72 long hours
four minute read
a different world
At some point on Saturday one of the many doctors came in and said they were going to take John for a CAT scan - I wasn't exactly sure what a CAT scan would tell us but assumed it was a way to check his brain for damage. By now there were even more wires and machines connected to my boy, so to watch the team detangle and detach, then reattach everything in mobile format was impressive to say the least. They said it would be about an hour and a nurse knowingly suggested that I either eat, sleep or spend some time out of the room or better yet, all three. None of her ideas sounded very optimal but walking seemed less torturous than the thought of sleeping and possibly missing something, and eating was out of the question, so I padded out to the hallway in my newly provided hospital socks to see what else was happening in this world within the world.
It felt like I was in an alternative Las Vegas where you don't know what time it is or have a good sense of reality because the world you're operating in isn't attached to anything that makes sense. And even thought I detest it, I definitely would have rather been in the real Vegas. Once the team had navigated the obstacle course that was John's room and wheeled him down the hallway and out a set of double doors I followed signs to the waiting room to see if I could locate my husband. In the blur and hurry and wait and hurry again we kept ending up in different places, him usually making calls and sending text messages to my ex and other family members while I sat in John's room waiting...for anything.
There was another set of double doors leading to the waiting room, each one had a poster on it with a picture of a very cute little blonde-haired boy in a red and white striped t-shirt and a caption that read, "Shhhhh...silent hospitals help people heal." I almost laughed out loud because the last way I would describe the ICU would be quiet, let alone silent! It was a nice sentiment though and I pushed open the doors only to be blinded by what I forgot would be daylight. The surreal Vegas-like world I'd been in since 10 PM the night before hadn't included daylight so it was disorienting and refreshing at the same time.
My husband was there on one of the requisite 1980's looking couches on his phone - looking so tired and stressed. He was doing triage on the barrage of incoming questions that kept growing as our friends found out what had happened. Everyone was so worried and offered words of kindness and prayers, which we needed more than anything. I sat down next to him and tried to relay the jumble of information I'd gathered over the past few hours...CAT scan in progress, problems drawing blood due to John's low body temperature, organ damage, possible need for kidney dialysis, MRI when possible, pneumonia still bad, very high risk for infection...it went on and on. We sat in numb silence for a while before we both headed back to John's room for whatever was going to happen next. In the hallway we met up with the head ICU doctor who said he wanted to talk with us - we stayed outside the room for the same reason as we did in the ER.
The doctor asked where 'dad' was and when he heard he was still in California he said in a very authoritative voice, "He needs to come, now." We nodded and said we'd get that going. My youngest son had just flown down two days before to see his dad for Spring Break, so we needed them both to find flights and get to Seattle, quickly. The urgency with which the doctor requested family to get there was alarming and I didn't take it as a good sign.
24 hours in
A hospital stay will test the patience of anyone to their outer limits, and is arduous in a way that's hard to explain because your world is in a state of crisis but you have to simply sit and wait. Nothing you do will speed up the recovery [or lack of recovery] process. And if you have wonderful and caring friends like we do, they all want to help, want to be given some small task that will help you, because they know they can't do a single thing for the one laying in the bed. This is all somewhat ironic because when your child is an addict you don't tend to get casseroles delivered or people offering to clean your house or run your errands. Even though you're in the same state of neediness and desperation as other parents whose children have a terminal illness, your needs lie under the radar because people don't know what to say or do. So you suffer alone.
My parents were allowed to come to visit and my mom, a retired RN who knows the ICU drill was a calm and comforting presence during the long stints of waiting. She and my dad also worked magic by cashing in credit card miles to fly both John's dad and my 17-year-old son up from San Diego the next morning. Thankfully, someone had given me a small black leather notebook by Saturday evening because I'd filled the back of the welcome packet with jumbles of notes and facts and had run out of writing space. I made notes like, "5pm - turned in bed and oral care done." "No visitors still." "Riccardo getting hand lotion at the mall." "Staying here tonight, nurse bringing blanket and pillow." "Shivering a lot." It looks like a second-grade level of documentation but it was helpful to get it out and I'm grateful now to have this tangible piece of raw emotion to hold onto.
Looking around at the hundreds of tubes and wires and all the machines that were keeping John alive, I noticed the green plastic bag in the corner again - it was still with us and I decided to see what clues it might contain. I un-cinched the cord at the top and pulled out damp clothes that had a horrible, sad smell I'd caught wind of in the ER. There was a brown leather jacket, striped Ralph Lauren button-down shirt, khaki pants, a leather belt and brown leather loafers. No socks, wallet or phone - who knows what had been taken before the medics arrived. The jacket and shirt were splayed open where the medics obviously cut from waist to neck to gain access to John's chest for CPR.
The clothing choice told me John was definitely dressed up for something - this wasn't his usual sagging True Religion jeans, fake Gucci belt and baggy t-shirt which seemed to be the standard uniform lately. He had lost so much weight over the past months that when we did see each other I just wanted to force-feed him large volumes of high-calorie foods. People who are addicted to drugs, when given the choice of chemicals or food almost always choose the chemical. I laid everything out on the floor of the hospital room and stared at what easily could be the last outfit my son ever wore. Knowing him, I could envision him rummaging through the stacks of black plastic garbage bags he kept his clothes in wherever he was staying and deciding this was a good fashion combo for whatever plans he’d made. Now, damp, ripped, omitting a disgusting stench and crumpled on the floor it looked so desperate and so hopeful at the same time. At least there had been thought put into it, which counted for something.
The smell was too much to bear so I shoved everything back into the bag, tightly pulled the strings to close the top and kicked it back into the corner - not being able to decide if I should throw it out or not. At that point I didn't know if or how sentimental it might become.