March 2006, Chapter One
March 1994 will forever be etched in my memory bank for it is the month I almost lost my son, Gregory. He is a young man of thirty eight years today; at age 26, a single event forever changed our lives. In a twinkling, a blinking of the eye, my son had a blood clot go to the brain stem and in that instant all was taken. Well, almost all. All movement. Speech gone. Eyes that couldn't close; pupils that spun eerily. Within an hour, the Dr's told us, there would be a second swelling within the brain and he would be gone. The family gathered around Greg's bed; the priest gave the last rites. Gregory was conscious and knew what was going on. Soft crying and murmuring filled the room. An hour passed. Two hours passed. Three hours passed etc. throughout the longest night in history. Come morning Gregory was still with us, which, opened up a pandora's box of new decisions to be made.
March 2006 I came very close to losing my son, Gregory, again. He had bouts of pneumonia since last September and was in the hospital about every six weeks. When my son does leave this plane it will be because he is escorted by pneumonia. Well, in March we made another appointment for Greg to see his Dr. again. It was a week before that Greg had been released from the hospital and put on two antibiotics; the antibiotics were almost gone and Greg spelled out that he wasn't feeling any better.
Gregory's caregiver, and family friend, Tim, who has been with us for the past five years, and I get Gregory to the Dr. appointment. Picture this. We are in the inner waiting room, we have paid our dues in the outer waiting room already, and we are now expecting to see the Doctor
come through the door. Gregory started coughing non-stop in the outer waiting room; so we were ushered into the inner waiting room. Greg is coughing bad and "stuff" is coming out of his nose and mouth. Tim and I go through a box and a half of kleenex. Then comes this weird sound, like a car back-firing over and over or a car alarm going off repeatedly. Tim looks at something flashing on the wall and says it a fire alarm drill. At the same time of his announcement someone comes to the room and says we have to leave the room, follow her. She leads us through a maze of corridors to the stairewell where we are planted. Greg's in a wheelchair, we can't use the elevator, we are on the third floor. Meanwhile Gregory's body is racked in coughs. Finally we get back to the inner room and the Doctor comes in. She takes one look at Gregory and says she's admitting him to the hospital. His oxygen is checked; it reads 72; normal is 96 to 100.
Gregory is taken to the hospital; he's on the fifth floor. I am following the hospital bed that has my son in it and the orderlies are wheeling him past the nurses' station and way down to the end of this corridor. A new Doctor comes in. Gregory had been hooked up to ten liters of oxygen, yet, he couldn't hold a steady oxygen level. It kept dropping. We were't in the room more than ten minutes when the Doctor said she was sending Gregory to ICU. He needed more care than what they could give him and he was too far away from the nurses station. Gregory was whisked away again with Tim and I in hot pursuit. Through long corridors we went again, in and out of elevators. Finally, we arrived at our destination.
My son cannot speak. However, he is cognitive; he understands everything you say to him; he has an incredible memory and he communicates through a eye blinking system that lets you know what his needs are. He also feels physical pain. Most quadreplegics cannot feel your touch, or a hot object placed on their skin. They do not feel the shower water on their body. Gregory feels pain. It has literally been a life saver when Greg could communicate to us his not feeling well; it has prevented some sicknesses from taking hold.
In ICU we are told that we cannot be in there. We are too wait in the waiting area until called. I explain that there is someone always with Gregory, either a caregiver or myself, to interpret for him. He spells out whole sentences using an eye blink system. Amongst strangers, and expecially in a hospital setting, communication would be so painstakingly slow. There wouldn't be time to communicate. I explain that someone is always with Greg in the hospital so he can let us know if something is wrong.
Head Nurse On Duty says, "No" "We will have to leave."
I turned to Gregory and asked: "Gregory do you want someone here in the room with you?"
Gregory blinked his eyes "up" for yes.
End of conversation. We got to stay.
note: I have decided to break this in chapters; I'll post what I have written; I'll be called back to write more regularly knowing it is not finished. This is going to take longer than I thought and I'm tired tonight.
