Greg In ICU
Chapter 4
I didn't sleep well; I tossed and turned. Dark murky images swirl inside my head. I am not suspecious. I do no put any credence in Kimmy's words. What would possess her to say such a thing to me? If I had a "vision" of some catastophy to befall a friend, would I tell them? No, I would not. I would never bring such a message of doom to anyone who is percariously walking the razor's edge.
On my drive to the hospital, I can't release those words. It's spooky. I'm not superstious I remind myself. By the time I park the car tears are streaming down my checks. I call Angel, my "adopted" daughter and tell her "brother" is in the hospital. I break down and tell her Greg is on a respirator. I also tell her about Kimmy's prediction. Angel said she's leaving her work and she will be at the hospital.
I met Kristeen, Greg's morning caregiver and friend already in Greg's room.I am so glad to see her.
I am not prepared for the sight of my son. He looks so lifeless. His body does not move. He has a huge cylinder tube going down his throad and it's taped all around his mouth and nose. His lips are half taped and half sticking out at odd angles. He barely looks as if he is breathing. The machine is doing his breathing for him. As the morning moves on I notice there is no output in Greg's urinary bag. However, there are these plastic containers behind Greg filled with this pinkish, reddish, foamy stuff they suctioned from Greg's lungs. He had a lot of fluid in his lungs.
I call Melinda to come down to the hospital. It's not looking so good for Greg; I know she would want to be here. She is helping at the preschool, however, her thoughts are here. Kelly, another preschool Mom insists that Melinda come to the
the hospital and she will help Patty with the kids. I am so blessed by the "unsung heroes" that surround me.
How can I take Greg home, when he's released? I am fearful that I am inadequate to care for him. I didn't know he was this sick when we bought him in. It's a good thing we didn't wait for his scheduled appointment two weeks away. The nurses had said it's a good thing when Greg coughed up "crap." He was bringing it up out of his lungs they said. It's a good thing. It's a good thing that Greg knew he wasn't feeling any better after almost finishing all the antibiotics. He's the one that requested I make a Doctor's appointment.
I am told by the Doctors' that it's quite common for the body to rush to the most needed place of healing, his lungs, and the other bodily functions cease, to allow for the highest concentration of repair where it is needed. I am not to be alarmed.
Out of the room, out of Gregory's range of hearing, I tell Kristeen what Kimmy said. She tells me that a friend of Greg's emailed him and said to Greg that she dreamed she and Greg were in the hospital together as patients. She emailed Greg that she came out of the hospital alive but he didn't. She knew Greg was sick and fighting pheumonia. What kind of "friend" is this? Why am I listening to this? Why am I giving it any energy by repeating it? I am not superstitious. The hook is in me; I can't get it out.
Do these two know something I don't?
I know there is a real possibility that Greg could die. Am I in denial of this? Why are there words hitting me so hard. I am spooked.
I look at my son and my heart wrapes around him. My thoughts surround my son; if I have to let you go, I can muster up the strength to do this. However, at the same time I am selfish and I want you here. I can't imagine life without you. I love you so. You have bought such joy and many life lessons to your Mom. The greatest lesson you have brought me is to slow down. You have introduced me to Patience. I have learned much from my journey with Patience thanks to you. In so many ways you have been an inspiration to me. Your upbeat wonderful attitude, your sense of humor, your laughter. What would we do without our wheeling encyclopedia? When we want to know something we ask you and you never fail us.
You look so fragil.
Angel shows up. I can tell by her face that she is taken a-back by the appearance of Greg. She puts on her cheery face and takes one of Greg's hand's in her's. She talks words of encouragement to Greg.
As I watch the two of them memories flood me from the past. Angel was one of the CNA's at the convelescent home where Greg lived for three and a half years. Angel worked the 3:00p.m. to 11:00p.m. shift. When Angel came on I knew I could go home and sleep without worrisome thoughts seeping through the veil of sleep that night.
He was in compassionate care. There were other "angels," "unsung heros," that took wonderful care of Greg during this period.
After visiting for awhile Angel says she has to get back to work. She softly kisses Greg and I tell her I 'll walk her back to her car. When we are outside and walking towards the car we comment on the blossoms on the trees herelding in spring.
I ask Angel what she thinks Greg's prognosis is? She looks at me, and measuring her words well, says,
"Remember, Greg has had a wonderful life. He is loved. He is so supported by you and everyone. You have helped give him such quality of life."
We hug, bye for now. I go back into the hospital.
My daughter Melinda arrives; she breaks down when she sees her brother. I comfort her; we talk and we wait. The waiting is the worst; it drags out to eternity.
During the day, off and on, Greg comes in and out of consciousness. He spells out with his eyes that he wants to be shaved. No way we tell him, he has more tape and tubes around his face, he's on oxygen too, and he has all these round disks stuck to his chest, measuring heart beat etc. He's hooked up to so many monitors; we tell him forget the shave and bath; he's a human pincussion and we are not about to disturb any of it. He's not happy and stubbornly insists on a bath and a shave. The nurse can't believe he's coherent.
For the next three and a half days the routine is pretty much the same. Finally the diagnosis is in. He has aspiration pneumonia. We knew this all along; pneumonia is the only health issue that drops Greg flat; a Dr. once told us, this is how Greg will die. All the tests; all the lab work, the results are not news to us.
Kristeen, Tim and I do the rounds with Greg during the day. We all welcome a good night sleep to have the energy to carry on the next day. We are awarded the sleep because Greg is being sedated. I don't know what I would do without them; they make my load easier. Unsung heroes.
My daughter Melinda and Patty back at the preschool allows me to be at the hospital without worry. Unsung heroes.
Life goes on. It does doesn't it?
