ICU

four minute read

waiting…

While it did help to have some detail about how John ended up in the hospital it was still a surreal experience to be standing by, helpless, just waiting. We didn't even really know what we were waiting for - and the steady stream of nurses, aides, doctors and other busy-looking people rushing in and out of John's room didn't fill us in. So we waited. While pacing, sitting, pacing and sitting some more I received a text message from an unknown number that said it was John's girlfriend and she was asking if John was ok and if she could visit. It seemed like everyone thought he'd bumped his head and was going to be sauntering out of the hospital any minute now. More texts provided some detail about the planned dinner date but I was too scared and tired and confused to reply. What exactly do you say to someone you don't know via text in the middle of the night when your son is on life support in the ER?

Somewhere around 2 AM a doctor came into John's room and asked to talk with me and my husband. We went outside his room because although John was non-responsive we were told to speak to him exactly as if he was present because there was no way to know what he could potentially be processing. Apparently the doctor didn't want John to hear whatever he was going to tell us. In the crowded and noisy hallway the doctor told us they felt that John was stable enough to move to the ICU - this was huge! I'd been under the assumption we'd be spending a lot longer in the ER so to hear that he'd be moved was reassuring, until I really thought about it. When moving to the ICU is a step up that means you're not doing too well...regardless, it was something and literally before we were done talking with the doctor John was being wheeled out of his room by three people, one moving the stretcher, one on the ventilator and one wrangling the numerous tubes connecting him to his IV's. It could've been a scene from "ER" only it was happening in front of me, with no cameras rolling, and my son in the bed.

We quickly grabbed everything from John's room, including a large green plastic bag with a thin rope handle that cinched the top together that was sitting in the corner of the room. When I picked it up it was fairly heavy and smelled strongly of smoke and a stench that I recognized as the smell of someone who is using and not taking good care of their hygiene. This, I thought, was whatever John was wearing and had with him when he was found. I lugged it along as we followed the trio of lifesavers through hallways and doors and more hallways and into an enormous elevator - all the while passing people on stretchers, standing, sitting in chairs, all in various states of consciousness and physical wellbeing.

Seeing all of this pain and hurt I started to feel even more panicked but forced myself to re-focus on our journey to the ICU realizing I needed to save my sympathy and energy for our nightmare, not anyone else's. The freight-sized elevator stopped at the third floor and we all rolled out and into another long, dark hallway - this one significantly more quiet and felt heavier and more serious than the ER. We were met in one of the rooms by a male nurse who immediately took charge and started re-attaching tubes and things as if he was putting away groceries. He had a kind smile and was clearly so competent at what he was doing I immediately felt a tiny bit better. I realized it had been over an hour since I'd updated John's dad on what was happening so while the nurse was simultaneously getting the room and John settled I called my ex from the darkness of our new location and gave him what I felt like was good news, we were in the ICU and John was still alive. 

An intensive care unit, when well-run, is an incredibly humane machine that cranks out compassion and competence 24/7 - patients who are on the brink of death being cared for and kept alive by people so calm and reassuring that if you didn't know what they were doing you might think they were working in a busy spa. But these people thrive in the frantic moments and, I learned after days of conversation, they wouldn't work anywhere else. For this I was humbly grateful, knowing that John's life and future was being decided with each procedure, each decision by the nurses and doctors for whom this situation, sadly, wasn't new.

There was no sleeping, only the constant beeping of machines, people in and out, the room dim and the ventilator's whooshing marking time as it kept John's lungs in motion while he wasn't. Sometime early Saturday morning I realized this was likely not going to be a short stay and I wasn't going to be able to think and remember and process information like I normally do. I looked around for anything to write on - finding an "Important Patient Information" folder propped up next to a box of blue medical gloves on the side of the sink. The folder had a sticker on the front with John's personal information and inside was a welcome letter from the hospital's executive director, along with various pages related to financial and visiting policies and fact sheets about flu and pneumonia vaccines that had been administered to John. I found it slightly odd that in such a serious and uncertain environment someone had determined the need for a welcome packet - which I guessed a lot of patients themselves probably never saw given the situation in which they received it. 

Finding the back side of the welcome folder blank, I dug a pen out of my purse and started writing down everything I could clear out of my fuzzy brain, stunned to realize that it had been more than 12 hours since I'd received the twenty second phone call that summoned us here. By this time, Saturday morning, I'd sent text messages to family and my closest friends to let them know what was happening and to ask for prayers. Of course people wanted to come but the doctor heading up John's care required that we not have anyone for the time being - he wanted the room quiet and calm. He informed us that they were going to be cooling John's body temperature to 63F to help avoid swelling in his brain and organs, which seemed to be opposite of what had been done in the ER where they had him bundled up trying to get him warm. I didn't have the mental or emotional capacity to try and sort that one out so I nodded and just tried to stay out of the way of these life saving maneuvers.

The cooling process was achieved by wrapping what looked like giant cold packs around John’s calves and mid-section. We learned this was going to be a 72 hour process and during that time the doctors would have John under sedation to help him not shiver violently and also to avoid a scenario where he might start to come-to and try to pull the vent out of his throat. It now it made sense why his wrists had been tied with soft terry-cloth straps to the side railings of his bed since he arrived in the ER. I pulled a metal folding chair to the side of John's bed, found his tape-laden hand, gently wrapped his fingers around mine and laid my head on the side of his bed. And I prayed.