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

When you don't know the beginning...

...just start with what you know.

Three days ago, our father, brother, uncle, and friend was burned. In his home, in his sleep, on his face, shoulders, arms, and back. No one, except three golden retrievers, was home with him. The fire took my sister's dog Scout, who was in the room with Dad. She succumbed to the smoke inhalation. Our family home was burned. And what is not black from flame, is black from soot and smoke.

Dad is a writer. And a thinker. And a talker. Right now, he can't really do much of any of those things. But he will want to know about these moments. These days that will seem lost to him, as he's been under extreme but necessary sedation. And so much has happened already that I want to make available to him, should he ever want to know. But there is no way to retain it all in our heads.

So that is the purpose of this blog. For our family and friends to deposit thoughts they might say to him right now if they could. Or record a memory of this process (apparently, according to one of his nurses, when he comes out of this deep sedation, he is likely to say some "write-that-down-and-tease-him-about-it-later" kinds of things), or even a memory triggered by the cleaning up of the family home.

This blog is also for me, quite frankly. I have watched him, lying there, unable to speak and unable to reach beyond the sedative to truly grasp his very existence (thank God), and I feel like I should be doing something to balance that. Those who can, do. And there are few things I can do for him right now. He is in the hands of the amazing human beings at Parkland. We've held his hand, we've told him he is fine (which, frankly, is our hope, but not really our promise to make) and that we love him. We've sung to him, we've made countless phone calls to friends, we've begun to untangle the beuracracy that swells around a house disaster... But none of it quite amounts to healing his wounds or waking him from druggy slumber and easing his pain.

But this, I can do.

Just to catch up quickly, I'll use an excerpt from an email I sent to our friends two nights ago:

First I just want to thank you for all your lovely calls and messages and emails. They mean a lot and remind me that, although we may be going through something crazy or seemingly insurmountable, we are never alone.

The quick update on my dad: He's stable. He's suffered a significant amount of smoke inhalation and so he's on an evil machine that racks his lungs to, in effect, shake out the particulants. Due to this strange trauma he must undergo in order to get better, he's completely sedated. His burns may require skin graft surgeries, but they are waiting to see what healing begins to take place on its own. Apparently, in burn injuries of this nature, the first few days are spent with the body simply unswelling and settling before they can determine the true extent of the burns.

So, our first risk is that his lungs will not clear out enough crap to be okay again, and the second risk is that the burns on his arms and left hand are bad enough that he can't work again. The good news: He is in one of the top burn ICUs in the country. The bad news: Well.

At this point, we just focus on two very important, undeniably heartening things: He is alive. And he is 80% UNburned.

Meanwhile, the other patient -- his house -- is not doing nearly as well as Dad is doing. I don't know if you've ever experienced the aftermath of a house fire, but up to this point, it's been a mixture of confusion, mess, and heartbreak. It's a helluva thing to try to chase simple notions like insurance policies and utility accounts and mortgage paperwork when everything is burned , sooty, or wet ; and the only one who knows which end is up is unconscious and fighting for his life. And then, suddenly, after we've all made a string of what seemed like fruitless phone calls and looked through endless black and ruined objects, you realize you've actually made progress. And the mess is beginning to seem less daunting and hopeless.

I am at the end of the longest two days I've ever experienced. But I can tell you this: Dad has an amazing family, of which I am proud to be part, and I have amazing friends, with whom I am truly blessed. Thank you so much dear hearts. I don't know quite when we'll return to Denver. I do know I'm needed here through the end of the week for sure. I will try to be in touch again in a few days.