Do not look a gift horse in the hole in the throat

It is done.

And it is good.

You look infinitely more comfortable, Dad. I thought I would be really ooged out about seeing the tracheostomy and the tube going into it, the whole bit.

But, instead, I saw your face without all the straps and tape digging into your cheeks and the corners of your mouth. I saw your lips, without gauze on them to ease the bleeding from the blisters caused by the rubbing of the tube.

I saw you. And not the apparatus.

And it is good.

They've been taking chest X-rays every night since the pneumonia reared its ugly head. And guess what? Last night's film, for the first time ever, showed enough progress that Dr. Esterhoff felt it worthy of mentioning. Apparently, there was a teeny bit of progress the night before, but they must be cautious, I imagine, about telling families of improvement until it seems like a real trend. So, today, we got to hear the good news: your lungs definitely show receding gunk.

And it is good.

Also, we've been told that sometimes, some fire smoke inhalation patients, for reasons they cannot quite explain, improve at an accelerated rate after undergoing a tracheotomy and then getting to breathe through the tracheostomy. (Do you like my context clues? I, too was confused about the difference between the two words.) The doctor told us about this phenomenon, because apparently, loved ones, after consenting to a hole in the throat because they've been told it's necessary for lengthy ventilation, tend to question having given their green light for the surgery when suddenly, the patient is off the vent in days instead of weeks.

And Dixie, Mom (Liz) and I all looked at each other and I said, "Well, you will never hear us complain that Dad got better faster!" Later, when relaying the day's conversations to Asia, I joked, "We will not look a gift horse in the hole in the throat."

She laughed.

It is good, Dad. Today is a good day.

The 'P' word

Yesterday, your cultures finally came back. So, now they know that, yes, you have an infection in your lungs that is causing pneumonia and they also know what specific bacteria they are fighting. So they're bringing out the "biggest guns we have," according to the doctor, for your antibiotics.

Pneumonia.

I said it over and over again in the car last night so I could stop freaking out about it.

Then I went straight to Robin's for some perspective.

All these days, we've been singing or talking to you, telling you who all has written or called, what they've said, how much they love you. I haven't wanted to be specific about your condition because I didn't want to have a lot of medical terms just swimming around in your head, untethered. But last night, after getting the diagnosis from the doc, I went back into your room, changed into a new set of gloves, stroked your hair and tried to imagine the tone of voice you would strike with me in the same situation. Then, I leaned in real close to you and imagined piercing through the sedation and said, as clearly as I could from behind the mask, "Hey there, Daddy. Here's the deal: You've got pneumonia. Tell your body to focus on those lungs. Get it out of there. And I know you're exhausted. And I know this has been the most bizarre ten days of your life. And all this time, we've been encouraging you to rest while the team did what they needed to do. But you're up. It's your turn now and you've got some work to do. I love you, you can do this."

The antibiotics seem to be having their effect. I called before going to bed last night and your nurse said your fever was down. And this morning at 6, it was down to 38.7 C, and by the time Asia saw you at 8, it was 38.5 C. That's equal to 101.3 F.

Ever so much better than 104.

Also, your oxygen assistance was at 80 percent yesterday, and by this morning, the assistance was down to 60 percent. Good. Good.

So, now, I'm saying another 'P' word over and over in my head

Progress.