From your sister

It's still Tuesday, Day 10. I think today's been tough on everyone. It's simply absurd that you're not up, telling the story, charming your doctors and nurses.

Here's what Dixie wrote to you about today. (Notice that she has the correct spelling of Gill's name. I've been spelling it "Jill."):

As I've approached the exit to Parkland the last few days, I have been struck with familiarity. You know your sister - coming to the hospital the first few times I approached the route down Motor St. with great temerity. Then a decision about where to park had to be made. After finding a parking place I rushed to figure out how to get to you, not even thinking to be sure I could find the car upon my return or even planning the way back into the garage. Next came a maze of halls and elevator alcoves to decipher and negotiate. Now, that whole process has become familiar enough to begin to be muscle memory.

After a week, I'm now remembering to tuck my hair up into the hair covering before washing my hands. I walk over to the rack for the gown to cover my body and walk back toward the shelves as I'm tying up the neck so that not a moment is wasted in preparation to check on you, my brother. Last, my hand reaches easily towards the correct box for the mask as I remember that first morning of panic when Asia showed me this foreign procedure. Today, I heard a small child crying as I pushed the silver release button that opens the double doors and wondered about the challenge that a child and her or his family must be facing. I look into a woman's eyes above a blue mask and wonder if she is the mother who has to go to that cry.

Nurse Angela doesn't have any answers about your infection or about your back, not having seen it yet, but says she will find out. It's been more than eight days since any of us has heard your voice, made eye contact with you, or felt you return pressure as we hold your fingers. I find a place on your leg or arm and try to send streams of love through my hand into you, hoping it reaches your inner receptors.

For so many days, I was filled only with gratitude for the miracle of your being alive. Now I'm having to accept that we're dependent upon machines and drugs to complete the miracle, and I'm feeling frustrated and impatient. I'm feeling guilty about this new phase of feelings.

Then I remind myself that Angela and Gill and Lizzie and Dr. Esteroff and many others on that amazing team are a caring group of professional people helping you as well as others to heal.

On my way out, I realize I don't like the idea that I'm becoming familiar with these routes and routines.

I'll see you again this evening, Dad. And the doc. I think Asia will be joining us.

We love you.

Up and down, up and down

Your fever has climbed today to just over 40 degrees Celsius. That's 104 degrees Farenheit.

But your nurse says it's starting to come back down. I've scheduled some time specifically to talk to the doctor this evening.

You can do this.

There were a few days last week when I kept thinking, That is so weird. Sometimes his face will just bleed in spots I didn't even think were burned. Turns out, they shave you periodically. In fact, they brush your teeth, too. Dixie quoted your nurse as saying, "No excuse not to shave and brush teeth."

If they can do that, if those things are still important... Dixie and I really were touched by that for some reason.

Just razor burn. How quickly we get calibrated to seeing big problems.

You can do this.

Shoulda Coulda Woulda

Today's status: Fever. 39.5 degrees Celsius. They've just begun the new round of antibiotics to try to address whatever bacteria may've taken up residence. They won't know until they get the various cultures back, what exactly is causing your fever. If you do, in fact, have an infection, it's likely to be in your lungs, as your burns are looking infection-free. We are hoping the new antibiotics have good effect. Breathing, praying.... You're beginning to open your eyes for longer periods of time, but you're not focusing. Normal.

There's something very calming for me about having to pause in front of the Burn ICU doors, wash my hands, pull a pale blue cap from one box, a mask from another, and slip into a gown. It forces me to slow down. It forces me to remember, before walking in there, that I am one of many. We are neither the first family nor the last to be going through this. And you are neither the first nor the last to hurt the way you hurt. We aren't inventing this scenario. We're inheriting it. And like any other inheritance, it's ours to squander or turn into something greater.

This morning, as I got ready to head in to Dallas to visit you, I pulled a shirt from my hastily packed bag - wrinkled. And put on a pair of shorts I've worn several times now - wrinkled. And then I thought, I'll be in a gown. Who's going to care? It was a relieving feeling. Like my school days at St. George, never needing to wonder what I'd wear to school. Uniform. Check. Wasn't that a relief?

All we really see of one another in the Burn ICU- nurses, doctors, loved ones alike - is the eyes. This, too, is a beautiful result of our situation. It makes me realize how distracted we can be elsewhere, never really making eye contact, holding a gaze, seeing that a smile truly lives in the eyes.

