Holiday Cards Inspired by This Blog and YOU!

Dad's ordeal seems like a lifetime ago. And although his news hasn't been the best lately, since he's had to say goodbye to his loyal, loving golden retriever Bonnie, in all, things are on the up and up. In a couple weeks, Dad will fly up here to Denver for a nice long weekend and then he, Lee and I will all drive down to Fort Worth in time for Thanksgiving. I'm really looking forward to spending some quality time with Dad.

My friend Jen and I have been working on a little project. She is a graphic designer and she and our friends Cheryl and Lauren wanted to do something that might help Dad. Jen was touched by this blog and, in particular, the entry about decorating the Christmas tree, so we decided to create a set of holiday greeting cards. We ended up with four beautiful designs:

• The "twinkler" ornament that I described in the blog entry
• An homage to our community here in Denver, who have been so supportive of me and my family
• A cute card that highlights several New Year traditions (maybe you'll see your favorite in there!)
• A thank you card, inspired by how grateful this whole process has made me feel

If you're interested, visit Jen's site (http://www.etsy.com/shop.php?user_id=6409563), or click on any of the images of the cards below. If you're in Texas and you don't mind waiting, you can order through me and skip the shipping, and I'll bring them with me when I come home for Thanksgiving! Email me at gerree dot hinshaw at gmail dot com. (Cards come in packs of 10 for $12.)

Bonnie's gone

There goes my baby, there goes my sugah...so long my ragtime gal

Bonnie went peacefully yesterday, around noon, eight days after her twelfth birthday. Some of you have sent private messages full of warm condolence, for which I am grateful. Thank you.

* * * * * * *

Who can plumb the depths of grief?

Those with heart and mind askew,

Who can taste disease...

Persimmon glazed with hospital dew.

And touch the echoes' burn, laced with

Distant joy, sunlight and breeze.

Our Last Adventure

Despite my foolish but understandable hope, I got the official word from the vet today: Bonnie has mammary cancer, and the only question is how far it has spread. We're not talking about cure but rather heroic, stop-gap measures that would perhaps buy weeks or months. From there, we're talking about quality of life and what's available to keep her as comfortable as possible until the aggressive cancer makes her suffer too much to stay with us.

I did not know this until today, minutes ago, but I have inadvertently hastened her death by not getting her spayed. I don't know WHY I didn't know this, but I didn't. In fact, I thought it was better for her health to NOT get spayed, even though all the "abandoned animal" activists urge pet owners to spay and neuter their perts. I had no idea I was contributing to her otherwise early death. I could have foregone any number of litters of adorable pups. I am simply shattered--devastated of course that her time has finally come, yet all we pet owners live with the inevitable. But to know I missed a huge health risk like this is terrible knowledge. It's a bitter, bitter pill to realize I've sped up the inevitable.

We've had such wonderful times together, not only she and I, but she and our family. Camp dog, river dog, watchdog at home and on the job, companion at home and fellow traveler on the road... since I first saved her life after chewing a toxic plant when she was not much bigger than my houseshoes until the day we were reunited after my release from the hospital, she has asked no more than to be near. If she had a job she could do, why, that was even better... Majestic in bearing, loving in spirit and protective by nature, she has contributed more to the world than some people do and certainly, immeasurably more to us and to me, specifically.

I'm very thankful for these past few weeks we've had together; I know she wondered where I went when all of you were so worried about me and praying for me and taking care of me and so happy for me to recover. And I'm grateful for hers and Doc's having a safe place to stay while I was gone: had she gotten out and been run over--or worse--while I was out of commission, I just don't know what I would have done. That in no way trivializes poor Scout's death in the same fire that nearly got me. It's simply that, truly, I could never have imagined when we brought her home as a pup how attached and emotionally involved I would become with this lovely golden darling.

She has a bed that I put in the truck then bring inside the motel room when we return. The medicine they gave me last week allows her to get around again. Of course, it's hard to say whether it's painless mobility--or relatively painless, because Goldens are one of the breeds that vets call stoic. Regardless, for the moment she's able once again to do what she most loves: get in the truck and...go...somewhere, anywhere ... facing into the wind, calibrated, alert and happy to see what's coming next.

