A PARENTS WORST NIGHTMARE
The Good Life
Well here we go again. Another year has started, and I am just getting used to writing the date correctly for the last one. Now, it is 2002. I remember thinking as a young boy how old I would be when the year 2000 rolled around. It seemed so impossibly far away. Now it’s two years past that point. In my mind I am still young, but the reality is that I am 58 years old. A point at which most people have more life behind them, than ahead. A scary thought if you allow yourself to dwell on it. I don't, but it creeps up on me from time to time.
Well here we go again. Another year has started, and I am just getting used to writing the date correctly for the last one. Now, it is 2002. I remember thinking as a young boy how old I would be when the year 2000 rolled around. It seemed so impossibly far away. Now it’s two years past that point. In my mind I am still young, but the reality is that I am 58 years old. A point at which most people have more life behind them, than ahead. A scary thought if you allow yourself to dwell on it. I don't, but it creeps up on me from time to time.
Mark Twain said of aging, "I recognize it, but I don't realize it." I feel that way myself. In my minds eye, I am still the boy wondering what it's like to be old. Modern medicine may allow me to live past the point common to most of the senior citizens I have known, but I don't count on it. As much as I would like to live a long time, I am probably programmed for 75 useful years like most everybody else. If that turns out to be true, it would leave me only 17 more years to enjoy the good life, providing I don't get hit by a bus. Like I said, more behind me than ahead.
This reality faced, does not mean that I am morbid in my overall thinking. Quite the contrary. I really do enjoy the good life. I have a good marriage, that has lasted 37 years. My home is paid for. I have two fine boys, who are both married, with houses of their own. Shirl and I now have twin grand-children, who stay with us several times a week. I have no debt to speak of, and money in the bank. My little business has generated enough income, so that I have not had to use any of my IRA funds. Our family is healthy, and Shirl and I can pretty much do as we please - within reason of course. In other words, we are sailing along with essentially no problems. Life is good, and we expect it to remain that way. Like many people, I feel immune to the problems around me that seem to strike at other families with regularity. I rationalize that we must be spared the trials faced by our peers because we are perhaps better parents. Maybe we have planned ahead better, fore-seeing and side-stepping problems before they strike. Maybe we have trained our children better. Maybe, we are just smarter than everybody else - maybe not.
I have heard other people living through times of good fortune attribute it to God, saying he is protecting them, while allowing disasters to visit others. I totally reject this notion as silly, but would never mention it to those who believe such superstition. The God I learned about does not play favorites, or punish the innocent for the sins committed by others. Whenever the unexplained happens, there have always been those who will quickly blame it on God, in an effort to appear wiser than the rest of us who are comfortable just being baffled by the event. I will remain baffled as to why bad things happen to good people. If God plays such cruel jokes, I shall forever question his judgment, or her's as the case may be. Whatever the reason, our family has been lucky up to now. That has made us comfortable with the status quo. However, it has been my experience, that being too comfortable can only lead to a nasty surprise. It is governed by the natural order of things. This is similar to Newtonian Law, as in, for every up there is a down. Or if you prefer, we may assign the blame to our good friend Murphy, who through the ages has maintained that if a thing can go wrong - it will. Murphy, was about to visit my family.
2
The Call
I have always felt uneasy when the phone rings after nine or ten at night. Something about it feels like trouble. I hold my breath until I hear the gest of the conversation. Usually it is one of Shirl's friends, who forgot to ask what to wear tomorrow during an earlier conversation. Why women feel the need to talk to each other several times a day, about nothing at all, is a true mystery. I shall have to explore that at another time. Anyway, this call was one of those calls that felt like trouble, and in just a few seconds, it sounded like trouble. It was 10:35 PM on a Sunday night, early in February of 2002. The look on Shirl's face told me it was serious, and she motioned for me to pick up on the extension. I did, only to hear Laura (my youngest son's wife), telling us that our son Chad was in the hospital.
He had been to the doctor Friday with a very painful foot. The doctor sent him home with pain pills, and a diagnosis of "Shingles" on his foot and ankle. He spent Saturday and Sunday on the couch nursing his ankle, and suffering with what he believed to be a cold, or a touch of the flu, as he was running a fever. By Sunday night he was behaving erratically, and complained that he could not see the television screen. It was then that Laura knew that they had to go to the hospital, which they did. By the time they got to North Hills Hospital, he was delirious and combative, and had to be restrained in order for them to treat him. They sedated him and put him on a respirator as his breathing and vital signs were not good, and getting worse.
