answer today. One thing you wrote was: Not getting water is driving me nutz. The answer is you can't take a chance on getting fluid into your lungs. This morning Asia and I had talked about how it would drive us crazy for sure. Jason brought some swabs and a little water so that you could moisten your mouth. You had another terrific nurse. (He also brushed your teeth and then let you brush them. That must be another first.)

The BIG deal today is that you're off the ventilator. WOW. The machine is right there handy. Macon has been giving you a twenty minute breathing treatment with it every 4 hours. Between times, you seem to be doing well on your own.

Another first as well: you sat in a chair today. You thought it was an hour and a half. Jason said it was difficult and he did let you stay a while. Another big deal.

Your arms and legs were free of constraints. Hooray. You had a clear understanding of the trach, the food tube, and your leg wrappings.

You're still getting a very strong antibiotic for the pneumonia. In fact you're getting two antibiotics so hopefully that P word will be behind us sooner rather than later. You're coughing up lots of gunk so that's a good sign. In fact you could pull yourself up into a sitting position in bed which seemed to help.

Oh, and it seems I have a sister for the first time in my life. Apparently Jason got to meet another sister of yours earlier in the day.

You've had lots of company, lots of firsts, and lots of physical therapy today. When I told you before I left, "I love you", I got a clear "I love you", back. You must be exhausted! There is a new goal: getting your days and nights in synch. I hope you sleep well.

Status: No ventilator Oxygen level: 98% Temperature: normal

"How long til I can speak?"

That's what you WROTE ON PAPER to Asia after our little cell phone chat. You also asked her about her job, about getting some water (I can't wait until you can have water!), and, apparently, once Robin and Asia answered your questions about why you're there, you indicated your intent to file a police report! Haha! I do not know exactly why, but this made Asia and me laugh really hard.

You had all kinds of communication going on. Including acting out what it was like to come in and out of consciousness. Asia said you'd make your eyes really wide, then drop your head to the side and let your tongue loll out. Then you'd look back out, eyes wide, and again, drop your head and stick your tongue out. So funny!

Asia was ecstatic after the visit. I think this is the dawn of a whole new era. It may, from this day forward, begin to feel weird for us to write to you as if you don't know the blow-by-blow yourself.

I wonder how long you got, in total, off the vent today? I wonder how long 'til you have a room that friends can visit you in? I wonder how long 'til you can read all the emails I have from your friends? I wonder how long 'til we can go dancin'?

Doing Your Bewildered Best

I've been ruminating all morning about our visit yesterday. During the first week, I began fretting over what it would be like to "wake up" and have a chunk of your life missing. After visiting with a brother who had a bit of clarity yesterday, I was so happy. Then Asia called last night to say you actually had remembered my being there. WooHoo.

See you later today my brother.

Space walk

Daddy.

Asia and I devised a plan to let me talk to you: This morning, she took her cell phone in and called me and put me on speaker phone. (Someone at Parkland's going to read this and slap us on the hand, I just know it.) I told you I loved you and I missed you and I heard you were making GREAT progress. I asked her to squeeze your hand for me. And she said you squeezed it back really good, and that you had a big smile on your face. I said love you both, told you Robin was on her way, and we ended at that.

Well I have a big smile on my face, even though I'm misty-eyed from missing you, because I said GREAT progress: You were off the vent!! You're at the point where they let you take a short space walk. Off the vent. Off the grid.

These space walks will get longer and longer until you leave that vent behind for good, Daddio.

For good.

Nonmusical Beds

Routes and procedures have become more than familiar; they are now routine. So I popped that silver button today, whish went the doors. My blue covered self went boppin’ around the reception desk when I noticed that the sliding glass doors to your room were completely closed. X-ray? With the next step it dawned on me that the room was completely EMPTY.

“Uuuuuh, my brother disappeared.” Sweet Bonnie trotted around the nurses’ station to say, “He went on another tour of the hospital today.” So second time around for new digs.
The good thing is we got in a nice long visit. Your nurse, Jeremy, said they are trying to wean you off the sedative and pain medicine. You had lots of questions today, so I untethered your hands and reminded you not to pull out any tubes. You nodded an agreement. I explained to you that you had pulled out your IV yesterday. You shook your head in amazement.

You were puzzled by the hospital gown. We talked about that. I was happy you didn’t seem to expect me to hand you your jeans and tee shirt. We talked about everything being a mystery to you at the moment and your working on putting the pieces together. When I tried your theme song, you wanted to correct my version so I decided I’d better stop.

A team of therapists came in today. The doctor had you make a fist with your right and which you emphatically did. The left fist was much looser. The doctor asked about your index finger and I explained that was an old injury. “So we won’t try to do much with that, right, Mr. Hinshaw?” He reassured us that you should regain full use of your hands. Then he gave Forrest, Asia and me a new job. Now that we aren’t concerned about fluid retention we can have you working on making a fist, folding your thumb into your palm, and folding your fingers into your palm. Yea, a new goal. He said they would work with you again on sitting up in bed and that the next step would be to help you stand a little at a time even having the ventilator. WOW. We’re making progress, Mikey.

After they left, I told you about Jessie and her pal coming in to help you sit up yesterday. I said she told me about you winking at her last week. So you practiced winking a couple times with your left eye, then with your right eye with your flirty face. It was a hoot.

Good grief, another long blog. And to think, a month ago Colleen and GerRee had to teach me what to do about blogging.

Status: Oxygen assist 40% PEEP 5 No temperature at the moment

Yea, Boo

Today is a Yea, Boo Story like the ones Bunky has told kids over the years. I’ll start with the Boo just because I need to end this episode of our now month long saga with the YEA. I need it for me. Since none of us have had a chance to chat with one of the doctors for almost a week, I was especially eager to do that today. Because you have seemed a bit more active each time your kids or I have visited with you over the past few days, I was hoping to hear that you were ready for the next step toward less and less ventilator help. I must admit that my hearing on Sunday that they had begun a new antibiotic with a lack of explanation or X-ray report gave me the desire for a Q & A with a doctor. After my visit this morning, Dr. Esteroff and two other doctors stopped by the waiting room on their way to check on you. He told me that you have a second strain of pneumonia. This time it is a drug resistant kind but today they started you on a new anti-biotic specific to those bacteria. When I sagged, he quickly said, “We are trying to get on top of this quickly so he doesn’t develop an even worse one.” He also explained that you had pulled out your “food toob” (aka feeding tube-nixed by GerRee) and they were on their way to check on the new one. They wanted to be sure it was going where it needs to be; an assessment they can make from the X-ray taken during my visit. Also, he reassured me that not only is it not uncommon for patients at this stage of recovery to pull out various tubes and IVs, it is almost the norm.
Earlier, your nurse, Robbie, had talked with me about the new toob being smaller, and he was hoping it wouldn’t irritate the back of your throat as the larger one seemed to be doing.
Robbie, what a sweetheart! He was a wealth of compassionate information. When I mentioned the IVs you had pulled out this morning, he explained that you had done fine without the wrist retrains this morning until about 10 o’clock. Then he laughed and said, “I’ve been here a number of years and this is one I haven’t seen before. It is not unusual at all for patients at the stage to pull out IVs, but he pulled this tube apart in a place I’ve never seen before.” Well, I had to laugh; surprise, surprise. He went on to say that patients who have been in ICU for more than a week have their entire bio-rhythms askew. He said they can look out the window at the noon day sunshine and think it is midnight. Every hour someone is in to suction lungs, change bags, check temperature, push buttons on machines, check tubing, turn the patient and taking all the other myriad actions to help someone heal all day and all night. It is totally disorienting.
“So you’re saying that it’s worse than jet lag?”
“Absolutely. He works with us; we’ll take care of him.”
I repeat, what a sweetheart.

Now for the YEA. I could see two ladies through the glass as I approached your room. I slipped in and eased over to the boxes of gloves.
They looked up and greeted me. We introduced ourselves. They were physical therapists. One continued working with your leg. Then Jessie said that they would come back later to help you sit up for the first time so that you could visit with your sister. “Oh, no. If that’s what you were planning to do now, please continue. How exciting! I’m so happy I’m here for this!”
So they did.
I watched with appreciation of your brave efforts and their expertise. When I told you I would be your cheerleader you grinned at me. They directed you to use your stomach muscles to help you sit up, then move first your left leg, then your hips, then your right leg. Inch by inch with their explicit directions you maneuvered your way. I got to help move tubes out of your way and then hold your hand to help you balance yourself as you edged ever closer to the edge. I told you how wonderful it was to feel you hold my hand. Finally you were there. When I realized that you were in position to look out the window, I called your attention to the trees that you could see for the first time in a month. You smiled and looked out. It was an effort to keep your balance, but Jessie counted down the 5 minutes all too soon for me, but you were relieved to get to lie down again. I marveled at your accomplishment. What a thrill for me.
After an X-ray, I got to visit with you. I gave you your daily reminder that GerRee loves you. What a smile you gave! Then, “You and me and me and you, happy together.” Smile-nodding head. Then I reminded you that the book I was about to read from was the one you read to Asia after her knee surgery. Smile again.
You leaned in for a kiss on the forehead when I let you know it was time for your bath. “See you tomorrow, brother.”
Awesome!

Status - Encouraging considering:
Oxygen assist still at 40% PEEP holding steady at 5

Return of the P-word

Oh, the things we get used to, but hate all the same.

Traffic. Bills. Taxes.

Pneumonia.

Yep. Here we go again, Daddio. But this time, that bacteria's not kicking a man when he's down. You've been rising from the mat for some time now. And though it still doesn't feel fair that you should have this weight added back to your shoulders, you know what? Screw it. That bacteria's just been floating around in that hospital, getting used to antibiotics, building tolerances to it's powers. It thinks it's so hot.