Tomorrow we visit the vet again, to map out the coordinates for what remains in our great adventure.

She's napping right now, a few feet from me, as always--ready by the door. So, today... here in a few minutes, we'll load up one more time and just go see what we can see. I expect I'll have to pull over quite a bit for safety's sake, as I can't possibly cry all this out in one, extended session. But that's OK. She'll lick my tears, and I'll hug her neck and I'll realize once again how lucky I am for my own life to be sure but also to have known such a sweet and gentle soul...

Some Things I Can Do

I visited Bob Compton and Judy Gordon this past Thursday. Some of you will recognize the pattern of the golden ratio at work here.

Compton remains the best boss I've ever had, and much beyond that he remains a champion of solid reporting and good writing. He joined The Dallas Morning News in 1956 and retired from there in 1998, probably best known as the longtime, highly literate Book Editor of the News. Judy and late husband Roxy are cherished among certain indie publishing circles as the nagual antithesis to what John Graves has called the “blockbuster syndrome.”

By any measure, it was an extremely satisfying visit. I was reminded of an Encino Press (see William Wittleff) release of Roxy’s called, Some Things I Did. In that spirit, here’s some things I can do, now:

1. Handle plastic food cartons, letters, notepads, etc., and grocery sacks, without fear of severe paper cuts;

2. Dress myself, for several weeks now, with almost full rotation of my right shoulder and much improved rotation of my left--this was still hop-skip-and-a-bounce when I left Dixie’s for Robin’s place;

3. Cook for myself, which I hardly dared while still at Dixie’s and Byron’s house, for fear of anything hot splashing onto any part of my skin, either healing or unburnt--I simply could not deal with a new burn (more on this later);

4. Now I can open either canned drinks or liter sizes--before, the skin on my fingertips of both hands was too tender to either torque a liter-size bottle-cap or to leverage the flip-top on a canned drink. I had to use “tools” as best I could improvise;

5. Drive my truck--the first time I drove, the steering wheel ripped flesh off my hand as I cornered. That’s no longer a problem.

6. Manage most of my bills and finances. At first, the “information glut” of what was due and what might be overdue and what could be pending and what might get canceled and what is really important was overwhelming. This is, of course, sort of like the hospital joke about “can I play violin?” because I couldn’t play violin in the first place. Still I’m getting better…

7. Ladders. Yup! I can climb ladders. Not with great agility, yet, but without scary awkwardness, thank you verrrr much

8. Tools. Yup! I can make most of my hand tools conform to my will.

9. In other words ==> YAY! I can work.

In fact, I have worked, three days in the past week. I hooked up the primaries to two transformers and the secondary loops inside the attic of a building for neon on a new sushi restaurant not far from the motels where I’ve been staying.

It’s a good feeling to be back at work. I thank each of you for your support.

PS: Got paid tonight--another first, my first since immediately before the fire: In that light, you can imagine how valuable your donations have been…

Cheers for being blister free

I’m so happy to see that you have waded your way through the mud of emotions, reactions, and maneuvers your body was relearning to feel like posting on the blog, Mike. I have to respond that most, if not all, of the medical folks in ICU were not only wonderful but exceptional. Not only that, most with whom I dealt including several of the respiratory therapists, kept telling us how cooperative you were and that they enjoyed working with you to help you recover. We often heard, "He's a good guy." During the last week or two of your hospital stay, several people enjoyed trading little jokes with you. They really got a kick out of your sense of humor.

Byron and I have just returned from a trip into Quebec City, across part of New Brunswick by train, then into Nova Scotia. Wow, what a treat! Although we had watched him make a lot of improvement, it was still difficult to tell Michael, "See ya in two weeks." Thanks to Robin we knew Mike was in good hands. Thanks, “Sis”.

It was wonderful to find you blister free and looking fantastic upon our return, brother. There was only one blister on your shoulder when we left. I was happy to learn that no more had bubbled up after that, and that the skin on your hand has become a little smoother. I keep seeing you back up to a door jamb to do your imitation of a bear scratching his back so it seems the itching will be part of life.

A Father Responds

Oh…GerReasy. What have you done?

To answer my own question, you have probably pioneered a new genre, a specialty niche: the Medical Progress blog. Obviously such a record is valuable for the patient (so much is here I would never know about otherwise) but also so helpful--and easy--for friends and family who want to follow along.