As Laura related these details she tried to remain calm and composed, but the facade crumbled. She began to cry when she told us that he was on a breathing machine, and they did not know what was wrong.
I knew right then that we would be going to Ft.Worth in the morning. I told her that everything would be all right. I suggested that we all wait an hour or so, to see if they knew anymore before we decided on when to leave. Either way, we would be there tomorrow. I was hoping that in an hour they would bring him around, and maybe the situation would improve, but of course it didn't. By the time Laura called back, we had decided that we would not be able to sleep, and had already packed for the trip. We could stay awake all night at home, or stay awake all night in the car on the road, it made no difference, other than we would be there sooner. So at midnight, we left for Ft. Worth Texas, with directions to North Hills Hospital.
The trip from Mobile to Ft. Worth took a little over ten hours. I must admit that starting out, I had my doubts about being able to make it. We had been up all day, and leaving on a 600 mile trip at midnight, with no sleep, did not seem like a good idea. I under estimated the effect that adrenaline has on the body. The thought of our son lying in an intensive care unit, unconscious and on a respirator, gave us both an energy boost that literally made the trip possible. I did not get sleepy, and didn't feel very tired until the sun came up.
The night was clear, with a full moon that lit the landscape for miles around. The interstate was mostly deserted, and the drive actually seemed easy - in a physical sense at least. Mentally it was terrible. The drive time allowed for too much imagination, and not knowing any facts, it was hard to keep from thinking about what might be happening.
Finally around 4:00 AM we could stand it no longer, and called back to the ICU nurses station to see if Laura knew anything else. She had gone home to try and get some rest. We called the house. She picked up, and told us that he was quiet and resting under heavy sedation. The doctors suspected that he may have a touch of meningitis. They had done a spinal tap, and even though the fluid was clear, his symptoms suggested some infection of the covering around the brain. The news was not good, but at least we had something that could be treated. I felt a little better, but not much.
Shortly after dawn we stopped at a Waffle House, and had breakfast and coffee. Lots of coffee. I still felt pretty good, except for my eyes. They were sore, and red. Luckily the sun was coming up behind us, so at least it wasn't in my face for the remaining miles into Dallas. We still had about four hours to go. Adrenaline or not, I would not suggest you attempt a trip like this. By mid morning we were still awake, but very shaky. The world seemed foggy, with an unreal sort of feel to it, even though it was a normal sunny morning. I knew that fatigue was catching up to us, but we had to push on anyway. I intended to complete this mission, no matter what. Shirl had managed to take a couple cat naps, and I think she might have driven for an hour or so, but I am not sure about that. I really can't remember.
3
The Hospital
We arrived at North Hills Hospital around 10:30 am Monday morning. It is a small neighborhood hospital, not exactly old, but not new. It looked well maintained and clean, but did not fill us with confidence. It had the look of a place that would be your second, or maybe third choice of hospitals, if you had time to pick and choose.
As we entered the lobby, Laura and her friend Charlotte were coming out of the elevators on their way to pick up Laura's Mom and Grandmother at the airport. Everyone exchanged greetings and the latest news on Chad's condition.He was still sedated, and still on the breathing machine. Essentially no change, other than he was quiet and comfortable now.
Shirl and I went upstairs to see him. Even though I have seen people in the ICU before, it is a shock to see one of your children lying there with tubes and wires running every which way. It is obvious that he is unconscious, but also obvious that he can here us. When ever Shirl talks, you can see his eyes move behind the closed lids. Also, if you put your fingers in his hand, he will squeeze them, if you ask him to. The doctor says it’s only a reflex. So, now we wait.
Laura's Mom and Grandmother arrived just before lunch. We all went and ate in the cafeteria. After lunch, I left Shirl at the hospital, while I went out to Chad's house. I put our stuff in the spare room, and thought I'd try and get some rest. Linda and Nanna had decided to stay in a motel this trip, so I had the house to myself for a while.
