You're back to the hive. Back in the burn unit.
Lee saw you today (Friday) for the first time since he left and he is amazed at your progress.
Forrest, Lee and I were allowed in to see you, even though it was not the regular BICU visiting hours (Thanks, nurses!). We got caught off-guard, because we'd expected to find you in the surgical ICU, which has no regular hours. I love the BICU staff so much, but I have to say, this move back is a bit disappointing to us because you're back under restricted visitation hours. This news really made Asia sad. We're also back behind the masks. For the record, donning scrubs and masks is a thing we're so happy to do for the others who are in great, great danger of infection, just the way you were four weeks ago. I just wonder what you must think to see us looking all sterile again. Hoping you don't think something new is wrong.
Your move is nothing to do with your condition, in fact. As far as I know, you're continuing to improve, although your nurse wasn't very forthcoming with me on the phone this evening. (I know -- rules. I bet she gets a gold star.) It's just that your bed opened back up and you're officially their patient still.
But it makes me crazy. Freakin' thirty minutes. They can kiss my ass. (To any BICU staff who may read this: I know it's not your fault. I'm just frustrated because I leave to go home to Denver on Sunday and thirty minute windows was not how I pictured my last Saturday with Dad.)
But enough of my discontent.
YOU SANG ALONG TODAY!
Silently, of course. But you bobbed your head and mouthed the words. Forrest, Lee and I were delighted. You also made a joke about the incessant beeping. It was a funny face. I took you on a tour of your injuries. You seemed concerned about your lower body and I explained there's nothing wrong there. Showed you your healing hand, pointed to your shoulder and forearm burns. You looked along and nodded, nodded. And then told you the only thing keeping you in the hospital at this point is your lungs, because you inhaled a lot of smoke. You made a face like, "Uh. Tell me something I don't know!" We all laughed. I told you that you're getting better every day and said that the trach is a temporary thing. I asked if you knew that I wouldn't bullshit you and you nodded your head.
You seemed very interested in something off to your left, but we couldn't figure out what it might be. You also tried to tell us something. Make no mistake, you're not sitting there, looking all lucid, ready to talk if not for the trach. Even if we could read lips, most things you "say" could probably not be deciphered. You're likely mumbling dog face to the banana patch, to quote Lee's favorite Steve Martin line. We couldn't understand. But I was so proud of you when you did not let it agitate you that we couldn't. You're still doped up, but they've now taken you down to only 5mg/hr. That's 4mg less than yesterday. And I can only take this to mean you're doing good with staying calm. (Way to go team!)
I love you Daddio.
Showing posts with label singing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label singing. Show all posts
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Sunday, July 20, 2008
New digs and a long blog
You are no longer in the Burn ICU. Between the time we saw you this morning and my visit tonight, someone had come in who needed that bed more than you. I pray for that new person and his or her family. I know how it felt three weeks ago to be wondering with desperation what might lie ahead of you.
So, you're now in the Surgical ICU. Your burns still need careful tending to, but you're no longer at the high level of risk of general infection. Your lungs continue to be the thing, and they can see to your breathing therapies just as well in the SICU as in the BICU. Still, it was a little sad for me to walk to the room we've come to associate with your getting better and be told you were no longer there. I was pleasantly informed of your new location. "You won't need these things there!" said the nurse, referring to the gown, mask, and hair cap. Cool! Yet, as I turned to go, I felt a strange tug at my heart. These folks have been with you through all of it, and they've been with us, too. I felt understood there. I'd grown accustomed to the ritual of suiting up. Dressing for battle. On my way out, it was sort of odd to realize, "Oh. I won't be back here." So I just sort of called out, "Bye! Thank you!" Heh. What a loon.
Here are some bonuses about your new room:
1. You can see trees outside of your window because you're only on the 2nd floor now.
2. We don't have to wear masks, caps, or gowns, so you can see your visitors' full faces.
3. It seems quieter, although I can't be sure, since I was there in the evening and it's Sunday.
Tonight, I was telling you about your new location, pointing out that you now had trees in your view. And I think it kind of got you wondering about stuff in general, because a little later, you began trying to take in all of the room. I reminded you that, yes, it was a different room. Then your eyes lighted on your rolling rack of IV drips and pumps. And you sort of pointed at them with your eyes, staring at it very intently, as if to say, "And these? What the heck is all this mess?" I pointed out each bag or pump and told you what each was for, so you'd know they weren't treating you for anything more frightening that what's actually going on.