Chapter 4
I didn't sleep well; I tossed and turned. Dark murky images swirl inside my head. I am not suspecious. I do no put any credence in Kimmy's words. What would possess her to say such a thing to me? If I had a "vision" of some catastophy to befall a friend, would I tell them? No, I would not. I would never bring such a message of doom to anyone who is percariously walking the razor's edge.
On my drive to the hospital, I can't release those words. It's spooky. I'm not superstious I remind myself. By the time I park the car tears are streaming down my checks. I call Angel, my "adopted" daughter and tell her "brother" is in the hospital. I break down and tell her Greg is on a respirator. I also tell her about Kimmy's prediction. Angel said she's leaving her work and she will be at the hospital.
I met Kristeen, Greg's morning caregiver and friend already in Greg's room.I am so glad to see her.
I am not prepared for the sight of my son. He looks so lifeless. His body does not move. He has a huge cylinder tube going down his throad and it's taped all around his mouth and nose. His lips are half taped and half sticking out at odd angles. He barely looks as if he is breathing. The machine is doing his breathing for him. As the morning moves on I notice there is no output in Greg's urinary bag. However, there are these plastic containers behind Greg filled with this pinkish, reddish, foamy stuff they suctioned from Greg's lungs. He had a lot of fluid in his lungs.
I call Melinda to come down to the hospital. It's not looking so good for Greg; I know she would want to be here. She is helping at the preschool, however, her thoughts are here. Kelly, another preschool Mom insists that Melinda come to the
the hospital and she will help Patty with the kids. I am so blessed by the "unsung heroes" that surround me.
How can I take Greg home, when he's released? I am fearful that I am inadequate to care for him. I didn't know he was this sick when we bought him in. It's a good thing we didn't wait for his scheduled appointment two weeks away. The nurses had said it's a good thing when Greg coughed up "crap." He was bringing it up out of his lungs they said. It's a good thing. It's a good thing that Greg knew he wasn't feeling any better after almost finishing all the antibiotics. He's the one that requested I make a Doctor's appointment.
I am told by the Doctors' that it's quite common for the body to rush to the most needed place of healing, his lungs, and the other bodily functions cease, to allow for the highest concentration of repair where it is needed. I am not to be alarmed.
Out of the room, out of Gregory's range of hearing, I tell Kristeen what Kimmy said. She tells me that a friend of Greg's emailed him and said to Greg that she dreamed she and Greg were in the hospital together as patients. She emailed Greg that she came out of the hospital alive but he didn't. She knew Greg was sick and fighting pheumonia. What kind of "friend" is this? Why am I listening to this? Why am I giving it any energy by repeating it? I am not superstitious. The hook is in me; I can't get it out.
Do these two know something I don't?
I know there is a real possibility that Greg could die. Am I in denial of this? Why are there words hitting me so hard. I am spooked.
I look at my son and my heart wrapes around him. My thoughts surround my son; if I have to let you go, I can muster up the strength to do this. However, at the same time I am selfish and I want you here. I can't imagine life without you. I love you so. You have bought such joy and many life lessons to your Mom. The greatest lesson you have brought me is to slow down. You have introduced me to Patience. I have learned much from my journey with Patience thanks to you. In so many ways you have been an inspiration to me. Your upbeat wonderful attitude, your sense of humor, your laughter. What would we do without our wheeling encyclopedia? When we want to know something we ask you and you never fail us.
You look so fragil.
Angel shows up. I can tell by her face that she is taken a-back by the appearance of Greg. She puts on her cheery face and takes one of Greg's hand's in her's. She talks words of encouragement to Greg.
As I watch the two of them memories flood me from the past. Angel was one of the CNA's at the convelescent home where Greg lived for three and a half years. Angel worked the 3:00p.m. to 11:00p.m. shift. When Angel came on I knew I could go home and sleep without worrisome thoughts seeping through the veil of sleep that night.
He was in compassionate care. There were other "angels," "unsung heros," that took wonderful care of Greg during this period.
After visiting for awhile Angel says she has to get back to work. She softly kisses Greg and I tell her I 'll walk her back to her car. When we are outside and walking towards the car we comment on the blossoms on the trees herelding in spring.
I ask Angel what she thinks Greg's prognosis is? She looks at me, and measuring her words well, says,
"Remember, Greg has had a wonderful life. He is loved. He is so supported by you and everyone. You have helped give him such quality of life."
We hug, bye for now. I go back into the hospital.
My daughter Melinda arrives; she breaks down when she sees her brother. I comfort her; we talk and we wait. The waiting is the worst; it drags out to eternity.
During the day, off and on, Greg comes in and out of consciousness. He spells out with his eyes that he wants to be shaved. No way we tell him, he has more tape and tubes around his face, he's on oxygen too, and he has all these round disks stuck to his chest, measuring heart beat etc. He's hooked up to so many monitors; we tell him forget the shave and bath; he's a human pincussion and we are not about to disturb any of it. He's not happy and stubbornly insists on a bath and a shave. The nurse can't believe he's coherent.
For the next three and a half days the routine is pretty much the same. Finally the diagnosis is in. He has aspiration pneumonia. We knew this all along; pneumonia is the only health issue that drops Greg flat; a Dr. once told us, this is how Greg will die. All the tests; all the lab work, the results are not news to us.
Kristeen, Tim and I do the rounds with Greg during the day. We all welcome a good night sleep to have the energy to carry on the next day. We are awarded the sleep because Greg is being sedated. I don't know what I would do without them; they make my load easier. Unsung heroes.
My daughter Melinda and Patty back at the preschool allows me to be at the hospital without worry. Unsung heroes.
Life goes on. It does doesn't it?
posted by Learning Lollipops | 8:53 PM
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