I decided to lie down on the couch for a short nap. I had just closed my eyes, when the phone rang. I answered it, but no one was there. I laid back down. Again, rrrriinnng, it is the phone. This time there is a recorded message urging me to try a new carpet cleaning service. I hang up and lay back down. Once again I shut my eyes, only to hear the door bell. By the time I get there, and fumble with the key, whoever pushed the button had moved on. There is no one at the door. I go back to the couch. I think that now, I will surely get some peace. A few minutes later, I hear the front door knocker, tap,tap,tap. Now I am sure someone is there, and I hurry to the front door in an effort to catch the prankster before he disappears again. Much to my surprise there is actually a worker with a leather tool belt standing patiently at the front door. He is from the cable company responding to a trouble call that Mr. Bowers placed last week. He rang the bell a few minutes ago just to let someone know he was here, then went around the side of the house to check the main connection first. I tell him to come on in. He begins to unravel the rats nest of wires behind the TV, and soon discovers a bad connector. Which he fixes in short order. Now at least I will have TV. After the repair guy leaves I turn the set on to one of the home channels. I try once more for a short nap. Soon there came a tapping, as if someone gently rapping, rapping at my son's front door. I can't believe this. Once again I am foiled in my attempt at rest. I open the door, only to be set upon by the man from the security company. He has stopped by to show us how to use the alarm system. I try to tell him that it is not my house, and that my son is in the hospital. But he is persistent. I let him in.
"This will only take a few minutes, and you can show your daughter-in-law how to work it," he says. I am too tired and bleary eyed to argue, so I urge him to please get on with it. I pretend to listen as he goes through the motions of setting and clearing the alarm system. When he is done I assure him that I have no questions. Thank you for coming and all that. Finally, I am alone again with the couch. This time I think I actually got a minute or two of semi sleep before the phone rang again. It was Shirl, and she had the doctor with her. She wants me to talk with him. Unlike my other visitors, I actually want to talk with this guy.
Dr. Jones introduced himself, and then described Chad's condition. He has a massive staph infection in his blood stream that is affecting his entire system. The worst of which he describes as Endocarditus. It may be spelled wrong, but that's what it sounded like to me. Some of the bacteria have settled on, and partially destroyed one of Chad's heart valves. It is the Mitral Valve, and it is leaking. They are not sure if it is only from a build up of bacteria on the leaves of the valve, or if there is actually a hole the valve. They have taken cultures, and will know in 24 hours exactly what type of bacteria is infecting our boy. Until then they will continue to treat Chad with large doses of six different antibiotics, under the assumption that one of them will be effective. The doctor says that this can lead to liver, kidney, and even brain damage, if not brought under control. He is a very sick young man.
I am in total shock, and so is everybody else. I don't know what I expected, but not something this bad. This type of thing doesn't happen to my family. How could a young guy be reasonably healthy one week, and on deaths door the next. Hell, I didn't even know what to ask. I put the phone down, after mumbling something about thanks for calling to the Doctor.
I don't remember much else about that day. Somehow we all ended up at Chad and Laura's house that afternoon. I think we ate something there, before going back to the hospital that night. I finally went to bed and got some sleep around 10 P.M.
The next morning we were treated to a parade of doctors from just about all the specialties. There was a General Practitioner, who was actually the admitting doctor. A Pulmonary guy, who turned out to be the previous years "Doctor of the Year" winner at that hospital. A young girl who claimed to be a Cardiologist, but who looked more like a cheer leader. Actually she was very good, and became one of our favorites. There was an Infectious Disease guy, and a Neurologist, along with a never ending stream of respiratory people, pulse takers, and various noise makers of all types.
Over the next few days we talked with each one several times. If proved to be confusing, and aggravating. Each doctor would relate what he suspected, and what could happen next, at least from his perspective. The Cardiologist thought that Chad would need surgery to repair a heart valve. The Endocrinologist said that would not be a concern at all for now. The infection must be controlled before anything else is attempted. The pulmonary guy was concerned that the lungs could be damaged. The Neurologist was a nut case who reminded me of Groucho Marx in a doctor suit. He ranted on without looking at you, and seemed to take some gleeful satisfaction in relating that this infection could take twist and turns that no one could foresee. He waved his arms around, and was actually smiling, as he described what damage could be done to the brain. I called his office, and told them that I wanted another doctor assigned to Chad's care. They complied. Another Neurologist showed up the next day. He told us that there was no evidence of brain damage at this time. That's better !