March 1994 will forever be etched in my memory bank for it is the month I almost lost my son, Gregory. He is a young man of thirty eight years today; at age 26, a single event forever changed our lives. In a twinkling, a blinking of the eye, my son had a blood clot go to the brain stem and in that instant all was taken. Well, almost all. All movement. Speech gone. Eyes that couldn't close; pupils that spun eerily. Within an hour, the Dr's told us, there would be a second swelling within the brain and he would be gone. The family gathered around Greg's bed; the priest gave the last rites. Gregory was conscious and knew what was going on. Soft crying and murmuring filled the room. An hour passed. Two hours passed. Three hours passed etc. throughout the longest night in history. Come morning Gregory was still with us, which, opened up a pandora's box of new decisions to be made.
March 2006 I came very close to losing my son, Gregory, again. He had bouts of pneumonia since last September and was in the hospital about every six weeks. When my son does leave this plane it will be because he is escorted by pneumonia. Well, in March we made another appointment for Greg to see his Dr. again. It was a week before that Greg had been released from the hospital and put on two antibiotics; the antibiotics were almost gone and Greg spelled out that he wasn't feeling any better.
Gregory's caregiver, and family friend, Tim, who has been with us for the past five years, and I get Gregory to the Dr. appointment. Picture this. We are in the inner waiting room, we have paid our dues in the outer waiting room already, and we are now expecting to see the Doctor
come through the door. Gregory started coughing non-stop in the outer waiting room; so we were ushered into the inner waiting room. Greg is coughing bad and "stuff" is coming out of his nose and mouth. Tim and I go through a box and a half of kleenex. Then comes this weird sound, like a car back-firing over and over or a car alarm going off repeatedly. Tim looks at something flashing on the wall and says it a fire alarm drill. At the same time of his announcement someone comes to the room and says we have to leave the room, follow her. She leads us through a maze of corridors to the stairewell where we are planted. Greg's in a wheelchair, we can't use the elevator, we are on the third floor. Meanwhile Gregory's body is racked in coughs. Finally we get back to the inner room and the Doctor comes in. She takes one look at Gregory and says she's admitting him to the hospital. His oxygen is checked; it reads 72; normal is 96 to 100.
Gregory is taken to the hospital; he's on the fifth floor. I am following the hospital bed that has my son in it and the orderlies are wheeling him past the nurses' station and way down to the end of this corridor. A new Doctor comes in. Gregory had been hooked up to ten liters of oxygen, yet, he couldn't hold a steady oxygen level. It kept dropping. We were't in the room more than ten minutes when the Doctor said she was sending Gregory to ICU. He needed more care than what they could give him and he was too far away from the nurses station. Gregory was whisked away again with Tim and I in hot pursuit. Through long corridors we went again, in and out of elevators. Finally, we arrived at our destination.
My son cannot speak. However, he is cognitive; he understands everything you say to him; he has an incredible memory and he communicates through a eye blinking system that lets you know what his needs are. He also feels physical pain. Most quadreplegics cannot feel your touch, or a hot object placed on their skin. They do not feel the shower water on their body. Gregory feels pain. It has literally been a life saver when Greg could communicate to us his not feeling well; it has prevented some sicknesses from taking hold.
In ICU we are told that we cannot be in there. We are too wait in the waiting area until called. I explain that there is someone always with Gregory, either a caregiver or myself, to interpret for him. He spells out whole sentences using an eye blink system. Amongst strangers, and expecially in a hospital setting, communication would be so painstakingly slow. There wouldn't be time to communicate. I explain that someone is always with Greg in the hospital so he can let us know if something is wrong.
Head Nurse On Duty says, "No" "We will have to leave."
I turned to Gregory and asked: "Gregory do you want someone here in the room with you?"
Gregory blinked his eyes "up" for yes.
End of conversation. We got to stay.
note: I have decided to break this in chapters; I'll post what I have written; I'll be called back to write more regularly knowing it is not finished. This is going to take longer than I thought and I'm tired tonight.
posted by Learning Lollipops | 1:41 PM
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