As some of you may know I always practice being grateful. Recognizing all of the good things in life is important and appreciating them is even more important. I spent a good ten days off of sedatives while being in the hospital. My mom and my husband would give me pieces of the story as they felt I could handle them. I had some time to go through all of the emotions that come with a "trauma" like I went through. I was mad. I was sad. I was tired. That was on repeat for about 24 hours. Then, when my mom showed me a recent photo of Lennon, the switch flipped and I was grateful. Grateful to be breathing. Grateful to have my family. Grateful for my son. In the days after, I would focus on things to be grateful for, especially when things got scary because there were times when they did. I did what I always do and focused on the good. After all, there is always something to be thankful for.
Nurses- The nurses in both the ICU and the pulmonary floor were wonderful. There was one that I didn't care for, but as I learn more I realize I may have imagined why I didn't like her rather than any of that actually happening. Each day after I got off the ventilator and got back with the program, whatever nurse I had for the shift would tell me how much better I looked and was doing. For six good nights, I had a nurse named Lindsay. She reminded me of my childhood best friend in so many ways. I was grateful that I had her. When I was frustrated at the feeding tube or when I thought I wouldn't get out of there, Lindsay would sit with me and talk to me. She'd tell me why the feeding tube was important. She'd remind me that the bottomline was to get back to Lennon and stay with Lennon. Then Friday into Saturday when I had a tiny, little episode, she basically told me to shut up. It sounds rude, but sometimes I need to be told to shut up. She told me to focus on breathing and not waste my strength panicking. She had so many good points. Sometimes I need to be put in my place, and she did it. Then she didn't care about giving me ice water at 2:30 in the morning and would wait until I was done. Again, I hope you're never in my shoes, so I'll tell you this: Once you are off a ventilator and then sttuck on a bi-pap machine, ice water is the best thing in the entire world. I could not get enough of it and Lindsay knew that. She was simply the best.
Then there was another nurse, a dude. His name was Jeff or John. He was a little eccentric and he had no clue what the heck to do with me, but he knew I wanted to eat. I was on a clear liquid diet at the time and I hated it. I sounded so ridiculously picky for someone who almost died, but I don't like ginger ale, lemon Italian ice, or mist twist or whatever drink they had for me. Oh gosh. The broth. If butt was ever served in liquid form, it was this broth. I couldn't even stand the smell. Nurse J knew that. I was sound asleep and he came busting through the door. He said, "I know you're trying to rest but they want to do a swallow eval on you. Wake up and let them do this so you can get home!" He was so excited. I was moved up to a puréed diet after that, slightly better than clear liquids.
I don't know the name of the ER nurse. But I remember her as being super nice and patient. I remember her listening to my mom and not being a robot. I just couldn't tell you what she looks like or her name.
Then for all of the nurses who explained what was going on to my husband. They would explain whatever medicine they were giving me. They would explain the machines. They would explain reactions. They would tell him to go home and take a shower and nap. They didn't have to show him that kindness. I'm grateful.
Water - Ice water, cool water, running water. It's sounds so silly but even when I was younger and laid up in the hospital, I always wanted to feel the water when they would wash my hair. So this time, as I already expressed, I drank more ice water than I ever have in my entire life. I had a cool washcloth on my head for a good week. Also, I didn't touch running water for 23 days. I had needles in both arms and hands at any given time. One of the very first things I did when I got home was run the water over my hands. It was a wonderful feeling. A fresh start. Rejuvenation. It really is one thing that I think anyone would miss.
That This Wasn't My First Time at the Rodeo - I know that this doesn't really make sense, but I'm pretty grateful that this wasn't my first time getting this sick. Sure, it's my first time getting this bad and being old enough to remember it, but by the time I was seven years old, I had four cardiac arrests and fifteen, if not more, respiratory arrests. Would you like to know how many I've had since I was seven? ZERO. ZIP. ZILCH. NADA. I had respiratory fatigue this time around, but I never once stopped breathing (thanks to my mama!) So I know how this game works. And this was an easy game, it just seemed harder because I'm a mom now and because I'm old enough to remember it. I knew I had a lot to lose this time around. But now, given my history and vast experience in the ICU and not-breathing world, I know that if there's one thing I do, it's that I bounce back. I know how this is going to go. The next weeks, months will be full of testing and changing. I'm already walking. I'm already getting dressed on my own. I'm already with Lennon on my own while Dann is at work. It's hard to believe that a month ago I was pretty much on me deathbed, and now I'm almost back to normal. But that's how I roll.