Make no mistake, I'll be glad when we're not suiting up and you're not there. I'll be glad not to be an active member of the Fraternal World Order of Upside Down, feeling like a hospital is the only place I fit in. I sometimes feel it would be easier if, after I exited the ICU, I could just stride right out of there, gown still on, mask and cap still on, so everyone I encountered would know, "Damn. That chick's dealing with something. Step away." Yesterday, Angela witnessed a little crack in my Keep It Together. Of course, before I can tell you about it, in typical Hinshaw fashion, I must first set the scene.

We had not yet forwarded your mail to Dixie's. This is because we'd asked for a copy of the insurance policy and since we weren't you, they could only mail it to your address. We didn't want to delay its delivery by processing a forwarding request in the same week.

But the mail stopped arriving by mid-week last week. "They get it," Forrest said, referring to the mail carrier's summing up of the rather obvious situation at the house and deeming it futile to leave mail.

So, yesterday, we went to the post office in Riverside. I assumed I would pick up any mail they'd been holding, and turn in the request to forward your mail to Dixie's. After explaining the situation to the woman working the counter, she offered to check for mail, returned from the back and informed us the carrier had designated 3815 Honeysuckle "vacant" and therefore, all mail was now being returned.

"Returned to where?" I asked.
"To whoever sent it," she said.

Long pause. And then she said a phrase that I now know, just crawls right up my spine.

"You should've put in a hold request."

Pause.

Should have. This phrase is of absolutely no use to us at this time.

"Well, next time we have a house fire, I will certainly remember to do that."

Angela thought I was going to come across the counter. But the lady immediately saw the error of her approach and instead, placated me with some insider information, selling her co-worker down the river. "I don't know why your carrier did that," she said. "We're supposed to hold mail for 10 days." Then, a woman who'd been standing at the counter, off to the side, putting together numerous cards and photos to mail off, said, "When we had a fire, that happened to us, too. It'll come back. Don't worry." The lady behind the counter concurred. There were more words. They just sort of hummed and buzzed around me. Angela was talking to the lady. I was backing out of the room, saying thank yous. And we walked out.

Of all the people to be standing next to us.

"When we had a fire."

We are not alone. We will get through this.

Fever and skin buds

Last night you spiked a fever. You'd been riding on the high side all day yesterday, but you pushed up to 39.5 degrees Celsius, which is 103.1 degrees Farenheit. I have now entered that number in a few different converters because I think, somewhere along the line, one of the nurses misspoke and told me that 39 degrees was equal to 104 (it's actually 102.2), so I kind of freaked when I heard you were at 39.5. I don't think 103.1 is great, but holy moly, it's better than over 104 degrees! In any case, the fever could be some kind of infection, or it could just be your body's massive effort to recover from the trauma. They already had you on an antibiotic, the course of which you completed last night, so they must now wait 24 hours to begin another cycle. They've sent all kinds of fluids of yours off to the labs (as they do every three days) but it takes three days to culture. So, they'll likely put you on antibiotics tomorrow, just as a safety play. While I was there this morning, your temperature dropped from 39.4 to 39.2. Were you trying to calm me down? It worked.

On to better news: You're growing skin buds on your back! Your new nurse Jennifer took me on a verbal tour of the topography of your burns this morning, after she'd seen them for the first time during the change of your dressings. Skin buds = new skin = good news! (Here's a glossary of commonly used Burn ICU terms.) Whether or not you'll need skin grafts, we still don't know, but it's great to know that your body is rejuvenating where it can. You are so strong, Daddy. So is the specialized medicine you're getting: from your Burn ICU team, and from the prayers of all your family and friends.

Also: They upped your oxygen mix on the ventilator from 50 to 60 percent which has, in turn, improved your blood gasses and helped you breathe alot easier. 60 percent is a common mix to need at this stage, we're told. Your pulse ox was at 95 and 96 percent yesterday, and today, when I left, it was at 97 percent. Come on, lungs.

"Hanshaw" no more

Yesterday when I arrived to your room, I was relieved to see for myself that the staff had finally changed your name from "Hanshaw" to "Hinshaw." We've seen it misspelled with an 'e' before. But this was a new one for me. And, of course, once they put you in "the system" as one thing, it takes forever to get it changed. We started pressing the issue Monday, brought in your ID, and then reminded them every day after. We wanted to keep perspective on what was important, but here was something we knew the answer to, you know? "Hey, that ain't his name."