We've decided that we should probably remind you each time we visit with you, that the reason you feel like you can't move your legs and arms is simply because your're sedated. Which is funny to say, since how sedated can you be if you're looking right at us when we tell you this? But your body and your thought processes are definitely groggy. And I think you get worried that there's something wrong with your motor functions. I've begun to reflect on how the nurses have said they've asked you to wiggle your toes and you've obliged them. And, the more I think about it, the more I think "Can you wiggle your toes?" would conjure up notions of paralysis for me, if I were groggy and lying in a hospital bed. I think it might do the same for you. Nope. You're burned badly in places and your lungs are still trying to recover from smoke inhalation. That's "all."
You tried to shift your position in the bed this evening. This is a an exercise in patience for both you and whoever's standing with you at the time. We don't like to see you struggle, and we're pretty sure you shouldn't be getting all riled up. But then, if we just step back and look at what you're trying to do, it usually makes sense to us and we try to help. And so tonight, I leaned in to you and said, "Dad. Are you trying to sit up?" And you paused and looked at me and nodded. And I told you that I didn't know if we could get you up more, but that I'd go get some help. And then you sort of shook your head "no." So, I paused for a second. Then you got to moving again, and I said, "Dad. Do you want to be in a more comfortable position?" And you nodded. So I told you to sit tight for a second and I'd get some help with that. And you lay still while I went for the nurse. I explained to him that I thought you'd like to get in a more upright position, as you had sort of slid a bit to the right. He said there's probably not a position for you that's truly comfortable. I replied that I think the most important thing for your comfort right now is that you feel that you can communicate what you need and see that we're trying to listen to you.
He cheerfully obliged. Much to my relief. I don't want to get labeled by the staff as a fussbucket. I know they do this all the time and I've done this a grand total of none, zip, zilcho times. But Dixie and I both feel the same way about this point. We think if anything will freak you out, it will be the inability to communciate. And move, of course, which we've already decided we'll address every visit.
You like getting your songs. Tonight, when I said I guessed it was time for your lullaby, you smiled at me, turned your face up to the ceiling, and closed your eyes as if to say, "Alrighty then. I'm ready." I began to sing "Close your eyes," but then I noticed you were getting a little sad with those lyrics. (More proof that you're more aware these days. They get to me sometimes, too.) So I stopped abruptly and said, "Eh. I'm stopping that one." And your eyes flew open and you seemed a little startled. You looked at me and I said, "That one's a little too melancholy for our mood tonight. I think you need a happier song to end this day." So, you smiled, prepped again, turning your face back up, and closed your eyes. And I sang the song Mom reminded me that you'd sung to me when I was a baby. The one Dixie has come to think of as your theme song:
Singing to you. Asia, Forrest and I do it. Dixie does it. Colleen did when she was here, and Jeff can't wait to be allowed into the room with his guitar. It sure helps me to know there is still this one thing we can give you that, most of the time, zaps right through the fuzz and white noise of the sedatives and anchors you. Although, Dixie is convinced that the other day, when she sang a particular family song to you, you tried to dance to it. So she took it down a notch and hummed a random tune.
Enjoy the new room, Daddio. I'll see you in the morning.
Update: No fever, all else is status quo.
So, you're now in the Surgical ICU. Your burns still need careful tending to, but you're no longer at the high level of risk of general infection. Your lungs continue to be the thing, and they can see to your breathing therapies just as well in the SICU as in the BICU. Still, it was a little sad for me to walk to the room we've come to associate with your getting better and be told you were no longer there. I was pleasantly informed of your new location. "You won't need these things there!" said the nurse, referring to the gown, mask, and hair cap. Cool! Yet, as I turned to go, I felt a strange tug at my heart. These folks have been with you through all of it, and they've been with us, too. I felt understood there. I'd grown accustomed to the ritual of suiting up. Dressing for battle. On my way out, it was sort of odd to realize, "Oh. I won't be back here." So I just sort of called out, "Bye! Thank you!" Heh. What a loon.
