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.
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