No promises

Colleen and Dixie say the doctor alluded to two glimmers of good news: 1) You are starting to exhale less crap out of your lungs, which hopefully means time on the "Agitator 4000" is coming to an end, and 2) You may not need skin grafts.

These are not official prognoses. These are guarded musings.

But we'll take 'em.

Forrest came home today. Asia and I watched him walk into the waiting area from customs, and he just looked so great. Big smile. Cool hat (hope he finds that -- it sort of disappeared). He was Mr. Continental, Photographer At Large. He took the news in the best possible way you could expect. He was a champ. Tore up, but standing up. We waited at Chaise's parents with Trish and Lydia until your next visiting hour, then headed over. It was hard on Forrest, but he did well. He happened to see you at a time of complete and total sedation, so you didn't much move at all. Which really disturbed him. That hadn't happened yet. Funny, Dad. With your kids, you're damned if you move, damned if you don't!

But seriously, I think you're finally sleeping. I feel as if you're actually getting rest these last couple of times I've seen you. As if your consciousness has finally said, "Okay. I trust these people now. I'm tired. You have the helm, I going to bed." And I think that has to be doing your body some good.

Tonight, Lee, Colleen, Jeff, Dixie, Byron, Asia, Forrest and I all gathered at Dixie's to get the download on progress with the house. Then we went to grab a bite and a drink. Forrest's girlfriend joined us. Once again this week, we thought, "Well, crap. He'll be pissed he missed this, too!"

The Boy

Asia and I will pick Forrest up at the airport today, after his amazing trip to Italy. (Lee, Dixie and maybe Jeff(?) will meet with the adjustor at the house.) We have not told him about your condition, as there would have been nothing that he could do from across the Atlantic. You were stable, fast. He was never in danger of losing you before coming home. And in the time (and sifnificant funds) it would have taken to rustle up an alternate, last-minute flight out, he would've been home again anyway. A week ago, we might've had a harder time deciding what to do.

I know it's a possibility that, in his grief, as he begins to feel the same helplessness about your lying there that we all do, he might focus on the anger about our decision. (Remember that we've all had the rigormorol about the house to help distract us.) But, as Jeff said yesterday, "Make sure Forrest knows this was a unilateral decision." None of us wavered on this. Still, it was pretty tough on Trish when Forrest called yesterday to check in and she had to hope he didn't ask any direct questions about you. It was tough enough that she broke down afterward.

Alright. I'm off to shower and get my mind clear for this next hurdle on our family's emotional marathon.

Here comes the son... doo doo doo doo...

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:

Well the sun is slowly sinking down
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

It 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.

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.

From the Fort Worth Star Telegram

Here's an article on the firefighters that pulled Dad out of the house.

Daddy,
In this story, the "neighbor," I believe, is Ralphy. Also, one of the two firefighters featured in this story came by with a couple others yesterday to inquire about you. They are very concerned with your outcome. When we watched them pull up in their truck and come out and walk across the yard, I felt such gratitude. And awe. They really do risk their lives. Ralphy said the house was so hot at the end of the house that he couldn't even get near the windows to yell in. They had to content themselves with pounding on the front door to try to wake you. While one neighbor (someone else will have to fill this name in for me) was pounding and calling your name, Ralphy, God bless him, was trying to at least get some water on the end of the house with his hose. And then, he said, the firefighters were just there. Lightning fast.

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.