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.