But it hasn't met you yet. And it hasn't met us.

Your PEEP is still holding at 5. Your O2 assistance is at 40% still. You're not losing ground and that is key. And Dixie's probably blogging right now about the signs of fight and light in your spirit that you've been showing these last couple of days.

I just had to post this because, as I've been sitting here with the news, stuck in my cubicle, in my office park, in a city hundreds of miles away from you, I just feel the need to re-assert: You are getting better. Every day, dammit. I wish I could squeeze your hand and kiss your face and sing you a song and read your book to you. But I know that Asia and Dixie and Forrest are doing those things. I want you to go ahead and feel your power and vitality. And even though you are tethered to save you from drugged-up dummy decisions like yanking on IV lines, Dad, feel free to get better and get the heck outta there.

I love you.

Day 30: Making plans...

Today is Day 30. Today you are officially a Dallas resident. No wonder you're trying so hard to get out of that bed!

Yesterday on the drive back to Denver, I looked out over the expanse of Texas. Its little towns with their mixture of crumbling and hanging-on and just-built buildings. The live oaks and the cottonwoods growing where they can and please, and the poplars and junipers growing in obedient lines around homesteads. The ever-present signs of oil activity and the new signs of natural gas pursuits....

From Fort Worth to Texline, I thought of you. And our road trips in Texas together. Some as a family, some with an extended family and some music equipment, some just you and me. The Big Thicket, the Davis Mountains and the Red River. Austin, Fort Davis, Mineral Wells, San Antonio, Latch, and Corpus Christi. To festivals, get-togethers, vacataions, hunts, and holiday visits. Time in any of your truck cabs was magic time. Minivans and cars were okay, too, I guess. Together was together, but all of us sitting next to one another in the truck cabs... didn't really get much better.

We crossed into Clayton, New Mexico, and I still had memories to visit with you, whether they came from our '84 adventures through West Texas, New Mexico and Colorado (when Asia was just a growing bean inside a belly), or our more recent drive last Thanksgiving.

And I couldn't help but start making plans. Places to see, drives to take. Can't wait to bounce them around with you.

Sending you thoughts of strength and endurance as you go headfirst into this next phase, getting pinched between the awareness of your situation and the annoyances of it. I cannot imagine how difficult you'll find this, but I know you can do it. You'll have Dixie and Asia and Forrest and Jeff, your friends and your wonderful nurses and doctors to help you through. And though I wish I could be there, too, I know you're in good hands. I'll be back at the end of the month and until then, I will focus on an image of you sitting in Dixie's living room and NOT of you laying in that bed.

Ain't It Funny How Time Slips Away?

Day 28. Twenty eight days in ICU?!? To think I was expressing readiness for a little of your zaniness two weeks ago. I've reminded myself over and over during this journey that it was going to be a long haul. However, on the way to the hospital on Thursday, Forrest and I couldn’t help expressing a tiny bit of impatience with the length of time we’ve spent in one sided talk. While we were there, we made an attempt at your theme song. Unfortunately, I’ve become that woman in the pew behind us in church that we used to grimace about when she sang. (You know, there was always one or more at First Church downtown when we were kids and then in the Christian church with Colleen and Jeff whose voice cracked with age.) Forrest did a great job though, and was kind when I threw him off.

I was so happy to hear that your kids got to see you make your first real joke the next evening even if it was pantomime. I got a great lift when GerRee called last night to tell me about the wonderful visit they had before their return to Colorado. She’s been Wonder Woman, Michael.

I hold on to these moments because it looks as though we’ll hit a few rough waves as you continue your slow ride into lucidness. Today when I approached your room, the nurse was completing the task of getting you settled back into place from close to the foot of the bed where you had maneuvered yourself. She said you have had enough of the place and really would like to be out of that bed. I got the stool so that I could look into your eyes. I went through the litany of reasons you are there and the reason for all the tubes. You really wanted me to do something. I checked everything and massaged every place I could find. Finally, I talked with you about the reason you need the pressure cuffs around your calves. When I reminded you that I had had to wear them to prevent blood clots when I had surgery recently, and told you that is the reason you have to have them, you nodded. I came to the realization that the cuffs are irritating you more than usual because today’s nurse is trying to help you work on the goal of reducing the sedation. She said you don’t like them and you’ve been trying to get them off. I got back on the stool to let you know I understand how frustrating all those tubes and restraints are, but that you’re going to have to get calm and get your mind in a zone to help you ride through this rough patch. I reminded you of your reading Carlos Castaneda and you nodded your head and relaxed. I tried to sing a bit but didn’t have any of our singing kids with me so that wasn’t helpful. (I do OK on our family songs, but then you want to join in.) I was glad GerRee had marked the book they’ve been reading because I read and read to you as I stroked your hair. The nurse was kind enough to let me continue long time past visiting time. We’re into the next phase, my brother, and I have to recognize that as progress.

Status: Good news} Oxygen assist 40% --WOW!! PEEP still holding steady at 5. You’re getting antibiotics for the lungs which are improving because the gunk is getting looser.

Reach out and touch face

You're coming back to Earth alot more these days. Today, you wanted to touch your face. I helped boost your elbow up so you could reach. My first thought was that you wondered how the burns have turned out. You felt your forehead, then your fingers traveled down to your right eye. I held your elbow so you could spend some time exploring your eyelashes and eyebrows. I said, "See? All better. Everything's just fine." Then you just touched your hand up to your forehead, pausing for a little while. I braced your elbow so you could just close your eyes and rest that way. After watching you do that, I decided that, sure, you were one part curious about the permanent damage (NONE!), but you were also one part just glad to be able to connect with some physical part of yourself.

Then you wanted to touch your trach. I said, "Okay, but don't you grab onto anything, Dad." I helped you lower your arm to touch it. I explained where exactly it went into your throat by pointing to my own. And told you that's why you can't really talk right now, showing you how your voicebox is above, so the air can't pass over your vocal cords right now. I helped you feel the two parts of the tubing with your fingertips.

Then you wanted to touch your "food toob." That's what I call it. I hate the sound of "feeding tube." It goes into your right nostril and down your esophogus. Yummy! And it's held in place by a little strap that goes around your head. You felt the strap and you touched the tube. I repeated my warning that you better not grab anything, "or there'll be some real drama around here." You bugged your eyes and rolled them, as if to say, "Oh, yeah. THEN the drama will start."

I laughed. You grinned.

We also attempted some written communication. You tried and I tried to make a go of it, but writing's probably a little down the ways, when maybe you've got a few less miligrams of hospital-grade smack in you. Still, it was a nice to try wasn't it? And you didn't get frustrated. I thanked you for being patient with me and you smiled.

Lee mentioned after seeing you yesterday that, in this state, you are sort of your essential self. He's right. You are kind and patient and funny. And, even on the days when you've gotten understandably agitated, you'll try to calm down when I've told you you're really worrying me. The nurses all say you're very cooperative. And, the thing is, I imagine many people, when they're in this state can be real sweethearts. They don't call it sedation for nothin'. But I am struck by how very you you actually are right now. You're not nearly as animated as you are under normal circumstances. You're just the sweet, unassuming, good person that we all love. Even when everything hurts and you're tired of being on your back and misunderstood and attached to machines and IVs and told what to do.

And you're brave. So brave.

You've been an inspiration to me these last four weeks, Daddy. What you and your dedicated doctors, nurses, and therapists have accomplished with your ongoing recovery is just stunning. And, even though I totally fell apart after leaving you this evening, and even though Mary the 29-year veteran of the BICU saw that I needed a hug and a pep talk, I really am so thankful. Thankful that tonight, I didn't leave my father hanging on for dear life in a hospital. I left him smiling, eyes closed, bopping his head and singing with me as I slowly backed out of the room.

I look forward to hearing the good reports from Dixie, Asia and Forrest. And just because I won't be there to report hard facts from the trenches anymore, doesn't mean I won't write to you.

Status: Holding at all levels: 5 mg/hr of Versed; PEEP 5; 50% O2. They continue to try different breathing intervals for you, giving your lungs every opportunity to do things for themselves. Love you.

How long?

How long is it?
This strange road you walk.
I wish I could walk it with you.
That I could scout out ahead of you
And return with news of the terrain to come.

That I could hand you a canteen full of
Cool water
Which would wash the thick spittle
Of dayindayout from your tongue,
Rinse the frustration from the corners of your mouth
And make everything go down just a bit
Easier.

I wish I could answer the incessant beeping
With the sound of freedom:
The rip of velcro as I remove
Strappy, bindy, cuffy things
From all around you.
From your wrists
Your ankles
Calf.

I wish I could skip alongside you
And listen to you sing a song
Just a touch off-key.
That I could hear the sound of your footfall
On the road,
Taking a pace you choose,
Scraping a rhythm in the dust and gravel
That is all your own.

I wish I could breathe in a little of the dust
Conjured by your journey.
That I could close my teeth on some of the grit
And feel close to you in this way.

But I scan the horizon for you.
Impatiently, faithfully.
Knowing you will crest the final hill
Soon.

Back in BICU

You're back to the hive. Back in the burn unit.

Lee saw you today (Friday) for the first time since he left and he is amazed at your progress.

Forrest, Lee and I were allowed in to see you, even though it was not the regular BICU visiting hours (Thanks, nurses!). We got caught off-guard, because we'd expected to find you in the surgical ICU, which has no regular hours. I love the BICU staff so much, but I have to say, this move back is a bit disappointing to us because you're back under restricted visitation hours. This news really made Asia sad. We're also back behind the masks. For the record, donning scrubs and masks is a thing we're so happy to do for the others who are in great, great danger of infection, just the way you were four weeks ago. I just wonder what you must think to see us looking all sterile again. Hoping you don't think something new is wrong.