Leave it to you to devise something so efficiently therapeutic…it’s amazing how you get so much done, yet remain spiritually grounded. Most “efficiency mavens” turn into automatons. I remember one from the hospital; she was one of the respiratory techs and one of the very few in BICU who was less than wonderful. At least as I recall…Maybe the rest of you guys, after being there hours and hours, ran into some stinkers--but I don’t remember them. Anyway, this lady was always lobbying for me to be restrained. I picked up on it the morning after one of my lucid nightmares, that one in which I “misplaced” about a thousand years of time. Later, one of my nurses explained this tech’s behavior and her penchant for restraining patients who rearrange their IVs or breathing tubs--no matter the reason…

Apparently she takes such behavior personally. That is, her displeasure wasn’t directed at me, personally. Instead, I believe, she resents any patient-related intrusion into *her* schedule. In other words, the point is that SHE makes her QUOTA of x-amount of procedures, rather than that x-amount of patients improve by y-amount of progress.

One time, in an elevator on campus, I heard a professor say, “Man, this would be a great life if it weren’t for all these damn students.”

Not you, though. No, dear heart…somehow you remain focused, whether working odd hours so you can keep up with hospital issues; or planning a theater event to honor a colleague; or juggling personal needs with rehearsal schedules…You’ve really managed to balance high-octane personal power with a strong-hearted, self-directed sense of ethics.

And I could not be more proud.

Thank you for this gift and all your hard work on my behalf.

Love,

Dad

The cat came back...

Just a little photographic evidence that we're not imagining things. Dad's truly up and at 'em. Despite the fact that he calls himself "Two-Tone Man," you can see that he looks damn good. His left hand around my shoulder is the "meltiest" part of him. And look how great it looks! You can't see his arm, shoulders, or back, but believe me, even though they show you the breadth of his burns, to see them now, you cannot guess at their inital depth. Skin is an amazing organ. Have I mentioned lately how amazed I am at the human body? Well, I am.

This was taken last night, when Asia and Dad came by Mom's (Liz's) to pick me up so we could go out to dinner. (Forrest is taking a little Labor Day weekend trip down to the Valley.) We talked about a bunch of little stuff. Chit-chatted. We didn't talk much about any of the "fire business." There was a little, but not much. I think we'll be dealing with the fallout for months to come, but it's nice to see that already, we're able to have conversations about things beyond it.

I flew in from Denver on Friday, and today, I leave for Paris with Mom for the week. There was a time when I couldn't imagine this trip (planned since March) actually happening. But here I go! With Dad looking as good as you can see here, I am so excited to head across the pond and get some more perspective on this great big world we live in. I'll tell you what, though. I will be ready to stay in Denver for a little while after this. And Lee's looking forward to having his wife stay put for a while, too. He's been so, so wonderful through all of this.

Funny that Dad's accident is sort of book-ended by travel abroad -- first Forrest's trip to Italy, and now mine to France and soon, Dixie and Byron will take a trip of their own to Nova Scotia. You'd think we were some kind of jet-setting family, which may be true for some of us, but at thirty-two, this is my very first time off the continent.

Let's see what we can see....

Happy to be alive and getting better little by little

It was such a joy to bring Michael home with me; I thought the next time there were comments to be posted from here, it would be Mike who posted them. There are some things he is not quite ready for yet, but they will come. Recovery is multi-faceted. There is the physiological aspect and the emotional aspect of this enigmatic puzzle. He feels whole, but this has been a time of discovery for him.

He is amazed with each new revelation of family or friends who have uplifted him during this journey. A few days ago, we learned of another group of folks that have been part of the kaleidoscope of caring. It seems the protective shield was so widespread and strong, if his spirit tried to leave us, it must have rebounded right back to us during those awe full weeks.
Blessings to all.


Status:
A few blisters keep appearing here and there on his back and left arm. At his follow up appointment last week, the doctors told us we can expect that for another two months—new skin is very thin. His left hand gets blistered or cut with the least bump. He says it's the only place that looks "melty". Itching is his biggest aggravation.

We are still putting a clear patch over the stoma where the trach was. The doctor dotted a flap of skin with silver nitrate to adjust cell growth. We are expecting it to close completely some time in the next week or so.

