"Say my name," I said loudly to the man with no hearing aids on. Distant eyes stared back. "Say my name," I said louder. I'd listened to Mom ask him questions that he answered with grunts. I know grunts can be false positives and I needed to know after 15 hours of travel, was Dad still in there?
I sit just inches from the man, though he is asleep right now. I can hear the steady pumping of 4 different medications plus a feeding tube. He's not said a word or opened his eyes in 24 hours but the docs say this is to be expected. His sleep is restless as his tremors affect the right side of his body.
Mom softly said brain bleed on the phone. The words floated in my head for the next few minutes. I googled it. I read though stuff but none of it was making sense. "What the heck is going on?" I wondered.
Just now, his right arm is flexing and the hand is pinching the oversized boxing-like glove he's wearing so he doesn't hurt himself. He looks like he's gone a few rounds but the match was called. His yellow-socked-toe is (I like to think, gleefully) tapping against the bed rail.
After I got the call, Rob and I had a quick talk. Then another. Then a, "what do we do?" Somewhere in the back of my mind, I feel like I should have planned for this or at least packed a go-bag. Without thinking too much, I got in my car and the next 12 hours were mostly a blur filled with planes, driving, an Uber and getting to the hospital.
I saw the CT Scan. A giant white pond sat around what I recognized as a human brain. Almost 25% seemed to be covered. Surely, action would demand to go after it. We've got a problem, let's get in there and fix it. Like so many things adults learn, the best course of action seems to be a wait and see. So we waited.
Today, (I am told it's Sunday), we've waited for docs, we've waited for blood pressure to drop, we've waited for tremors to pass, we've waited for seizures to relent. This is hard.
Every time I am alone with him, I half expect his eyes to pop open and for him to ask me to get him out of here. He's not ready to actually ask that and I don't think I'd drag him out anyway.
Tomorrow we expect he'll be weaned off the drugs and taken out of the ICU. I think that's when we'll all take another breath. This seeing the wee hours, meeting grave shift nurses and watching the minutes broken down by blood pressure readings every 30 mins and pulse oxygen levels.
In the quiet moments, I've tried to remember things my Dad taught me. Things I'll always remember and treasure. I also thinking about the future - what will his new life be like? How much will Mom have to shoulder? Tough questions that I found folks don't like to think about.
I think I've learned on this trip that I am a realist. I listened to doctors that offered their opinions, whether I liked them or not and began setting up a mental range of possible outcomes. It's a balancing act of looking at the mountaintop while not stumbling on the rocks at your feel. It's a long trail ahead.
He responded back with a hard-spoken, "Jon."
I sit just inches from the man, though he is asleep right now. I can hear the steady pumping of 4 different medications plus a feeding tube. He's not said a word or opened his eyes in 24 hours but the docs say this is to be expected. His sleep is restless as his tremors affect the right side of his body.
Mom softly said brain bleed on the phone. The words floated in my head for the next few minutes. I googled it. I read though stuff but none of it was making sense. "What the heck is going on?" I wondered.
Just now, his right arm is flexing and the hand is pinching the oversized boxing-like glove he's wearing so he doesn't hurt himself. He looks like he's gone a few rounds but the match was called. His yellow-socked-toe is (I like to think, gleefully) tapping against the bed rail.
After I got the call, Rob and I had a quick talk. Then another. Then a, "what do we do?" Somewhere in the back of my mind, I feel like I should have planned for this or at least packed a go-bag. Without thinking too much, I got in my car and the next 12 hours were mostly a blur filled with planes, driving, an Uber and getting to the hospital.
I saw the CT Scan. A giant white pond sat around what I recognized as a human brain. Almost 25% seemed to be covered. Surely, action would demand to go after it. We've got a problem, let's get in there and fix it. Like so many things adults learn, the best course of action seems to be a wait and see. So we waited.
Today, (I am told it's Sunday), we've waited for docs, we've waited for blood pressure to drop, we've waited for tremors to pass, we've waited for seizures to relent. This is hard.
Every time I am alone with him, I half expect his eyes to pop open and for him to ask me to get him out of here. He's not ready to actually ask that and I don't think I'd drag him out anyway.
Tomorrow we expect he'll be weaned off the drugs and taken out of the ICU. I think that's when we'll all take another breath. This seeing the wee hours, meeting grave shift nurses and watching the minutes broken down by blood pressure readings every 30 mins and pulse oxygen levels.
In the quiet moments, I've tried to remember things my Dad taught me. Things I'll always remember and treasure. I also thinking about the future - what will his new life be like? How much will Mom have to shoulder? Tough questions that I found folks don't like to think about.
I think I've learned on this trip that I am a realist. I listened to doctors that offered their opinions, whether I liked them or not and began setting up a mental range of possible outcomes. It's a balancing act of looking at the mountaintop while not stumbling on the rocks at your feel. It's a long trail ahead.
He responded back with a hard-spoken, "Jon."
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