Your move is nothing to do with your condition, in fact. As far as I know, you're continuing to improve, although your nurse wasn't very forthcoming with me on the phone this evening. (I know -- rules. I bet she gets a gold star.) It's just that your bed opened back up and you're officially their patient still.

But it makes me crazy. Freakin' thirty minutes. They can kiss my ass. (To any BICU staff who may read this: I know it's not your fault. I'm just frustrated because I leave to go home to Denver on Sunday and thirty minute windows was not how I pictured my last Saturday with Dad.)

But enough of my discontent.

YOU SANG ALONG TODAY!

Silently, of course. But you bobbed your head and mouthed the words. Forrest, Lee and I were delighted. You also made a joke about the incessant beeping. It was a funny face. I took you on a tour of your injuries. You seemed concerned about your lower body and I explained there's nothing wrong there. Showed you your healing hand, pointed to your shoulder and forearm burns. You looked along and nodded, nodded. And then told you the only thing keeping you in the hospital at this point is your lungs, because you inhaled a lot of smoke. You made a face like, "Uh. Tell me something I don't know!" We all laughed. I told you that you're getting better every day and said that the trach is a temporary thing. I asked if you knew that I wouldn't bullshit you and you nodded your head.

You seemed very interested in something off to your left, but we couldn't figure out what it might be. You also tried to tell us something. Make no mistake, you're not sitting there, looking all lucid, ready to talk if not for the trach. Even if we could read lips, most things you "say" could probably not be deciphered. You're likely mumbling dog face to the banana patch, to quote Lee's favorite Steve Martin line. We couldn't understand. But I was so proud of you when you did not let it agitate you that we couldn't. You're still doped up, but they've now taken you down to only 5mg/hr. That's 4mg less than yesterday. And I can only take this to mean you're doing good with staying calm. (Way to go team!)

I love you Daddio.

Kiss and tell

Earlier this week, we'd begun to enjoy a particular luxury afforded to us due to the complete recovery of your facial burns.

Kisses.

We'd never have kissed you on the forehead while your face was still healing. Fear of giving you an infection was too great. But now that your face looks like nothing more happened to you than a spa treatment, we kiss your forehead all the time. And a couple of days ago, you started raising your face to me after I'd kiss your forehead, and I realized you wanted a kiss, as Craig Barlow would say, "Right on the lips."

We are a kissing family. How nice to have this avenue of affection reopened to us. I see the look in your eyes after a kiss from one of us and you look so -- happy isn't the word, and neither is fulfilled -- peaceful? No, not quite. What's a word that describes the feeling that something which is rightfully yours and was stolen, has been restored? It is just one more thing added to your list of Can Do's: Smile, check. Kiss, check. Those two things are big parts of who you are, Daddy.

Status: O2 assistance down to 45% (they actually worked you as low as 40% today!), PEEP holding at 5. Sedative level: 2mg/hr LESS than yesterday. And you were doing great about staying calm and restoring calm after a round of coughs riled you up. You amaze me, father of mine. You and those around you who continue to hold you safe in their prayers.

Day 25: PEEP 5!

Yesterday was day 25.

And you excited us with a whole new step forward: Your PEEP is now lower than ever at 5! This has been the milestone they wanted you to get to!

If you can just hold here for a little while, and if your blood gasses show that you're taking in enough O2, exhaling enough C02, then they'll begin letting you try unassissted breathing at increasing intervals.

Also key to this process, Dad -- your being able to be calm as they take your sedative down. They've had to up your daily dose of sedative by 1mg in order to get you calmer these last few days. Your agitation leads to high blood pressure and that is counteractive to the recovery you need your lungs to make.

So everyone reading this: Let's redirect our prayers, energies, focus and thoughts. Dad's vitality is coming back. And I believe the active prayer has been a huge factor in his healing. Let us now focus on removing the uncomfortable buzz from around Dad. Calm the bursts of confusion. Ask for comfort. Tell him his desire to jump out of the bed is best served by lying still.

And breathing. Breathing. Breathing....

The Three Normalteers

Yesterday evening, all three of your kids were there, Dad. It was nice. Technically, only two are allowed in the room at a time, but thanfully, both nurses didn't bat an eye. (Thanks!) We chatted and laughed alot. We even made your experience of us completely authentic by arguing about teeny tiny matters. Basically, Dad, we showered you with utter normalcy in a bizarro world. I hope you enjoyed it as much as we did.

We couldn't tell. You were high as a kite.

You got doped up pretty good yesterday for dressing changes and such. You're fighting it more and more. Understandable. Just transfer a little of that external fight internally, to your lungs. Let's get you off that vent and out into the world.

Yesterday morning was a nice visit. I read to you. A little of the book I'm reading: The Drawing of the Three, from The Dark Tower series. I never thought I'd groove to Stephen King, but I'm digging this series. The book opens with The Gunslinger waking from a dreamlike state, slowly feeling his limbs awaken, then plunging right into battle with a strange creature. As I read it, I couldn't help but draw the parallel to how you must feel multiple times a day, every day.

Also, as of yesterday morning, I think I've figured out your leg discomfort, once and for all. You like to have pillows under your knees. It relieves the pressure on your lumbar and on your old knee injury. I've told the nurses, and I've told Asia and Forrest. And now I'm telling 396 people.

I think I'll pick up a copy of All the Pretty Horses and leave it in the room with a bookmarker so whoever comes in can pick up where the other left off.

I have to go back to Denver on Sunday.

I have recruited Lee to drive back down from Colorado to come get me. He didn't hesitate. What a champ. The second roundtrip roadtrip down to Texas in a month. I have been planning to fly back when it felt right, but now I truly believe I cannot step into an airport, then onto a plane, leaving you in that bed, on my own willpower alone.

Update: Temperature climbed a bit to 38 C. PEEP still at 10, O2 assistance still at the low, low rate of 50%, which is good. Keep up the good work, Dad.

My foot, #*@*&!.

You've begun to really try to talk. But between the trach and the sedative, it's very hard for you. I so wish I could read lips, Daddio. The only thing harder than watching your face as you're trying to make yourself understood is watching your face turn to defeat when we don't get it. It won't always be like this. But right now, it really sucks. You can't tell us, simply, "I love you." Or, "My lower back hurts, help me shift positions."

But sometimes we understand you. Earlier this morning, I managed to understand the words, "Help me. My foot." Aha! Which one? You shook your left foot. Even the nurse saw that. Aha! Great! Um, what do you want me to do, though? I rubbed it, scratched it, and then finally decided to follow your example. When you move your feet around, you lift your leg high off the bed, so I held it at that height a while. I thought maybe you wanted some relief on your lower back. It wouldn't surprise me, lying there for 23 days straight. I couldn't tell if this was what you really wanted of if you were just ready to give up on trying so you wouldn't have to watch me hold your limbs in the air for no apparent reason anymore.

Tonight, Asia and I saw you say the same thing, and so I lifted your foot up, then propped it up, then we put a pillow under your knee. That seemed to comfort you quite a bit, as you didn't mention it again, really.

We think we saw you mouth a few other things today: "Brother," which we took to mean "Where's your brother?" I explained that he'd been there to see you, but wasn't there now. Then we think you said "pick up" and "airport." We recalled that it had been you who was to have picked Forrest up upon his return from Italy. And we assured you that he was fine, he's back, and he's got stories for you. Then you seemed to be worried about the house. This was something we really didn't want you worrying about, and you were starting to get pretty upset, so we headed out.

But somewhere in there, when the nurse was cleaning out the IV line in your foot (or doing something that stings or bugs you) he told you to relax your foot, and you, being agitated as you were starting to get, didn't want any part of it right then. And when he squeezed his syringe, you made a face and Asia and I will swear that you were aggravated enough by the sting to say, "motherf*cker." Asia and I had been in the process of speaking out loud to each other whatever word we thought your lips were forming, so we both said it. We gasped when we realized what we'd said and looked at each other and then laughed. The nurse laughed, too. And you smiled.

We all needed that.

Update: Your PEEP is back to 10, but your O2 assistance is still on the lower setting of 50%. You get breathing therapies every four hours and you are coughing that stuff out of there regularly. You're making progress, Dad. Little by little. Bit by bit.

Bath Time

It didn't take me long to negotiate the new maze to your new room; GerRee gave me good directions last night. However, when I walked through the double doors of the new ICU, everything was a mystery. I walked in circles for a minute looking for your room. When I found it, I saw that the curtain was pulled around your bed. I peeked around the curtain. There was a new nurse, Stacie, to introduce myself to.
"Mike Hinshaw?" Confirmation.
"Give me about 10 minutes." No problem, of course.

As I stood against the wall, I realized that a male nurse was working with her to accomplish some task for you. Then I saw her rinse and ring out a wash rag. Ahh, bath time. "I'm going to wash you eyes now," she informed you. As they talked with you and with each other, I would hear them laugh. That made me feel good because I figured it reassured you. This family likes to laugh. Then I heard Stacie say, "Stop, Michael." Uh, oh. I knew what that meant. You were most likely trying to get out of bed. I was glad to hear her call you by your first name.

She pulled the curtain open and said I could come in. As I climbed up on the stool, your eyes were scanning the ceiling. Stacie told me that you weren't very happy with her right then. I asked about the Xrays. You're holding steady on all the things we've learned to check, and your temperature has been normal for another 24 hours.