His gait is improving. About a week ago, he gained a second gear. I think I’ve even noticed a new ability to accelerate within the last couple days. Getting in and out of chairs is still a bit awkward. Now he can even pull his shirt over his head without help.

He drinks tea with his breakfast rather than coffee to help break one of the rituals that bring the song of the cigarette siren. So far smoking has crossed his mind, but the thought seems to have stopped with that. (As for me, that thought just brings visions of his wounded lungs any time I consider such a thing for him.) Coughing up gunk may be with him for weeks to come.

Although, he isn’t continuously grazing as he did the first week or so, he is still delighted with the flavor of everything. If I go the grocery store alone I’d better have a good excuse. He likes to go with me because they have electric carts and he likes to look at all the food. I really think it's that he has an excuse to play Speed Racer. And, my or my, has he drunk all kinds of brewed, sweet, unsweet, honeyed, and bottled tea as well as all kinds of juice and soda.

He tells anyone who asks, “I’m glad to be here. If it weren’t for the firemen, the people at Parkland Burn Unit, and the prayers of hosts of people, I wouldn’t be here.”

Return to...?

I think sometimes of what Dad is still facing and it forces me to breathe in for extra air. Yes, there are physical challenges, such as a loss of 40% of his muscle mass. But that's nothing that some PT and normal use of his body won't rectify.

He awoke from weeks of fitful slumber and bad dreams into a sort of real nightmare. Right now, he has no home to return to. Which does not, in any way, discount the home he has with his family and friends, but that's not the same thing and I know it.

In some ways, the limbo he's in can be a good thing. It'll help with the habits he wants to kick. Like smoking. Right now, of course, the hacking of gunk throughout the day helps him not want to actually breathe heated smoke from a cigarette into his lungs, but the urge? It's come knocking a few times. He's readily admitted it. So, it's kind of helpful that he doesn't have his own porch to go out to, sit down with a cup of coffee, and have a habitual a smoke. I know for a damn fact, that right now, if Dad managed to lose his mind and actually get a hold of a cigarette somehow, Dixie would tackle him and wrestle it out of his hands like it was a live grenade about to go off in his face. Maybe it's extra incentive for him. To know that, if his own will power gave way, he'd get body-checked by his older sister. Because, let's face it. That'd just be embarrassing.

But no home. The home built by his parents. The home in which an 11-year-old Dixie helped to fill nail holes with wood putty when they built it. No stuff. It's all burned or ruined. No sense of place.

Of course, as far as I'm concerned, you could take all his stuff and my stuff to boot, and light it aflame right in front of me and I'd let it burn if it meant he got to live. So I am not lamenting the loss of stuff. I'm musing on the difficulties yet to come for him, finding where to place his feet as he moves forward in all of this. So much esoteric work for him to do, and he can't even rely on his favorite thinking spots. Could it be a blessing? We all have our own opinions on this, but only he will know for sure. Fifty-four and starting over. Again. What will it be like this time?

I know you wonder why he has not posted himself. He hasn't even been able to read this blog yet. He knows about it, but it's all still pretty overwhelming to him. Dad's doing a great job of living and working through present moments, though, so I'm happy to let him take his time in circling back for six weeks of time in the past.

I love you, Dad. You can do this.

Seeing is believing

You guys. Wow.

Dad's transformation in the last two weeks is, in a word, miraculous. He had already made such vast improvements by the time I left, but so many things were still worrisome: 2nd bout of pneumonia, tubes, still significant sedation, discomfort from tubes, tubes and more tubes.

And now?

The man walks, talks, eats a steady supply of delicious food (prepared and supplied with love from the magical being known as Dixie), and today, he will begin getting his mind and arms around the actual business around the house. He says he's ready and we've made appointments accordingly.

When I first walked in two nights ago, fresh from getting picked up by Asia at the airport, I opened Dixie's front door and the first thing I heard was his voice from the living room. And even though I had recently been getting a daily conversation with him on the phone, to hear his deep, resonant voice fill the room and carry into the foyer... it was an unbelievable sensation. I could have turned around right then, gone back to the airport, headed back to Denver and could almost have been convinced, sitting in my living room back home, that it all had never happened.