And I have to add this little story in because it was a turning point. There was a doctor, I wish I remembered her name, but it was probably the second or third day that I was awake and things are still sketchy then. This doctor came in and she held my hand for a second. She probably saw through the bi-pap mask that I was scared out of my mind, but she also knew that this wasn't my first time at the rodeo. I was coughing a little bit and my sides and ribs just ached from the sudden coughing. But she said, "do you know why you're coughing so much?" I shook my head no. She said, "because you're finally moving and stretching your lungs out. Things are moving. I know that you don't think you're doing better (I didn't.) but you are." I shook my head yes, but I didn't believe her. And then she said, "You been through much harder stuff, Autumn. You gave birth to a child. You are much better than you were two days ago. You have a lot to look forward to. This is minor. You have many more years left." And she closed with, "That little boy is waiting on his mom."
She then started to chat with my mom and I just started to think about all of progress I made since day one. When I was born, I wasn't breathing correctly (surprise, surprise!) The doctors had no clue what my deal was. They told my mom that I wouldn't live to see a week. Then it was a month. Then it was a year. Then nearly seven years went by and I was back in ICU. They told her to make funeral arrangements because I wasn't going to come out of this one. Well, I'll be damned. If I'm anything, it's stubborn. (I also have a thing for proving people wrong.) I went through a lot by the time I was seven. The next big deal would be Lennon. When I found out I was pregnant (unplanned and utter surprise,) I freaked. That's probably an understatement. I'm not embarrassed or ashamed to say that I had no plans to keep the pregnancy. BUT with another nudge and poke from nurses (three of them.) and Buckley's "Hallelujah" playing in Liverpool One, I took the clearly given signs, swallowed my fears, called my mama to tell her the news, and hope to crap that this pip in my belly and I would both survive. We did.
Back to now. That doctor simply saying that I gave birth to another human being. I grew it inside of my less-than-ideal-conditions body, I got sliced open to bring him into this world, I healed, and recovered (not as much as I hoped.) It was all I needed in that moment to get motivated. To stop being scared, or try to, and to focus on getting my strength back and kicking this damn illness to the curb. I sat up on my own the next evening. Not for very long and I couldn't hold my head up, but I did it. I progressed rapidly from that moment on. Within two days I was holding my head up for a few minutes at a time, two days after that I kicked the bi-pap for good, the next day I was yelling at the twits who wanted to send me to assisted living. Like I said, it wasn't my first time at the rodeo. I knew where I was headed - home to my blonde-haired cutie. My nana always said that experience is the worst teacher because she teaches the lesson after the test. But in this instance, experience was on my side.
Oh, my nana.
Not Sure What To Call This Section - As you may or may not have read, my dreams or whatevers were full of my nana. From the very beginning of the sedation until Wednesday, the 11th, when the sedation finally wore off, she was there. As I mentioned I didn't see her. I saw photos of her. Old movies of her. Memories of a time that we simply won't get back. As I got further away from the sedation, the dreams were silent and in brown and teal - colors from her bar, at least how I remember it. Right at the very beginning everything was realistic and vibrant and loud - visual and audio. But I knew or felt that my nana was playing these stories for me. Home movies is what I thought to myself during one. And I wondered how I've never seen them before. There was a connection, a closeness, a bond, perhaps, that I can't explain. I have a terrible time settling on what happens after we leave this earth, but I do not have a difficult time telling anyone that my nana was with me the whole time. I'm sure other family members were talking to her, maybe even shouting a prayer or two, but that great lady was with me. And of course, I'm grateful for that; she was my comfort and my guide for those eleven days. But, here's another aspect that I've come to realize just in the last ten days or so. It brought me closure. It was a final goodbye - coherent - from my nana. It was something that dementia robbed from us. I miss her and I wish she was still living on this earth with us, but the longing and the bitterness, and the ache, and anger have just washed away. It's so hard to explain in a comprehensible way. Maybe it's because it's not a goodbye, but it really is a "I'll see you later" type of deal, and I was "fortunate" enough to be with her again. I'm not sure. I just know that for me, in this moment, I am at peace, which is something I begged for for all of 2016. I wish that I could give my family some sort of closure regarding our nana, without the ventilator, of course. But I know she's waiting for us. And she will turn you away if you try to arrive to the party too early. :)
As always, thanks for your continued prayers. Thank you for taking the time to read this little blog. I hope that you find things to be grateful for each day.
xoxo,
A
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