"Hi, Michael, you can see who I am today. I don't have to wear a mask or hair cover." You were trying to get out of bed, lifting as much of your shoulders off the bed as possible, your arms were waving, and your legs were elevated. She was correct; you weren't just agitated, you were aggravated. "They just gave you a bath. I'll bet that was very uncomfortable." I told you over and over who I was and why you shouldn't try to get out of bed. You became calmer, but still wouldn't really look at me and didn't recognize me. The nurse and I talked for a minute about your day to day habit of pacing and seldom being still. She left and returned with some Lasix which is the medication that helps your body get rid of the extra fluid your lungs and body are retaining. She told you that she was turning out the light so you could get some rest. I climbed off the stool, held your hand and began to hum. You closed your eyes, but you were a bit fidgety for a while. I moved from one hand to the other holding your hand and humming until eventually you opened your eyes enough to look right at me, gave me a smile of recognition finally and went to sleep.

New digs and a long blog

You are no longer in the Burn ICU. Between the time we saw you this morning and my visit tonight, someone had come in who needed that bed more than you. I pray for that new person and his or her family. I know how it felt three weeks ago to be wondering with desperation what might lie ahead of you.

So, you're now in the Surgical ICU. Your burns still need careful tending to, but you're no longer at the high level of risk of general infection. Your lungs continue to be the thing, and they can see to your breathing therapies just as well in the SICU as in the BICU. Still, it was a little sad for me to walk to the room we've come to associate with your getting better and be told you were no longer there. I was pleasantly informed of your new location. "You won't need these things there!" said the nurse, referring to the gown, mask, and hair cap. Cool! Yet, as I turned to go, I felt a strange tug at my heart. These folks have been with you through all of it, and they've been with us, too. I felt understood there. I'd grown accustomed to the ritual of suiting up. Dressing for battle. On my way out, it was sort of odd to realize, "Oh. I won't be back here." So I just sort of called out, "Bye! Thank you!" Heh. What a loon.

Here are some bonuses about your new room:

1. You can see trees outside of your window because you're only on the 2nd floor now.
2. We don't have to wear masks, caps, or gowns, so you can see your visitors' full faces.
3. It seems quieter, although I can't be sure, since I was there in the evening and it's Sunday.

Tonight, I was telling you about your new location, pointing out that you now had trees in your view. And I think it kind of got you wondering about stuff in general, because a little later, you began trying to take in all of the room. I reminded you that, yes, it was a different room. Then your eyes lighted on your rolling rack of IV drips and pumps. And you sort of pointed at them with your eyes, staring at it very intently, as if to say, "And these? What the heck is all this mess?" I pointed out each bag or pump and told you what each was for, so you'd know they weren't treating you for anything more frightening that what's actually going on.

We've decided that we should probably remind you each time we visit with you, that the reason you feel like you can't move your legs and arms is simply because your're sedated. Which is funny to say, since how sedated can you be if you're looking right at us when we tell you this? But your body and your thought processes are definitely groggy. And I think you get worried that there's something wrong with your motor functions. I've begun to reflect on how the nurses have said they've asked you to wiggle your toes and you've obliged them. And, the more I think about it, the more I think "Can you wiggle your toes?" would conjure up notions of paralysis for me, if I were groggy and lying in a hospital bed. I think it might do the same for you. Nope. You're burned badly in places and your lungs are still trying to recover from smoke inhalation. That's "all."

You tried to shift your position in the bed this evening. This is a an exercise in patience for both you and whoever's standing with you at the time. We don't like to see you struggle, and we're pretty sure you shouldn't be getting all riled up. But then, if we just step back and look at what you're trying to do, it usually makes sense to us and we try to help. And so tonight, I leaned in to you and said, "Dad. Are you trying to sit up?" And you paused and looked at me and nodded. And I told you that I didn't know if we could get you up more, but that I'd go get some help. And then you sort of shook your head "no." So, I paused for a second. Then you got to moving again, and I said, "Dad. Do you want to be in a more comfortable position?" And you nodded. So I told you to sit tight for a second and I'd get some help with that. And you lay still while I went for the nurse. I explained to him that I thought you'd like to get in a more upright position, as you had sort of slid a bit to the right. He said there's probably not a position for you that's truly comfortable. I replied that I think the most important thing for your comfort right now is that you feel that you can communicate what you need and see that we're trying to listen to you.

He cheerfully obliged. Much to my relief. I don't want to get labeled by the staff as a fussbucket. I know they do this all the time and I've done this a grand total of none, zip, zilcho times. But Dixie and I both feel the same way about this point. We think if anything will freak you out, it will be the inability to communciate. And move, of course, which we've already decided we'll address every visit.

You like getting your songs. Tonight, when I said I guessed it was time for your lullaby, you smiled at me, turned your face up to the ceiling, and closed your eyes as if to say, "Alrighty then. I'm ready." I began to sing "Close your eyes," but then I noticed you were getting a little sad with those lyrics. (More proof that you're more aware these days. They get to me sometimes, too.) So I stopped abruptly and said, "Eh. I'm stopping that one." And your eyes flew open and you seemed a little startled. You looked at me and I said, "That one's a little too melancholy for our mood tonight. I think you need a happier song to end this day." So, you smiled, prepped again, turning your face back up, and closed your eyes. And I sang the song Mom reminded me that you'd sung to me when I was a baby. The one Dixie has come to think of as your theme song:

Imagine me and you, I do
I think about you day and night, it's onlyright
To think about the girl you love and hold her tight
So happy together

If I should call you up, invest a dime
And you say you belong to me and ease my mind
Imagine how the world could be, so very fine
So happy together

I can't see me lovin' nobody but you
For all my life
When you're with me, baby the skies'll be blue
For all my life

Me and you and you and me
No matter how they tossed the dice, it had to be
The only one for me is you, and you for me
So happy together

Singing to you. Asia, Forrest and I do it. Dixie does it. Colleen did when she was here, and Jeff can't wait to be allowed into the room with his guitar. It sure helps me to know there is still this one thing we can give you that, most of the time, zaps right through the fuzz and white noise of the sedatives and anchors you. Although, Dixie is convinced that the other day, when she sang a particular family song to you, you tried to dance to it. So she took it down a notch and hummed a random tune.

Enjoy the new room, Daddio. I'll see you in the morning.

Update: No fever, all else is status quo.

That tube

Without divulging too much information to your adoring public, we'll just say that, although you must have a tube to help your lungs recover, there are certain places you do not like to have tubes. Not one little bit. And yesterday and today, you've let us know about it as best as you could. Well, Daddy, your nurses heard you loud and clear.

So, it is our great pleasure to inform you:
That
tube
is
gone.

End of day update: PEEP 8, O2 assistance 50%; chest x-rays revealed: IMPROVEMENT! And for that accomplishment, they're going to work your settings on the vent all night in an attempt to begin weaning you off of it. (This will be a gradual process. It will not all happen overnight.) We're keeping our fingers crossed for a good report in the morning.

Riding tough

Dad, you're continuing to improve. They took your O2 assistance down to 50%. I think you're getting some breathing therapies. They may move it back up, but they're asking more of your lungs and I believe your lungs are trying to deliver.

As your vitality returns, and as the sedative begins to have less effect, you're beginning to experience some of the discomfort inherent in having tubes and needles in you. This sucks. For you. For us. There's nothing I'd love more than to yank all that crap out of you, undo the brakes on the bed and wheel you out of there like some sort of jailbreak. But, we'd soon see the error of our ways, wouldn't we? Your lungs would tell you quickly what a hairbrained scheme that was.

It's difficult. Dixie and I have both had experiences in which you've communicated your discomfort. You'll move your legs quite a bit, lifting them off the bed and it makes me nervous because you've got some IV action going in your feet. Fortunately, Dixie was successful in getting some resolution yesterday to one source of your discomfort. (She will have to tell you this story. It's a good one. But probably one reserved for private laughs.) But this morning, when Mom and I were there, you were definitely bothered by something again. And I have no idea if you're reacting to the general set of circumstances or something specific that we can't see. I looked to see if the same thing was wrong as when Dixie had been there, but it was not. I brought your nurse in, too, to take a look. I hope you know we're not content to see you struggle and that we (and your nurses) are trying to make you as comfortable as possible.

But this is temporary. This, too, shall pass. You're a champion survivor. And although it's rough to see you struggle like this, we've been given the blessing of witnessing your return to the living. I will just keep that in mind. You don't have to like the tubes. You don't have to lie there, all zonked out. And when you're aware, you don't have to be stoic about it, like there's a camera rolling somewhere. Like you're the hero who lies still through the pain, blinking in morse code to tell us where the bomb's been planted.

You're the hero, Daddy, but you're a buckaroo. So you just dig in your spurs and ride the bronc and we'll do our best to make sure everything that can be done for your comfort is being done.

I love you.

Contact

Oh happy day! Contact.
When I came in today, you were looking all around the ceiling. I climbed upon the little stool GerRee got put back into your room last night. I looked into your eyes and there was Miquelito! I talked with you a minute and you smiled right at me. I talked with you a bit about the reason you were in the hospital and how wonderful your doctors and nurses are and how wonderful your kids are and got three more smiles!
Not only that, Dr. Esteroff indicated no grafts, but I'm going to wait until someone hears what I think I heard before I count on it.
What a wonderful day, Michael.

Day 20: Sedation and a smile

We understand that your unconsciousness is not a problem, per se. And that, in fact, it has been very helpful for you, as horribly uncomfortable necessities have been brought to bear on your body. Debridement, the HFPV, and high-pressure ventilation are all no picnics.

Still, as much as we tell ourselves that fact, twenty days is a long time for us to go without hearing your voice or seeing your smile. I've often had to content myself with only hearing your voice over the telephone, but nearly 10 years in Denver have strengthened me for that. Asia and Forrest and all the rest are going cold turkey, here.