Here are some bonuses about your new room:
1. You can see trees outside of your window because you're only on the 2nd floor now.
2. We don't have to wear masks, caps, or gowns, so you can see your visitors' full faces.
3. It seems quieter, although I can't be sure, since I was there in the evening and it's Sunday.
Tonight, I was telling you about your new location, pointing out that you now had trees in your view. And I think it kind of got you wondering about stuff in general, because a little later, you began trying to take in all of the room. I reminded you that, yes, it was a different room. Then your eyes lighted on your rolling rack of IV drips and pumps. And you sort of pointed at them with your eyes, staring at it very intently, as if to say, "And these? What the heck is all this mess?" I pointed out each bag or pump and told you what each was for, so you'd know they weren't treating you for anything more frightening that what's actually going on.
We've decided that we should probably remind you each time we visit with you, that the reason you feel like you can't move your legs and arms is simply because your're sedated. Which is funny to say, since how sedated can you be if you're looking right at us when we tell you this? But your body and your thought processes are definitely groggy. And I think you get worried that there's something wrong with your motor functions. I've begun to reflect on how the nurses have said they've asked you to wiggle your toes and you've obliged them. And, the more I think about it, the more I think "Can you wiggle your toes?" would conjure up notions of paralysis for me, if I were groggy and lying in a hospital bed. I think it might do the same for you. Nope. You're burned badly in places and your lungs are still trying to recover from smoke inhalation. That's "all."
You tried to shift your position in the bed this evening. This is a an exercise in patience for both you and whoever's standing with you at the time. We don't like to see you struggle, and we're pretty sure you shouldn't be getting all riled up. But then, if we just step back and look at what you're trying to do, it usually makes sense to us and we try to help. And so tonight, I leaned in to you and said, "Dad. Are you trying to sit up?" And you paused and looked at me and nodded. And I told you that I didn't know if we could get you up more, but that I'd go get some help. And then you sort of shook your head "no." So, I paused for a second. Then you got to moving again, and I said, "Dad. Do you want to be in a more comfortable position?" And you nodded. So I told you to sit tight for a second and I'd get some help with that. And you lay still while I went for the nurse. I explained to him that I thought you'd like to get in a more upright position, as you had sort of slid a bit to the right. He said there's probably not a position for you that's truly comfortable. I replied that I think the most important thing for your comfort right now is that you feel that you can communicate what you need and see that we're trying to listen to you.
He cheerfully obliged. Much to my relief. I don't want to get labeled by the staff as a fussbucket. I know they do this all the time and I've done this a grand total of none, zip, zilcho times. But Dixie and I both feel the same way about this point. We think if anything will freak you out, it will be the inability to communciate. And move, of course, which we've already decided we'll address every visit.
You like getting your songs. Tonight, when I said I guessed it was time for your lullaby, you smiled at me, turned your face up to the ceiling, and closed your eyes as if to say, "Alrighty then. I'm ready." I began to sing "Close your eyes," but then I noticed you were getting a little sad with those lyrics. (More proof that you're more aware these days. They get to me sometimes, too.) So I stopped abruptly and said, "Eh. I'm stopping that one." And your eyes flew open and you seemed a little startled. You looked at me and I said, "That one's a little too melancholy for our mood tonight. I think you need a happier song to end this day." So, you smiled, prepped again, turning your face back up, and closed your eyes. And I sang the song Mom reminded me that you'd sung to me when I was a baby. The one Dixie has come to think of as your theme song:
Imagine me and you, I do
I think about you day and night, it's onlyright
To think about the girl you love and hold her tight
So happy together
If I should call you up, invest a dime
And you say you belong to me and ease my mind
Imagine how the world could be, so very fine
So happy together
I can't see me lovin' nobody but you
For all my life
When you're with me, baby the skies'll be blue
For all my life
Me and you and you and me
No matter how they tossed the dice, it had to be
The only one for me is you, and you for me
So happy together
Singing to you. Asia, Forrest and I do it. Dixie does it. Colleen did when she was here, and Jeff can't wait to be allowed into the room with his guitar. It sure helps me to know there is still this one thing we can give you that, most of the time, zaps right through the fuzz and white noise of the sedatives and anchors you. Although, Dixie is convinced that the other day, when she sang a particular family song to you, you tried to dance to it. So she took it down a notch and hummed a random tune.
Enjoy the new room, Daddio. I'll see you in the morning.
Update: No fever, all else is status quo.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
On the subject of talking to you
So, Asia, Colleen, Dixie and I all got a little concerned Tuesday, when you seemed to be responding to our voices by getting agitated enough to open your eyes and shuffle your legs around, knocking off the little heart monitor they have on your right toe.
