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 tracheostomy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tracheostomy. Show all posts
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
But enough about that - what's up with your eye??
It's so absurd. To have been on pins and needles about the pneumonia, your fever, your trach, your ventilator... and finally, as all of that worry has reached a plateau for now, we've begun noticing other things.
Like your left eye. The bottom white of your eye is... puffing out along the bottom of your eyelid. And we've noticed it before, but then we were a bit swept up in worrying about your lungs. The night of the fire, your eyes suffered corneal abrasions. They've been treating it steadily and your corneas have all but cleared up. But you've got scleral edema, and now, since your lungs are starting to show steady improvement, we're back to worrying about it.
I consider this a success. Picking up where we left off before the 'P' word.
So there you are, a man who's escaped an inferno (with the help of the heroes at Station 19, thankyouverymuch); a man who's not only fighting his way through smoke inhalation injuries, but pneumonia, too; a man who's faced challenges at the cellular level, what with all the toxins that absorbed into his bloodstream. And here's Asia and me: Ick. What's wrong with his eye?
I don't know, Daddy. Is an eye trivial? I don't think so. I really want you to have healthy eyes. Just because you seem to be back from the brink doesn't mean we don't want as much of you as healthy as possible. We're grateful for every blessing that has come and still, we'll continue to ask for a healing of all your wounds.
We're glad for every new day, every new triumph, every new ick factor that shows us we're starting to surmount the life or death situations and notice a little scleral edema here and there.
End of day update: Temperature: 38.3 C; Oxygen assistance: 50%; PEEP: 10. Very, very good. Now, let's start bringing down the PEEP number, Daddio.
Like your left eye. The bottom white of your eye is... puffing out along the bottom of your eyelid. And we've noticed it before, but then we were a bit swept up in worrying about your lungs. The night of the fire, your eyes suffered corneal abrasions. They've been treating it steadily and your corneas have all but cleared up. But you've got scleral edema, and now, since your lungs are starting to show steady improvement, we're back to worrying about it.
I consider this a success. Picking up where we left off before the 'P' word.
So there you are, a man who's escaped an inferno (with the help of the heroes at Station 19, thankyouverymuch); a man who's not only fighting his way through smoke inhalation injuries, but pneumonia, too; a man who's faced challenges at the cellular level, what with all the toxins that absorbed into his bloodstream. And here's Asia and me: Ick. What's wrong with his eye?
I don't know, Daddy. Is an eye trivial? I don't think so. I really want you to have healthy eyes. Just because you seem to be back from the brink doesn't mean we don't want as much of you as healthy as possible. We're grateful for every blessing that has come and still, we'll continue to ask for a healing of all your wounds.
We're glad for every new day, every new triumph, every new ick factor that shows us we're starting to surmount the life or death situations and notice a little scleral edema here and there.
End of day update: Temperature: 38.3 C; Oxygen assistance: 50%; PEEP: 10. Very, very good. Now, let's start bringing down the PEEP number, Daddio.
Just so you know...
A tracheostomy is not a permanent thing.
The scar, well. That is permanent. But, your left arm, shoulders and back kinda beat this little circular scar you'll have all to heck.
And they have milestones for you to hit. (Which might piss you off a bit. I don't think you've ever been on a "performance plan" before.) Right now you're given pressure control assistance on the ventilator. As the pneumonia clears and your lungs strengthen, though, you will be given less and less assistance. And finally, no trach.
And this could happen over the course of a few or several weeks, but it's going to happen.
The scar, well. That is permanent. But, your left arm, shoulders and back kinda beat this little circular scar you'll have all to heck.
And they have milestones for you to hit. (Which might piss you off a bit. I don't think you've ever been on a "performance plan" before.) Right now you're given pressure control assistance on the ventilator. As the pneumonia clears and your lungs strengthen, though, you will be given less and less assistance. And finally, no trach.
And this could happen over the course of a few or several weeks, but it's going to happen.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
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.
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.
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