When you first began to open your blue eyes, and your body seemed to at least let the shutters up and some light in from time to time, that was magical for us. You weren't fixing on much. Your face would register some thought that might flit up above the clouds from time to time -- a furrowing of the brow here, an attempt to move your lips, maybe a shuffling of your legs. I tell you this not to disturb you, Dad. Because I know as you read this, some of it surely will. I tell you this so you know that, although you have been laid out on that damn bed, had your consciousness veiled for all these weeks, you have not been lost to us. You have existed. We (all of us, family, friends, nurses, therapists, and sympathetic strangers alike) have thought of you, prayed for you, cared for you, visited you, stroked your hair, sung to you and held your hand every day. These days are not days you would have wanted to be aware. I hope to God you do not recall a second, especially the earliest days. But you existed. Held in love the whole time.

But back to your consciousness. Our experience of it anyway.

Lately, you have begun to track things with your eyes. I think there are fleeting moments in which you try to focus past the abrasions (you no longer have goop sitting on your corneas all the time). Today, as I stood on my stepstool at your bedside (that bed is so high!) working your fingers -- yes, mooooo -- and talking to you, telling you that the reason you can't move very well is because of your sedative and nothing else, I saw you try to get a fix on me. At least I thought so. And I moved my face back thinking you might not be able to focus on me as close as I was. But that moment passed. Followed by some shared silence, a song or two. And then, just as I was about to leave, you opened your eyes again, and I leaned in really close, placed my arm to encircle the left side of your face and head, and you turned toward me. I watched your eyes chart their way in an arc across the distance between some point straight up on the ceiling and my eyes. And you stopped. And I smiled at you, real big so you could see it despite the mask, and said, "Hey there. I sure love you." And you gave me the biggest gift you've ever given me.

You smiled.

And it was not fleeting. And it was not a random grimace. And it was not gas. It was you, telling me this time. That everything will be okay.

Stats: PEEP holding at 8 (they want you to get to 5), O2 assistance at 60%, pulse ox 97%, and temp: 37.3 C (that's 99 F). BOO-YAH! They may begin bringing your sedative levels down if you'll tolerate it.

Cheering Visit

What a bright smile from your nurse this evening! Bonnie had some notes of cheer for us. The first thing we noticed was 37.5 C temperature! GerRee and I could not contain a hearty, “Hooray!” We haven’t seen 37s in days. You got some blood yesterday; that has helped your ability to carry oxygen to help in the healing. Your peep number has gone down to 8; another plus for you. Yeah!
I sang one of Mama’s songs for you again this evening. We always think of Daddy being the one who sang. But Mama had a couple to add to the family sing-alongs.

I see the moon, the moon sees me,
Shining out from under the old oak tree,
God bless the moon that shines on me,
Shine on the one I love.

GerRee sang the song I’ve come to think of as your theme song.

You’re on the mend! I love you.

But enough about that - what's up with your eye??

It's so absurd. To have been on pins and needles about the pneumonia, your fever, your trach, your ventilator... and finally, as all of that worry has reached a plateau for now, we've begun noticing other things.

Like your left eye. The bottom white of your eye is... puffing out along the bottom of your eyelid. And we've noticed it before, but then we were a bit swept up in worrying about your lungs. The night of the fire, your eyes suffered corneal abrasions. They've been treating it steadily and your corneas have all but cleared up. But you've got scleral edema, and now, since your lungs are starting to show steady improvement, we're back to worrying about it.

I consider this a success. Picking up where we left off before the 'P' word.

So there you are, a man who's escaped an inferno (with the help of the heroes at Station 19, thankyouverymuch); a man who's not only fighting his way through smoke inhalation injuries, but pneumonia, too; a man who's faced challenges at the cellular level, what with all the toxins that absorbed into his bloodstream. And here's Asia and me: Ick. What's wrong with his eye?

I don't know, Daddy. Is an eye trivial? I don't think so. I really want you to have healthy eyes. Just because you seem to be back from the brink doesn't mean we don't want as much of you as healthy as possible. We're grateful for every blessing that has come and still, we'll continue to ask for a healing of all your wounds.

We're glad for every new day, every new triumph, every new ick factor that shows us we're starting to surmount the life or death situations and notice a little scleral edema here and there.

End of day update: Temperature: 38.3 C; Oxygen assistance: 50%; PEEP: 10. Very, very good. Now, let's start bringing down the PEEP number, Daddio.

Heyya, Unc.

Yeah. Hi. Um...This is Sammee.

And, I won't have any up-date on how you're doing. I am one tiny cog in this massive (and amazing, have people mentioned that lately?) clock we call family. And I'm not even a working one, haha. But it sounds like you are doing well and I just wanted to say something since you can't exactly respond to me right now. And since I can't come visit you every day. And talk to you and stuff.

So, this won't be an amazing post, with amazing inspirational goo (don't get me wrong, the goo is awesome) that makes people's hearts melt, or anything like that. This is just...me talking.

I hear talk that your trach (I'm adopting the nick-names, if that's all right) went well and that you look more comfortable. Well, I don't know how comfortable I'd be in that state...I think I would be kickin' and screamin'...But, I guess that's one reason for the heavy sedative, right?
Right.

Nonetheless, it's good to know that it did go well and that you at least look more comfy.

So, uh, I guess I'll end my talking here. Love you . <3

Just so you know...

A tracheostomy is not a permanent thing.

The scar, well. That is permanent. But, your left arm, shoulders and back kinda beat this little circular scar you'll have all to heck.

And they have milestones for you to hit. (Which might piss you off a bit. I don't think you've ever been on a "performance plan" before.) Right now you're given pressure control assistance on the ventilator. As the pneumonia clears and your lungs strengthen, though, you will be given less and less assistance. And finally, no trach.

And this could happen over the course of a few or several weeks, but it's going to happen.

Do not look a gift horse in the hole in the throat

It is done.

And it is good.

You look infinitely more comfortable, Dad. I thought I would be really ooged out about seeing the tracheostomy and the tube going into it, the whole bit.

But, instead, I saw your face without all the straps and tape digging into your cheeks and the corners of your mouth. I saw your lips, without gauze on them to ease the bleeding from the blisters caused by the rubbing of the tube.

I saw you. And not the apparatus.

And it is good.

They've been taking chest X-rays every night since the pneumonia reared its ugly head. And guess what? Last night's film, for the first time ever, showed enough progress that Dr. Esterhoff felt it worthy of mentioning. Apparently, there was a teeny bit of progress the night before, but they must be cautious, I imagine, about telling families of improvement until it seems like a real trend. So, today, we got to hear the good news: your lungs definitely show receding gunk.

And it is good.

Also, we've been told that sometimes, some fire smoke inhalation patients, for reasons they cannot quite explain, improve at an accelerated rate after undergoing a tracheotomy and then getting to breathe through the tracheostomy. (Do you like my context clues? I, too was confused about the difference between the two words.) The doctor told us about this phenomenon, because apparently, loved ones, after consenting to a hole in the throat because they've been told it's necessary for lengthy ventilation, tend to question having given their green light for the surgery when suddenly, the patient is off the vent in days instead of weeks.

And Dixie, Mom (Liz) and I all looked at each other and I said, "Well, you will never hear us complain that Dad got better faster!" Later, when relaying the day's conversations to Asia, I joked, "We will not look a gift horse in the hole in the throat."

She laughed.

It is good, Dad. Today is a good day.

Day fifteen: Preferred guest status

Tomorrow, you're getting a tracheotomy.

Aw, for crying out loud.

The hospital called Asia all casual-like, about "the surgery" tomorrow, asking her about your history with anaesthesia, do you have any allergies, blah, blah, blah, and she said, "WHAT surgery?"

We seriously didn't know anything about it. When I called back after talking with Asia, your nurse Gill said that, yep, it probably seemed pretty sudden because they kind of make the call and then, boom. An anaesthesiologist is calling you.

So, why a tracheotomy? Basically, Daddio, it's a function of how long your lungs are still going to need help. You're not over your pneumonia yet, so it's sure those lungs need assistance for as long as that takes to clear, plus however much longer they need just to get strong again. Clearly, you still need the ventilator.

Okay. Well, right now, the ventilator tube is attached to a tube that goes in your mouth, past your teeth, over your tongue, and down your throat. It is taped and tied into place, with stuff that digs into sides of your mouth, sometimes causing you to bleed. And every time they need to get down there, or if something slips (as it now has, causing a cuff leak, which is making this noise that I know must be driving you crazy) they have to wiggle and shove and your airways swell, and, ugh. Dad. It's friggin' uncomfortable. And it's one thing to put up with a situation like that for two weeks. But two or four or six more?

Basically, Dad, you can consider the tracheotomy an amenity the hospital provides for "preferred" guests who need the ventilator and have been invited to stay longer than two weeks.

How's that? Perfectly pukey? Me, too. I know that you would hate this. But given the alternative, we are all for it. The tube situation now is one that is like breathing through a straw, I'm told. And the new situation for you will be one in which you can breathe much easier and more comfortably.

So, why wouldn't they just do this from the get-go? If you only needed the ventilator for two weeks and they were able to begin weaning you off in order to extubate, then it would've been a needless surgery.

Tracheotomy.

That word and all the other words that have crept into my vocabulary can all go piss up a rope. I have even, much to my chagrin, begun to shorten them. "They're going to trach him." "He'll be on the vent for a while." Getting the hang of a subculture's lingo means you either want to be a part of it, or have accepted that you are. Like my use of corporate lingo, when I say things like, "moving forward," "add value," or "net net." Eek.

But you continue to improve. With a temperature of 38.3 when we left this evening, I am encouraged.

I thought on the way home about how you decorate the Christmas tree. When I was younger, I remember wanting to get right to the ornaments. They were so beautiful, all those antiques of Mimi's and Boppa's, and I wanted to put them on as soon as possible. Especially the ones that had the little fan inside. "Well, first we have to get the lights on. Or there'll be no heat to rise up into that ornament and turn the fan." Great. Let's get the lights on then! "Well, first, let's wrap this string of lights around the trunk."