It hadn't even occurred to me that your being Hanshaw would prevent people from leaving messages with the staff. I wonder if there were actually a flood of calls for you at first, as people were desperate for news. Now I see why it could have been a blessing in disguise. They've been pretty busy with you, and taking messages from your community may have become a second career for them. Sanderson made calls all week to Parkland, to no avail, because he was asking for you and not this Hanshaw fellow. But yesterday, two messages were taped to your door, one of them from him, the other from Craig. I don't know how Cheryl was lucky enough to get her message through. She must have gotten herself a "thinker" at the switchboard. "Hmmm... of the NINE people in the Burn ICU, there's no Hinshaw, but Hanshaw sure is pretty close, maybe that's her guy...."

Kinda makes me laugh.

Other thing worth mentioning: I met one of your physical therapists yesterday. Megan is a dreamboat. You'll love her. Just a bright shining light. She was very happy with your range of motion, even in the fingers on your burned hand. She also blessed me with something to do. Hallelujah! She's concerned about the swelling in your unburned hand, so we get to massage your fingers with a purpose and not just from worried love.

We've had all kinds of tasks to pursue regarding your house. But this is first thing we've been qualified to do to help with your body. It's small, but we'll take it. When I told Dixie and Asia, they had the exact same reaction. "We can do that!!"

Things we know

Recently, we've gotten a couple questions more than once and I figure there might be more of you with the same questions on your minds, so here's a few clarifications, to the best of our understanding:

Brain damage is not currently a concern. The doctors and nurses have no reason to fear that Dad has any brain damage. He was able to talk a little to the paramedics and also to the attending doc when he was admitted to the ER. Since being under the sedative and the paralytic, he's given them no signs of loss of function when they've tested his reflexes.

While the burns on his back, shoulders, arm and hand are intense, our bigger worry is Dad's lungs. He had soot coating his nostrils, mouth and throat when he was admitted. He continues to cough up and they continue to suction out sooty goop from his lungs. That stuff is in there, and as a lifelong smoker, he's got a strike already against him. The staff have made sure they've said this to us more than once. Good news: His blood oxygen (that is, the level of available oxygen that his blood is able to absorb) was at 100% today. I thought that was pretty awesome, especially considering it had been down in the low 90s a couple of days ago.

Of the burns, the burn on his left shoulder seems to be the most troublesome. I haven't seen it myself, as it's always been dressed when we're in the room, but I'm told it's a deep burn. So, if anything's going to require a skin graft, it might be that area, but they're still crossing their fingers for no skin grafts. And so are we.

We won't know what may've started the fire until Dad can tell us what he remembers. We may not ever know. What we do know is that the firemen (thank you so much, gentlemen) found him asleep on the bed in one room, whereas the fire started in the adjacent room. We also know that the fire investigator said that three or four minutes longer, and we'd be dealing with a whole different situation.

Hope this helps. Love to all.

Having a moment

Is this really happening?

Forrest said last night that he was exhausted, so he couldn't imagine how Asia and I felt. We hugged and held each other for a little bit out in Dixie's yard. Then he said, "We'll have some more good news from Dad tomorrow."

I'm so grateful that we siblings have one another. No one else in the world knows how it feels to be your kid, just wanting to crawl into that bed with you, press our heads to your chest and calm ourselves with your heartbeat, like little puppies or bear cubs.

But that is not our reality. Papa Bear is hurt. Getting better every day, mind you, but hurt bad.

Asia and Forrest have been stepping up to the power of 10. I told the reconstruction contractor yesterday that if he spoke with one of us, he could be sure we were in alignment. I'll have to be back in Denver at some point, and I want it to be clear that we aren't people you can divide and conquer. (Not that he's shown any signs of trying to. He's been great. But I just wanted to make that clear right up front.)

Yep. This is really happening. Thank God for Asia and Forrest. And everyone who's helping us to get through this. All of you reading and praying: Thank you.

Ode to the Agitator 4000

Oh, you beast.
You stupid fucking thing.
Get out of me.
And take this shit in my lungs with you.

You force me to breathe at a pace that is
unnatural
uncooperative
unAmerican
unHuMan

But thank you.
Thank you.
THANK you.

You've done more for me than any
Hornet-stung bronco I've ever ridden.


Today, at noon, your staff unstrapped you from the the Agitator 4000 (known in more educated circles as an HFPV, or VDR-4®). They stopped the paralytic. And they've now saddled up a totally run-of-the-mill ventilator. As of 6:30pm, Jill said you were having a smooth ride.

Ahhhh...