He looks so, so good. All of you who see him next will scan his face, wondering how in the world it was possibly burned. Then you'll see his hand, his arm, his shoulders, and you'll see with certainty how far-reaching the scarring is, but you'll still think to yourself how utterly amazing it is for a human body to heal SO MUCH.

I believe.
I believe that Daddies walk the earth.
I believe that angels live among us,
Saving us,
Holding us,
Helping us,
Loving us.
I believe in miracles
And second chances.
And I belive in you,
and you,
and you.

I know so many of you have had trials and tribulations of your very own in this time and I would like you to know that I hold you, just as you have done for me and our family, in my prayers. You deserve the very best outcomes possible, and you shall have them. They may disguised as a problem now, but I know, I believe in my heart and bones, that blessings will follow.

"We Busted Out of That Pop Stand"

The last tube came out at twenty minutes until 5 on Saturday. Did I ever do a happy dance along with Michael doing his version from the bed.

If you try to contact Mike at his new e-mail address, please do not be surprised or concerned if you don’t hear from him quickly. He is doing well and looks great, but he is working on regaining his balance, strength and energy. We are taking things one step at a time over here at recovery central.

Again, our deepest gratitude to all. We've felt your uplifting spirit throughout the making of this ongoing miracle.
God Bless

Coming in for a landing

Okey dokey! Last update post before you're able to post something for yourself.

Dixie's on her way to pick you up from the hospital. I'm curious how many hours it will take, from her arrival, to y'all's departure. Both of you have expressed to me how important it is to each of you to feel that they've told you absolutely EVERYTHING possible about what to do for your care in this next phase. Understandable, since, for six weeks (!!), you've had - at least - an attending doctor, a nurse (for most of the time, a dedicated nurse, as in 100% all about you), a dressing nurse, a breathing therapist, a physical therapist, an occupational therapist, an opthamologist, a dietician, a phsycologist, a psychiatrist, a butcher, a baker, a candlestick maker...

This morning on the phone, you and I celebrated that you'd gotten 5+ hours of sleep last night, from 10:30 to 3. And that, at midnight, when the nurse came in to check bp, you were able to drift right back to sleep. Then the traffic began again, and as you said, if you needed anyone, all you had to do was nod off and they'd be right there to wake you up. Hee hee.

[NOTE TO PARKLAND MEMORIAL GENERAL AND BICU STAFF: Thank you for everything you've done. You have been wonderful and you are so good at what you do.]

So, I'm sure it might feel a little shocking to go from all of that, to a more "normal," serene setting. But remember, a lot of those people were assigned to you, not because of your condition upon coming to the hospital, but because of the effects of being in the hospital.

This next phase of healing will, in some ways, be tougher than what you've already been through because it will involve every aspect of your life -- not just your physical one. But I know you're going to be okay, Dad. Just don't try to do everything all at once. You've been on the Bullet Train this last week and a half, but in these next months, remember the phrase I said to you every day those first four weeks:

Little by little, bit by bit.

And now... heeeeeeeere's Daddy!

The Best

You’re coming home!!
You must have practiced your swallow exercises all night last night because when I left the hospital yesterday, the plan was that on Monday you would have a swallow test while an X-ray followed the progress of the food. When I got there today, you were “down in X-ray” for the test. You passed the test and tomorrow we get our ticket for the next phase of this journey. WooHoo!
It’s been quite a ride so far, brother, and at least the next lap will be taken on familiar ground.

Texas Nectar

Tea!


Ice Chips!


Grapes!


'Nuff said.

Day 40: The important things

Love
Faith
Voice
Time
Jell-O
People
Health
Family
Friends
Iced Tea
Kindness
Patience
Patients

Breath
Sleep
Skin
Consciousness
Lungs
Eyes
Smiles, wherever they may live.

Dads
Daddies
and Daddios
Pappas
Padres
and Patriarchs

I will not,
Can not
Think of these things
Ever in the same way again.

Bullet Train

We decided you felt as though you've been on the bullet train today. I am ecstatic! First things first-you slept better last night. Your dreams weren't nearly as bizarre. Your day began with a shower very early this morning. You reported that you got one yesterday as well and it felt like a spa treatment. Having your hair washed seemed to be the height of luxury to you. You look fantastic!