Uh. Huh?

But, you'd get to it. And patiently twirl a string of small white lights 'round and 'round in the innermost parts of the tree. All that rustling in there would get the pine smell going in the living room. I'd begin to relax. One of us would be steadily feeding you the string of lights.

And I'd be glad that it was taking so long. Because maybe there was hot chocolate, or there'd be music playing, or we'd all be chatting. The moment was lasting. It was becoming a memory and not just a happening. Soon enough, the trunk was wrapped, and we'd graduate to weaving lights onto the branches like normal people do. Then, maybe garland. But finally, it was time for the ornaments.

And oh, how many places we had to hang all of those ornaments! Because you had lit the interior of the tree, there was a whole other world in there to decorate. Little havens, settings for perfect vignettes created by the criss-crossing of pine needles and branches. It was illuminated from the inside out. No matter where we chose to put an ornament, it was assured to take on the glint of Christmas magic and reflect the warmth of a tree decorated together and carefully. Thoughtfully.

Somewhere, deep inside, you are wrapping lights around the trunk. And I promise, from this day forward, to stop worrying about the ornaments for right now. To hang on, give you time while you heal in deeper places than any of us can see or even know. And no matter what you are decorated with when this is all said and done -- new skin or new scars, working or impaired lungs -- they will all have a place. As you, too, will be illuminated from the inside out.

We will just keep feeding you the light.

Seven Degrees of Kevin Bacon

Talk about Seven Degrees of Kevin Bacon! Forrest and I tried to estimate the number of people praying for you, Michael. We gave up, but know it is hundreds and hundreds because with friends all over the world, the life force has grown exponentially.
So, hey, kiddo, when have you ever taken a two week vacation? I mean, really, you’re even getting your nutrients without chewing. So I’m thinking this Cipro should be making some good things happen in those lungs and it will be time for you to start doing your own breathing again soon.
Sister

Status Quo+

Your burns continue to improve. Your nurse yesterday said that she really thinks they look good and thinks it's really possible they won't have to do skin grafts. Wouldn't that be great? This is not an official prognosis, by any means, but it's nice to hear.

Your fever has begun to ride on the lower side of things. When Forrest and I were there yesterday, you were at 38.7, and by the evening, you were at 38.6. (101.4 F). Also, your O2 assistance was at 60%, and your pulse ox at 97%. That makes me happy. Less assistance, decent pulse ox.

I'll get to see you again at 11. I am hopeful.

Love you.

Ripple Effect

Just so you know, this has effected so many people. The news of your story has caused most of my friends to review their home owner's insurance policies. It inspired my husband to buy new fire extinguishers and change the batteries in our smoke detectors. You are causing others to change what they take for granted.

I keep seeing you in my mind sitting in that sound booth at Skippy's. You were always smiling up there. I imagine that right now you are somewhere floating around, looking down on the show again. It must be confusing and I am sure you are desperately trying to find the damn soundboard and gain some control of this mess on stage. Just give the doctors and nurses a little more time. I know that the bass is too low and you can't quite make out the vocals yet, but the mixer will be back in your hands any minute. I promise.

Give me the OTHER fingers!

Dixie and I saw the fingers on your other hand today. They have allowed them into the open air, with much medicinal goop slathered on them. But there they were. In all their healing glory.

Wow.

It was thrilling. Everytime we see a little more of you come out from behind those bandages, it's like getting to unwrap a gift.

And Dixie got to see your blue eyes for the first time since before all of this mess. Somehow, she'd missed all the times your eyes would open. When you open your eyes, you're still sedated. So it's not like you're fixing on anything. But I can't tell you what a comfort it is to see those cool blue pools of Hinshaw.

Also, Joan said your lung gunk is not gross. Now, let's be honest. I mean, not that we've seen it, but... of course it's gross. Still, this is a woman who sees a lot of lung gunk. And she said yours isn't nasty. And that no more ash seems to be present. And that is of great comfort to us, as we imagine less gunk in there, more air, more active alveoli.

Now, if we can just get that fever down and get your lungs to absorb more oxygen on their own...

Jeff is so right. We are all one soul. Breathing together.

This is your nephew talking

I've come to see you twice over the last week and a half, the last time last Thursday. You look a damn sight better than you did a week ago. A lot of the general redness is gone and the scars on your skin are darkening and hardening. You're going to have to go through some skin grafting on the backs of your shoulders, which is gonna suck. As I understand it, the only way to do it is to take patches of skin off your legs. They'll also have to put you in hot baths to scrub away the dead burned skin. That will suck worse.

This is nothing you can't handle.

Your fever was down to thirty-something Celcius- I made the nurse translate it into American for me: 102 F. They have you on Vancomyacin, which means you have a staphylococcus infection. All you have to do is beat this one off and you'll be smiling crooked at your amazing kids again in no time.

You have lots of help out here. Everyone can't wait to hear your voice again, see you laugh again, feel the strength from your words and your arms.

As many in our family know, I am an atheist. I do not believe that human beings have souls. I think that what most people call their "soul" is really their own sentience. I still pray though, and I have wondered why.

Recently, my good friend Chad Clemens' father died. He didn't die right away, he had a heart attack and died about a week or so later. Going through that, I was overcome with powerful emotions that I couldn't explain entirely. I didn't know Harry all that well, but watching Chad lose him taught me this: I am infinitely more prepared to die myself than I am to lose someone that close to me.

As I write this, and as I pray upon you, I can feel the others out there with me. I now know that we do not have souls. We have one soul. One soul that we share with humanity. Under the trees there is one root. Beneath the water there is one breath. Behind the egos there is one soul.

We stand together, Micheal, and we call to you to come back to us. We are not ready for your light to pass on. We want your love with us a little while longer. You must see, again, how amazing your children have become.

This is your nephew talking. You can do this. I have faith.

One, two, three, four... one hundred and ninety-one

Today has been a day of counting. Well, that's really nothing special. I guess counting's been an inherent activity in all of this. But today I've noticed. Today I've purposely counted.

I've counted the number of days since I last heard your voice: 17.
The number of days you've been in the hospital: 12
The number of hawks I've seen flying over the highway, either on my way to or away from a visit with you: 3
The tenths of degrees that your temperature has dropped today: 6 (from 39.6 to 39.0)
The percentage that your O2 assistance has increased: 20 (from 50% to 70%)
The percentage points your pulse ox has increased: 4 (from 93 to 97)
The number of your nurses I've met so far: 8
The number of your doctors I've met so far: 2
The number of steps I take from the double doors of the BICU to your room: 40
The number of gloves I go through in a visit: 4 (Sorry. They'll probably bill you for those, huh?)
The number of people who read this blog, keenly interested in your recovery: 191

One hundred and ninety-one people.

I imagine some of them know you, some do not. Most of them are probably your dear friends. And some are mine, some are Dixie's, Asia's, Forrest's, Colleen's, Mom's, Tricia's, Lee's... They all care about how you're faring. They are sending you the love, prayers, hope, belief, strength that you'll need in order to get through this.

I keep thinking there'll be a point when I'll feel silly for having worried so much about you. When it will seem, looking back over these days, that it was so obvious that you were going to get better. I long for that moment.

I hope I don't sound too depressive. You are going to get better. I believe that. It's just that, right now, as I close my eyes and picture your crooked smile, or the way your eyes squint hard when something has touched you deeply and you're about to cry, or the expression on your face when you're describing a delicious meal you ate (or a striking woman you saw. Yep. Same face.), I just miss you so much and the fact that there's any risk at all that I won't get to see all of this again just makes me climb the walls.

You are right here, with us, and for that I am so glad. (Grateful is the word, but I don't want to continue using it, for fear I'll lose bearings on the meaning.) You are right here with us, Daddy, but oh, how I miss you.

Dear Lungs,
Thank you for your heroic efforts these last twelve days.
You took the biggest hit, we know.
And it's nothing short of sheer selfishness on our part,
totally rude, in fact, of us to ask you,
out of all the organs in that body,
to be doing the lion's share of the work.
Rude, indeed.
But ask you we must. Beg you, even.
To work.
In.
Out.
Expand.
Contract.
Absorb.
Transfer.
Breathe.
Exhale.

Alveolar miracles.
That's what we're asking for.

Yours truly,
One hundred and ninety one people

Dressing for battle

As I donned the blue garb today, an image of Lee Marvin getting dressed for battle in Cat Ballou popped into my mind. I have no idea the reason. Things are looking up today so I must be ready for some comedy. I can’t even remember what the story line of the movie is, but remember that funny scene.

It is required, and we feel we must protect you from anymore yucky bugs as you wage this battle against pneumonia. After visiting with you, I feel you are making progress. Having specific antibiotics directly working on specific bacteria must be making a difference. Your oxygen level is acceptable and so is the temperature. X-rays of your lungs will be taken tonight so we will have more information on Thursday. I just have the feeling that they will tell us progress is being made.

We appreciate so many people tuning into the force and many people praying to help you heal.

Sister

Give me the finger

Dearest Dad,

As you will have read, if you're reading these in order, a few days ago, the PT gave us an assignment to massage your fingers to reduce the swelling. I love it. It gives me a little job to do when I'm there talking or singing to you.

But you may hate it.

I can't tell. You're still under deep sedative, and your responses, when they come, are mostly limited to eyebrow raising and a little shrug action that you do sometimes.

When you respond in this way, you could be thinking, "Oh, thank you, that feels great. I love you, sugar."

Or, you could be thinking, "Would you STOP that?? You are driving me NUTS! Everytime I hear you come in the room, GerRee, I think, Oh great. She's here to milk me. Moooooo. I can't wait to get this thing out of my throat and tell you to cut it out!"