We became a little dubious of the whole situation, as it had seemed we'd been told that you were being kept purposely and heavily sedated so you wouldn't have to endure awarenes on the ventilator. But at the same time, the nurse that day was remarking that you'd been more responsive and had opened your eyes more, etc., etc. Our fear was that, if you were coming out of sleep to respond in that manner, you might be aware of that damn ventilator, which seemed contradictory to what they'd said they were trying to do.
Asia and I relayed this to Chaise, who really has, by the way, been a wonderful soul to have around. He offered some great perspective which was, essentially, "Hey. Your dad is theirs. They're not going to let you guys do anything to hurt him." It made sense and calmed us a bit, but we decided to pursue a conversation the next day. So, yesterday, Asia and I talked to your nurse (the guy. I promise we'll start logging names), who said that they do, during the course of the day, allow your sedative levels to come down so that they can run tests. Basically, they lift the veil to make sure you're still under there. THAT, along with Chaise's perspective from the night before was very settling for us.
Still, Asia and I decided as we went in for that visit, that we would simply hold your hand, stroke your hair, and breathe with you for a while. Just have some quiet time with you. I'm starting to be able to tune out the shaking that the ventilator does, and I think, so are you. You seemed more peaceful yesterday, even with outside stimulus. Like you were actually starting to be able to "rest" rather than just lie there, a vessel on choppy waters.
Then, the rhythm of the room gave way to a hum. And finally, gave way to song. Asia and I sang to you a song my mom sang to me, and I sang to Asia and Forrest, and yesterday, it took on a whole new meaning for us:
And so, I think, we've found a ritual that we will continue with you. Something they cannot give you in an IV drip, or squeeze into your eyes. Something we can leave with you every night.
We became a little dubious of the whole situation, as it had seemed we'd been told that you were being kept purposely and heavily sedated so you wouldn't have to endure awarenes on the ventilator. But at the same time, the nurse that day was remarking that you'd been more responsive and had opened your eyes more, etc., etc. Our fear was that, if you were coming out of sleep to respond in that manner, you might be aware of that damn ventilator, which seemed contradictory to what they'd said they were trying to do.
Asia and I relayed this to Chaise, who really has, by the way, been a wonderful soul to have around. He offered some great perspective which was, essentially, "Hey. Your dad is theirs. They're not going to let you guys do anything to hurt him." It made sense and calmed us a bit, but we decided to pursue a conversation the next day. So, yesterday, Asia and I talked to your nurse (the guy. I promise we'll start logging names), who said that they do, during the course of the day, allow your sedative levels to come down so that they can run tests. Basically, they lift the veil to make sure you're still under there. THAT, along with Chaise's perspective from the night before was very settling for us.
Still, Asia and I decided as we went in for that visit, that we would simply hold your hand, stroke your hair, and breathe with you for a while. Just have some quiet time with you. I'm starting to be able to tune out the shaking that the ventilator does, and I think, so are you. You seemed more peaceful yesterday, even with outside stimulus. Like you were actually starting to be able to "rest" rather than just lie there, a vessel on choppy waters.
Then, the rhythm of the room gave way to a hum. And finally, gave way to song. Asia and I sang to you a song my mom sang to me, and I sang to Asia and Forrest, and yesterday, it took on a whole new meaning for us:
Well the sun is slowly sinking downIt seemed that we were leaving you with something real during the times that we can't be there. A melody stamped with our voices that could float through your mind in one long wisp. Voices, they say, and Colleen confirmed with the staff last night once and for all, are definitely recommended medication for your recovery. The sound of your loved ones, regardless if you comprehend meaning, is healing. But you, Daddy, are a talker. A storyteller, a discussionist, a debater, a reporter, a participant. So if we speak, it feels like you want to return the favor somehow by piping up. But you've always enjoyed sitting back and listening to song. You've always given so freely and easily the gift of listening.
The moon is surely rising
And this old world must still be spinning 'round
And I still love you
Well it won't be long before another day
And we're gonna have a good time
And no one's gonna take that time away
And you can stay as long as you like
So close your eyes
You can close your eyes
It's alright
I don't know no love songs
I can't sing the blues
Anymore
But I can sing this song
And you can sing this song
When I'm gone
And so, I think, we've found a ritual that we will continue with you. Something they cannot give you in an IV drip, or squeeze into your eyes. Something we can leave with you every night.
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