This is good news. One: This staff doesn't mess around, so if they say you're ready to move on to a smoother ride, then you've made headway. Two: You may be able to be conscious soon. We'll get to ask this question tomorrow.

Tomorrow, Lee drives back to Denver. I'll stay on until we get a few more things going with the house and we can see your eyes for more than a spooky couple of seconds and actually communicate. I hope that's not too much to ask for in the next week. I don't want to pressure you or sound ungrateful, but boy oh boy would it be great to "talk." Today, Lee was burning a cd for someone and played the recording you and Mom made of us in that farmhouse outside of Little Rock. He'd transferred it for me to digital format. You begin the recording with, "Here we are. It's a balmy summer day here in Arkansas. The urine machine--hey, get that penny outta your mouth--the urine machine is--"

And I just started bawling. The sound of your voice was too much for me in my starved state.

You're doing great, buckaroo. Take your time. Heal fully. But you know. Don't dilly dally, okay?

In other news:
Melissa Hall was able to pass the word along to Roy. And since that connection was made, I've been delighted by Outlaw mail in my inbox. I am also hearing consistently from the Riverside contingency. Also, the other day at Sammie's, we went in to see Terry and the whole bar asked after you. Daddy, you are so loved. By so many good people.

Asia and I each attended July 4th parties today. She and Chaise entertained a few friends at his parents'. We had the Lopezes over to Mom's and Fred's. (They all are praying for you. And we're talking Dorothy-sized prayers.) Dixie Jo, Byron, Jeff, Eileen and the kids went to see Hurst's fireworks. Then, I joined Forrest at Dixie's for some post-fireworks conversation. Forrest has grrrreat stories from Italy. They're goodies. Can't wait for you to hear them.

Okay. It occurs to me as I write this that it's a bit perverse to cap off a week like this with barbecue and fireworks.

Cue rim shot. (Then crickets.)

I love you, Dad.

Bucking the ventilator

So much for sleeping peacefully, Daddio. You gave 'em hell last night. You had begun to breathe in opposition of the Agitator 4000. Your blood pressure spiked (over 200, I believe?), and you had a period of time in which you were experiencing PVCs every 2nd and 3rd heartbeat. By the time Lee and I got there at 11am, your PVCs were much less frequent, but your nurse Jill was trying to get your fever down and was only just starting to feel a little better about your bp at 169. I guess you were giving them a hint. Maybe you were back for the helm.

They need to keep you on the bucking bronco for at least another night, but it looks like they'll move you to a normal ventilator soon. In the meantime though, they're inducing chemical paralysis to keep you from digging in your spurs. The paralysis is temporary, and within 2-3 hours of not receiving a scheduled dose, you'll come right out of it. It's tough for us to think about your not being able to move if you wanted to, but then again, you haven't been playing too pretty with the ventilator. Without this paralysis treatment, when we saw you at 11am, you were "see-sawing," or "bucking the ventilator," two phrases Jill used. Chest up, tummy up, chest down, tummy down. And by the time Dixie, Sammee, Nik, Forrest, Asia and I were there again at 2pm, your breathing rhythm was much smoother, your fever was going down and your bood pressure was down to 139. (Incidentally, when I list that many people, there aren't that many people in the room at one time. They don't run that kind of ship!)

Your doctors and nurses have also taken you off the medication they were giving you to help loosen the particulants in your lungs. It is a blood thinner, and this morning when they went to suction the goop from your lungs, they saw a little blood, too. (Not an unexpected side effect. A doctor gave the heads up to Dixie that it sometimes happens, and when it does, that's their signal to stop it. But it's worth the better chance it gives you to get the crap out of there, as long as your body allows them to use it.)

So, you're calling several new plays on the field. And they're responding like the amazing team they are. We'll see what the next day at the rodeo brings us. (And what various mixed metaphors I can throw out there.)

Day Five

Every time I wake up, so much has gone on the day before, that I feel as if it's been a week. Today, I think we've finally accumulated enough days to warrant that feeling.

Dixie said she's going to see you at eleven today. I'm going to call and ask her if she wouldn't mind if we joined her. We just need to touch base with Carolyn and I'd like to do it at a time that there'll be an opportunity to kiss your hand.

A former classmate of yours called the hospital yesterday. Your nurse Debbie took the message. I assume she saw the article in the paper. I gave Debbie the blog url to give to folks who call.

Alrighty. I wish I could get into your email to get to Roy's email addy. In a few days, I'm hoping you're not too goofy to tell us a couple of things.