I can't wait for you to, either, Dad! Bring. It. On.

End of day update: Only 50% oxygen mix from your ventilator and your pulse ox was at 100%. And the doctor said he's quite pleased with the progress of your burns. You're doing so good.

The 'P' word

Yesterday, your cultures finally came back. So, now they know that, yes, you have an infection in your lungs that is causing pneumonia and they also know what specific bacteria they are fighting. So they're bringing out the "biggest guns we have," according to the doctor, for your antibiotics.

Pneumonia.

I said it over and over again in the car last night so I could stop freaking out about it.

Then I went straight to Robin's for some perspective.

All these days, we've been singing or talking to you, telling you who all has written or called, what they've said, how much they love you. I haven't wanted to be specific about your condition because I didn't want to have a lot of medical terms just swimming around in your head, untethered. But last night, after getting the diagnosis from the doc, I went back into your room, changed into a new set of gloves, stroked your hair and tried to imagine the tone of voice you would strike with me in the same situation. Then, I leaned in real close to you and imagined piercing through the sedation and said, as clearly as I could from behind the mask, "Hey there, Daddy. Here's the deal: You've got pneumonia. Tell your body to focus on those lungs. Get it out of there. And I know you're exhausted. And I know this has been the most bizarre ten days of your life. And all this time, we've been encouraging you to rest while the team did what they needed to do. But you're up. It's your turn now and you've got some work to do. I love you, you can do this."

The antibiotics seem to be having their effect. I called before going to bed last night and your nurse said your fever was down. And this morning at 6, it was down to 38.7 C, and by the time Asia saw you at 8, it was 38.5 C. That's equal to 101.3 F.

Ever so much better than 104.

Also, your oxygen assistance was at 80 percent yesterday, and by this morning, the assistance was down to 60 percent. Good. Good.

So, now, I'm saying another 'P' word over and over in my head

Progress.

From your sister

It's still Tuesday, Day 10. I think today's been tough on everyone. It's simply absurd that you're not up, telling the story, charming your doctors and nurses.

Here's what Dixie wrote to you about today. (Notice that she has the correct spelling of Gill's name. I've been spelling it "Jill."):

As I've approached the exit to Parkland the last few days, I have been struck with familiarity. You know your sister - coming to the hospital the first few times I approached the route down Motor St. with great temerity. Then a decision about where to park had to be made. After finding a parking place I rushed to figure out how to get to you, not even thinking to be sure I could find the car upon my return or even planning the way back into the garage. Next came a maze of halls and elevator alcoves to decipher and negotiate. Now, that whole process has become familiar enough to begin to be muscle memory.

After a week, I'm now remembering to tuck my hair up into the hair covering before washing my hands. I walk over to the rack for the gown to cover my body and walk back toward the shelves as I'm tying up the neck so that not a moment is wasted in preparation to check on you, my brother. Last, my hand reaches easily towards the correct box for the mask as I remember that first morning of panic when Asia showed me this foreign procedure. Today, I heard a small child crying as I pushed the silver release button that opens the double doors and wondered about the challenge that a child and her or his family must be facing. I look into a woman's eyes above a blue mask and wonder if she is the mother who has to go to that cry.

Nurse Angela doesn't have any answers about your infection or about your back, not having seen it yet, but says she will find out. It's been more than eight days since any of us has heard your voice, made eye contact with you, or felt you return pressure as we hold your fingers. I find a place on your leg or arm and try to send streams of love through my hand into you, hoping it reaches your inner receptors.

For so many days, I was filled only with gratitude for the miracle of your being alive. Now I'm having to accept that we're dependent upon machines and drugs to complete the miracle, and I'm feeling frustrated and impatient. I'm feeling guilty about this new phase of feelings.

Then I remind myself that Angela and Gill and Lizzie and Dr. Esteroff and many others on that amazing team are a caring group of professional people helping you as well as others to heal.

On my way out, I realize I don't like the idea that I'm becoming familiar with these routes and routines.

I'll see you again this evening, Dad. And the doc. I think Asia will be joining us.

We love you.

Up and down, up and down

Your fever has climbed today to just over 40 degrees Celsius. That's 104 degrees Farenheit.

But your nurse says it's starting to come back down. I've scheduled some time specifically to talk to the doctor this evening.

You can do this.

There were a few days last week when I kept thinking, That is so weird. Sometimes his face will just bleed in spots I didn't even think were burned. Turns out, they shave you periodically. In fact, they brush your teeth, too. Dixie quoted your nurse as saying, "No excuse not to shave and brush teeth."

If they can do that, if those things are still important... Dixie and I really were touched by that for some reason.

Just razor burn. How quickly we get calibrated to seeing big problems.

You can do this.

Shoulda Coulda Woulda

Today's status: Fever. 39.5 degrees Celsius. They've just begun the new round of antibiotics to try to address whatever bacteria may've taken up residence. They won't know until they get the various cultures back, what exactly is causing your fever. If you do, in fact, have an infection, it's likely to be in your lungs, as your burns are looking infection-free. We are hoping the new antibiotics have good effect. Breathing, praying.... You're beginning to open your eyes for longer periods of time, but you're not focusing. Normal.

There's something very calming for me about having to pause in front of the Burn ICU doors, wash my hands, pull a pale blue cap from one box, a mask from another, and slip into a gown. It forces me to slow down. It forces me to remember, before walking in there, that I am one of many. We are neither the first family nor the last to be going through this. And you are neither the first nor the last to hurt the way you hurt. We aren't inventing this scenario. We're inheriting it. And like any other inheritance, it's ours to squander or turn into something greater.

This morning, as I got ready to head in to Dallas to visit you, I pulled a shirt from my hastily packed bag - wrinkled. And put on a pair of shorts I've worn several times now - wrinkled. And then I thought, I'll be in a gown. Who's going to care? It was a relieving feeling. Like my school days at St. George, never needing to wonder what I'd wear to school. Uniform. Check. Wasn't that a relief?

All we really see of one another in the Burn ICU- nurses, doctors, loved ones alike - is the eyes. This, too, is a beautiful result of our situation. It makes me realize how distracted we can be elsewhere, never really making eye contact, holding a gaze, seeing that a smile truly lives in the eyes.

Make no mistake, I'll be glad when we're not suiting up and you're not there. I'll be glad not to be an active member of the Fraternal World Order of Upside Down, feeling like a hospital is the only place I fit in. I sometimes feel it would be easier if, after I exited the ICU, I could just stride right out of there, gown still on, mask and cap still on, so everyone I encountered would know, "Damn. That chick's dealing with something. Step away." Yesterday, Angela witnessed a little crack in my Keep It Together. Of course, before I can tell you about it, in typical Hinshaw fashion, I must first set the scene.

We had not yet forwarded your mail to Dixie's. This is because we'd asked for a copy of the insurance policy and since we weren't you, they could only mail it to your address. We didn't want to delay its delivery by processing a forwarding request in the same week.

But the mail stopped arriving by mid-week last week. "They get it," Forrest said, referring to the mail carrier's summing up of the rather obvious situation at the house and deeming it futile to leave mail.

So, yesterday, we went to the post office in Riverside. I assumed I would pick up any mail they'd been holding, and turn in the request to forward your mail to Dixie's. After explaining the situation to the woman working the counter, she offered to check for mail, returned from the back and informed us the carrier had designated 3815 Honeysuckle "vacant" and therefore, all mail was now being returned.

"Returned to where?" I asked.
"To whoever sent it," she said.

Long pause. And then she said a phrase that I now know, just crawls right up my spine.

"You should've put in a hold request."

Pause.

Should have. This phrase is of absolutely no use to us at this time.

"Well, next time we have a house fire, I will certainly remember to do that."

Angela thought I was going to come across the counter. But the lady immediately saw the error of her approach and instead, placated me with some insider information, selling her co-worker down the river. "I don't know why your carrier did that," she said. "We're supposed to hold mail for 10 days." Then, a woman who'd been standing at the counter, off to the side, putting together numerous cards and photos to mail off, said, "When we had a fire, that happened to us, too. It'll come back. Don't worry." The lady behind the counter concurred. There were more words. They just sort of hummed and buzzed around me. Angela was talking to the lady. I was backing out of the room, saying thank yous. And we walked out.

Of all the people to be standing next to us.

"When we had a fire."

We are not alone. We will get through this.

Fever and skin buds

Last night you spiked a fever. You'd been riding on the high side all day yesterday, but you pushed up to 39.5 degrees Celsius, which is 103.1 degrees Farenheit. I have now entered that number in a few different converters because I think, somewhere along the line, one of the nurses misspoke and told me that 39 degrees was equal to 104 (it's actually 102.2), so I kind of freaked when I heard you were at 39.5. I don't think 103.1 is great, but holy moly, it's better than over 104 degrees! In any case, the fever could be some kind of infection, or it could just be your body's massive effort to recover from the trauma. They already had you on an antibiotic, the course of which you completed last night, so they must now wait 24 hours to begin another cycle. They've sent all kinds of fluids of yours off to the labs (as they do every three days) but it takes three days to culture. So, they'll likely put you on antibiotics tomorrow, just as a safety play. While I was there this morning, your temperature dropped from 39.4 to 39.2. Were you trying to calm me down? It worked.

On to better news: You're growing skin buds on your back! Your new nurse Jennifer took me on a verbal tour of the topography of your burns this morning, after she'd seen them for the first time during the change of your dressings. Skin buds = new skin = good news! (Here's a glossary of commonly used Burn ICU terms.) Whether or not you'll need skin grafts, we still don't know, but it's great to know that your body is rejuvenating where it can. You are so strong, Daddy. So is the specialized medicine you're getting: from your Burn ICU team, and from the prayers of all your family and friends.