You moved to "the floor" (another 'medical term'). You are in room 669, bed 1. The speech team came to give you a swallow test with a camera. You must have passed because not only did you get to have some Jell-O, as predicted, you got to try potato, spinach and broccoli soup. You still can't have liquids, expecially milk, but the therapist promised to bring you..... DRUM ROLL-tea!
for your test tomorrow. She even asked if you wanted sweet or unsweet. You took a short stroll down the hall with the beautiful Jessi and her pal. What an accomplishment. You are now almost tubeless; you an IV in one hand and the "food toob". You got to report to your three brave muskateers over the telephone.

Now for the piece de resistance--the trach is out!! Imagine! Two doctors came into the room, asked you to sit up on the side of the bed and announced that they were going to take out the trach. We both gasped! You just kept lying there. We were both stunned. They tried again. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! You all know the plan, but I just woke up a few days ago. I need for you to back up and explain this plan."
"You mean you just stand right here and pull it out?!" I croaked.
" Yep. Then we put some treated gauze over it and tape it down, and it closes off on its own. You'll be able to breath and eat just fine. It will take a bit of getting used to. You might have a bit of difficulty talking. Give it a few hours." Both of us were nervous, but I patted you on the shoulder hoping you wouldn't realize how I felt. I tried to sound reassuring when I told you that they doctor had explained this when they put it in.

Well, you were a bit anxious for a while, but by the time I left this evening, you were talking fine. So who's surprised?

Now we know what riding the bullet train is like.

This writing to you about you now that we can actually converse, is feeling rather goofy. I may have to make an adjustment.

What a red letter day, brother.

Rip Van Winkle No More

Today brought tears of gratitude for your support system. We’re so grateful for family and friends. I told you that you can’t even imagine the amount of prayers and well wishes you have been getting.

Your vocalization is great. We’re trying to meet a new challenge; about 6 weeks of high dollar sedation and pain medication have been pumped into your body and slowly but surely that drip has become less and less powerful. Today those drips are no more. Not only that, you continue to have antibiotics, Zantac, insulin, finger pokes, physical therapy, breathing therapy, racking coughing, and numerous other tasks to perform or be performed on you. After being Rip Van Winkle, you’re now fully aware, you’re being bombarded with information. No wonder you have a sense of confusion!

Today's the day we got some glycerin swabs. I’ve asked for them in two different rooms. When you told Patsy that your lips felt like you’d been walking on Mt. Everest in a headwind and wished you had some glycerin swabs, she asked about them. I told her we knew about some swabs that were similar to ones in a container on the counter only they are saturated with glycerin. You explained that when our mother was dieing, we had taken turns moistening her mouth with some. Off she went and brought us a small supply. You used on immediately. Nice.

Finally, after days of requests, Patsy, bless her heart, got the information for us that your X-rays over a week’s time show improvement and your cultures show improvement in the white cell count. Progress really IS being made on the pneumonia. I am so relieved, but it seems we may have a few more days of ICU. This brings a funny incident to mind. We've traded places. You cautioned me to put my gloves back on and to not touch my mouth with my hands!! You don’t want me to have pneumonia with you. LOL

We’re gettin there, brother.

Dads say the darndest things

I haven't experienced your coversations for myself, but from what I'm hearing, the nurse (Robby, I believe) was right all those weeks ago about what you'd do, coming off these drugs they've had you on. You're saying some spaced-out stuff, Daddio.

You said that you hope Dubya gets another go in office.

Just kidding. This blog is no place for politics talk.

I think the more bizarre things that you've said have to do with the very vivid dreams you're now able to remember when you wake. Only you can't quite tell that they were just dreams. Like the other night, when in your food-deprived state, you conjured up some sort of grill party the nursing staff was having right outside your room. Taunting you with the smell of grilled onions and such. You told Dixie, you were a little angry with them for doing that to you. Uh, I would be, too! But it didn't really happen. Your milky way drug galaxy and your back-to-Earth reality are starting to separate and it's tough to tell where one ends and the other begins.

