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.