Also: They upped your oxygen mix on the ventilator from 50 to 60 percent which has, in turn, improved your blood gasses and helped you breathe alot easier. 60 percent is a common mix to need at this stage, we're told. Your pulse ox was at 95 and 96 percent yesterday, and today, when I left, it was at 97 percent. Come on, lungs.

"Hanshaw" no more

Yesterday when I arrived to your room, I was relieved to see for myself that the staff had finally changed your name from "Hanshaw" to "Hinshaw." We've seen it misspelled with an 'e' before. But this was a new one for me. And, of course, once they put you in "the system" as one thing, it takes forever to get it changed. We started pressing the issue Monday, brought in your ID, and then reminded them every day after. We wanted to keep perspective on what was important, but here was something we knew the answer to, you know? "Hey, that ain't his name."

It hadn't even occurred to me that your being Hanshaw would prevent people from leaving messages with the staff. I wonder if there were actually a flood of calls for you at first, as people were desperate for news. Now I see why it could have been a blessing in disguise. They've been pretty busy with you, and taking messages from your community may have become a second career for them. Sanderson made calls all week to Parkland, to no avail, because he was asking for you and not this Hanshaw fellow. But yesterday, two messages were taped to your door, one of them from him, the other from Craig. I don't know how Cheryl was lucky enough to get her message through. She must have gotten herself a "thinker" at the switchboard. "Hmmm... of the NINE people in the Burn ICU, there's no Hinshaw, but Hanshaw sure is pretty close, maybe that's her guy...."

Kinda makes me laugh.

Other thing worth mentioning: I met one of your physical therapists yesterday. Megan is a dreamboat. You'll love her. Just a bright shining light. She was very happy with your range of motion, even in the fingers on your burned hand. She also blessed me with something to do. Hallelujah! She's concerned about the swelling in your unburned hand, so we get to massage your fingers with a purpose and not just from worried love.

We've had all kinds of tasks to pursue regarding your house. But this is first thing we've been qualified to do to help with your body. It's small, but we'll take it. When I told Dixie and Asia, they had the exact same reaction. "We can do that!!"

Things we know

Recently, we've gotten a couple questions more than once and I figure there might be more of you with the same questions on your minds, so here's a few clarifications, to the best of our understanding:

Brain damage is not currently a concern. The doctors and nurses have no reason to fear that Dad has any brain damage. He was able to talk a little to the paramedics and also to the attending doc when he was admitted to the ER. Since being under the sedative and the paralytic, he's given them no signs of loss of function when they've tested his reflexes.

While the burns on his back, shoulders, arm and hand are intense, our bigger worry is Dad's lungs. He had soot coating his nostrils, mouth and throat when he was admitted. He continues to cough up and they continue to suction out sooty goop from his lungs. That stuff is in there, and as a lifelong smoker, he's got a strike already against him. The staff have made sure they've said this to us more than once. Good news: His blood oxygen (that is, the level of available oxygen that his blood is able to absorb) was at 100% today. I thought that was pretty awesome, especially considering it had been down in the low 90s a couple of days ago.

Of the burns, the burn on his left shoulder seems to be the most troublesome. I haven't seen it myself, as it's always been dressed when we're in the room, but I'm told it's a deep burn. So, if anything's going to require a skin graft, it might be that area, but they're still crossing their fingers for no skin grafts. And so are we.

We won't know what may've started the fire until Dad can tell us what he remembers. We may not ever know. What we do know is that the firemen (thank you so much, gentlemen) found him asleep on the bed in one room, whereas the fire started in the adjacent room. We also know that the fire investigator said that three or four minutes longer, and we'd be dealing with a whole different situation.

Hope this helps. Love to all.

Having a moment

Is this really happening?

Forrest said last night that he was exhausted, so he couldn't imagine how Asia and I felt. We hugged and held each other for a little bit out in Dixie's yard. Then he said, "We'll have some more good news from Dad tomorrow."

I'm so grateful that we siblings have one another. No one else in the world knows how it feels to be your kid, just wanting to crawl into that bed with you, press our heads to your chest and calm ourselves with your heartbeat, like little puppies or bear cubs.

But that is not our reality. Papa Bear is hurt. Getting better every day, mind you, but hurt bad.

Asia and Forrest have been stepping up to the power of 10. I told the reconstruction contractor yesterday that if he spoke with one of us, he could be sure we were in alignment. I'll have to be back in Denver at some point, and I want it to be clear that we aren't people you can divide and conquer. (Not that he's shown any signs of trying to. He's been great. But I just wanted to make that clear right up front.)

Yep. This is really happening. Thank God for Asia and Forrest. And everyone who's helping us to get through this. All of you reading and praying: Thank you.

Ode to the Agitator 4000

Oh, you beast.
You stupid fucking thing.
Get out of me.
And take this shit in my lungs with you.

You force me to breathe at a pace that is
unnatural
uncooperative
unAmerican
unHuMan

But thank you.
Thank you.
THANK you.

You've done more for me than any
Hornet-stung bronco I've ever ridden.


Today, at noon, your staff unstrapped you from the the Agitator 4000 (known in more educated circles as an HFPV, or VDR-4®). They stopped the paralytic. And they've now saddled up a totally run-of-the-mill ventilator. As of 6:30pm, Jill said you were having a smooth ride.

Ahhhh...

This is good news. One: This staff doesn't mess around, so if they say you're ready to move on to a smoother ride, then you've made headway. Two: You may be able to be conscious soon. We'll get to ask this question tomorrow.

Tomorrow, Lee drives back to Denver. I'll stay on until we get a few more things going with the house and we can see your eyes for more than a spooky couple of seconds and actually communicate. I hope that's not too much to ask for in the next week. I don't want to pressure you or sound ungrateful, but boy oh boy would it be great to "talk." Today, Lee was burning a cd for someone and played the recording you and Mom made of us in that farmhouse outside of Little Rock. He'd transferred it for me to digital format. You begin the recording with, "Here we are. It's a balmy summer day here in Arkansas. The urine machine--hey, get that penny outta your mouth--the urine machine is--"

And I just started bawling. The sound of your voice was too much for me in my starved state.

You're doing great, buckaroo. Take your time. Heal fully. But you know. Don't dilly dally, okay?

In other news:
Melissa Hall was able to pass the word along to Roy. And since that connection was made, I've been delighted by Outlaw mail in my inbox. I am also hearing consistently from the Riverside contingency. Also, the other day at Sammie's, we went in to see Terry and the whole bar asked after you. Daddy, you are so loved. By so many good people.

Asia and I each attended July 4th parties today. She and Chaise entertained a few friends at his parents'. We had the Lopezes over to Mom's and Fred's. (They all are praying for you. And we're talking Dorothy-sized prayers.) Dixie Jo, Byron, Jeff, Eileen and the kids went to see Hurst's fireworks. Then, I joined Forrest at Dixie's for some post-fireworks conversation. Forrest has grrrreat stories from Italy. They're goodies. Can't wait for you to hear them.

Okay. It occurs to me as I write this that it's a bit perverse to cap off a week like this with barbecue and fireworks.

Cue rim shot. (Then crickets.)

I love you, Dad.

Bucking the ventilator

So much for sleeping peacefully, Daddio. You gave 'em hell last night. You had begun to breathe in opposition of the Agitator 4000. Your blood pressure spiked (over 200, I believe?), and you had a period of time in which you were experiencing PVCs every 2nd and 3rd heartbeat. By the time Lee and I got there at 11am, your PVCs were much less frequent, but your nurse Jill was trying to get your fever down and was only just starting to feel a little better about your bp at 169. I guess you were giving them a hint. Maybe you were back for the helm.

They need to keep you on the bucking bronco for at least another night, but it looks like they'll move you to a normal ventilator soon. In the meantime though, they're inducing chemical paralysis to keep you from digging in your spurs. The paralysis is temporary, and within 2-3 hours of not receiving a scheduled dose, you'll come right out of it. It's tough for us to think about your not being able to move if you wanted to, but then again, you haven't been playing too pretty with the ventilator. Without this paralysis treatment, when we saw you at 11am, you were "see-sawing," or "bucking the ventilator," two phrases Jill used. Chest up, tummy up, chest down, tummy down. And by the time Dixie, Sammee, Nik, Forrest, Asia and I were there again at 2pm, your breathing rhythm was much smoother, your fever was going down and your bood pressure was down to 139. (Incidentally, when I list that many people, there aren't that many people in the room at one time. They don't run that kind of ship!)

Your doctors and nurses have also taken you off the medication they were giving you to help loosen the particulants in your lungs. It is a blood thinner, and this morning when they went to suction the goop from your lungs, they saw a little blood, too. (Not an unexpected side effect. A doctor gave the heads up to Dixie that it sometimes happens, and when it does, that's their signal to stop it. But it's worth the better chance it gives you to get the crap out of there, as long as your body allows them to use it.)

So, you're calling several new plays on the field. And they're responding like the amazing team they are. We'll see what the next day at the rodeo brings us. (And what various mixed metaphors I can throw out there.)

Day Five

Every time I wake up, so much has gone on the day before, that I feel as if it's been a week. Today, I think we've finally accumulated enough days to warrant that feeling.

Dixie said she's going to see you at eleven today. I'm going to call and ask her if she wouldn't mind if we joined her. We just need to touch base with Carolyn and I'd like to do it at a time that there'll be an opportunity to kiss your hand.

A former classmate of yours called the hospital yesterday. Your nurse Debbie took the message. I assume she saw the article in the paper. I gave Debbie the blog url to give to folks who call.

Alrighty. I wish I could get into your email to get to Roy's email addy. In a few days, I'm hoping you're not too goofy to tell us a couple of things.