You had another dream last night. You told Asia about it this morning. You said that somewhere in it, you actually figured out that it was just a dream. It was a pretty convoluted plot, lots of apocolyptic consequences, but ultimately, you figured out it was only a dream because, as you put it, "I'm not this important!" Well, you're that important to us. It certainly felt apocolyptic when we thought we could lose you, but yes, it was only a dream and your compass is starting to find its magnetic north again.

This is all fascinating to me, but I know you'll be glad when this part, too, is over. I continue to be amazed at all the stops a body, mind and spirit have to make along the way to full recovery. You'll be out of MidWorld soon.

Can't wait to hear what today brings...

Momentous Day

Voice!

Ginger Ale!

Mike said, “Hi. He loves
everybody. ”


Nikky was with me today. Since you are back in the BICU, we got suited up to come in. When we got in the room, you motioned for us to bring the chair over and for me to sit down in it. Then I heard, “I wanted you to sit down for this.” Of course, I jumped up. “Oh my God, oh my God! You can talk!!!” That’s when I noticed the red cap in your trach. I can’t believe I didn’t notice it right away! You said, “I got some ginger ale too.”
“Was it nectar of the gods?”
“Oh my God. They told me go ahead, take a sip. Then I crunched on the ice. They told me it was OK, but I said, “I’ve got to feel every molecule.”

Then you made and snatching motion, “Then they said, ‘OK, you’ll get more tomorrow,” shook your head and grinned.

You also got to try a little applesauce and a bit of graham cracker. It's a slow go, because they can't take a chance on anything getting into the lungs. You've got to learn to swallow again.

Day Thirty Seven: I heard my brother’s voice. When I told you I'd go home and put it on the blog right away, you said, "Put Mike said Hi. He loves everybody."

The physical therapist said you could manage the technique right after the speech people taught you what to do. She said most people do a little at a time over a few hours. We’ve been telling them you’re a talker.

Hear you tomorrow brother.

Sunday Number Six

Here we go again. The ICUs are fighting over you, I think. Everybody brags on what a good patient you are so I guess they don’t like it if one ICU has the pleasure of your company for too long. It’s back to the BICU this evening. I was very glad it didn’t happen earlier in the day because we had a nice long visit again today.

Yep. More animals. As soon as I began digging in my bag and telling you that Robin had sent me with your power animal, you nodded. We read it together. Not surprisingly, it was a big hit with you; you requested it be placed on your blog. I was pleased you remembered about the blog. They’ve lightened the sedative and the pain medication drip. After you took a nap from your morning work out in the chair, you were wide awake for quite a while this afternoon.
I told you about stopping by the house a few times and seeing hummingbirds. I still have the same only two hummingbird bushes, but you have trained your volunteers into a lovely privet hedge. Four different times I’ve been sitting on the bench outside when one has helicoptered in for a meal. I realized hummers should be included with hawks as omens for good.

Poppy, the respiratory therapist, came in again today to give you another breathing treatment. When I told her that you had written that it is scary to have that machine take over so much of your breathing, she tested your oxygen level. We joked about maybe it seemed like the Borg to you. She asked if I was a Trekkie. I admitted not exactly, but I had a son in law who certainly qualifies. You worked hard at taking deep breaths and expelling lots of air. You raised the level of the gauge up to 2000. She said that ordinarily a healthy person of your age and height should be able to raise it to 3000, so she was impressed. She determined that you probably don’t need that machine to assist with your breathing treatments any more and made sure you had your new device to take for your return to the BICU. She’s another sweetie. For now, they can give the Albuterol through the trach. You didn’t mind that. You got a shot of Heparin in the tummy (very small needle Kelly assured me) and liquid Zantac into the IV tubing. That’s SOP for all ICU patients.

Randall let me know that you still have lots of secretions so she suspects it may be a little longer before the trach can be adapted for talking and for food. You’re doing an amazing job of being patient. I have to work at it. You did write that today you’re thinking of all kinds of sherbet and ice cream. I told you the story of our trip to Disney World. Chad has long corrected our pronunciation of that icy treat. When someone decided on sorbet for dessert and someone considered sherbet, I suggested it must be “sherbay” so Chad said that was the name for this family from now on. I’m off to make room in the freezer for lots of flavors of ice cream, sorbet, and sherbay. See you tomorrow.

Status: Oxygen 100% Temperature normal