Chad remained sedated, and on a respirator until Wensday afternoon. The drug that they were giving him was particularly effective against this strain of bacteria. His overall condition improved rapidly, once it began to work it's magic. Nearly four days of being unconscious ended when we saw him open his eyes and ask, "Mom, what are you doing here?" He thought it was still Sunday, and found it hard to believe that so much time had gone by, and that his parents were here.
Over the next few days in ICU, he continued to improve. But every doctor who came in seemed to want to mention the need for a heart operation. It had a bad effect on Chad, and on the rest of us for that matter. Whenever some doc mentioned a possible heart operation, Chad became agitated and worried. I could see his pulse rate go up on the monitor, and the fear in his eyes. Personally I didn't believe it. I refused to admit that it might actually be needed someday. I finally managed to get three of the docs cornered in the hallway one morning. I told them not to mention anything about heart operations, until they knew for sure that it was actually going to happen. Even one of the cardiologist had doubts about whether or not the bacteria would damage the valve, or just flake off , leaving the valve intact. His take was that it was too soon to tell, and not a big concern at this time. This guy became another one of our favorites. He was a young doctor, obviously of Indian decent, with a special gift of being able to put people at ease. His manner was just pleasant. He talked slower, perhaps because of his accent. It had a calming effect on everyone. We liked him. For the next couple of weeks I wouldn't let the subject of heart operations come up. I really expected my boy to beat this infection, and go home cured. Besides, my Indian friend said, "It would be foolish to operate at this time." The part I didn't listen to was - at this time.
For the next several weeks someone was at the hospital with Chad pretty much continuously. I think it was Thursday when they moved Chad from the ICU into a regular room. Shirl, (who by now knew every nurse and orderly in the place) had managed to get a recliner moved into the room. One of the chairs also converted into a spare bed. Somebody stayed each night. Not only to keep Chad company, but also to make sure that he received good care. Chad had experienced a very bad incident in the ICU one night, caused by a male nurse who didn't want to do his job. We had him replaced too. Overall, the nurses and orderlies were excellent. But you just can't take a chance anymore. Too much is at stake. One serious error can kill you. Hospitals are dangerous places. On Friday, Linda and Nanna flew back to Montgomery. Shirl and I stayed on. We had all settled into a routine of going back and forth between the hospital and Chad's house. Laura tried to work some each day, and come to the hospital at night. Then we would trade off.
On Sunday, one week after Chad was admitted, I went back to Mobile. Shirl remained in Ft. Worth for the next month or so. I can't remember the exact day, or even the week, that particular events happened. The whole experience seems like time spent in the Twilight Zone. However, I am guessing, that sometime during the second week Chad's knee began to hurt. It was swollen and hot. Now we needed a bone guy, sometimes called a knee and wallet man. Anyway, this guy decides that Chad needs an operation on his knee. He will scrape out the infection behind the kneecap, and repair any tendon or muscle damage caused by the infection. Unbelievable! It is beginning to look as if the crazy neurologist was right. This is taking twist and turns we had not anticipated. The knee operation is painful for a few days, but successful overall. Chad will have to walk with a cane for a couple weeks, but other than that, no big deal.
I am now back in Mobile, trying to run my little business. I keep in touch with the daily events in Ft. Worth by phone. Shirl is really upset about this knee thing. All I can do is tell her that everything will be OK. I am helpless to resolve any of this. After dinner each night I spend a lot of time on the phone, relaying whatever the latest news is to all the relatives. I call Shirl, or she calls me. Then I begin calling the rest of the world. This way we eliminate the aggravation of having all the relations calling the hospital room. Chad is still not able to talk well. We think his vocal cords were damaged during the four days he spent on a ventilator. This makes talking on the telephone very difficult for him. It is simply to tiring to talk to everybody who is concerned about how he is doing. He sounds like a man with permanent laryngitis.
Finally, sometime during the third week after the initial infection, Chad is sent home. Now he will have to contend with a wife, and a mom in the same house. Both dedicated to taking care of him. I am glad to be in Mobile.
4
The Girls
Shirl and Laura have a stressful relationship. Living so far apart, they have not had any time to form a bond with each other. Boundaries are undefined. Laura is maybe a little intimidated by Shirl's ability to get things done quickly and efficiently. Maybe a little self conscious and worried that she will be compared to Mom. Who knows? Shirl is aggravated by Laura's reluctance to accept help with anything, even when it is obvious that help is needed. Laura has diabetes, and it causes her to have weak spells, and mood changes that come on suddenly. All of this is aggravated by stress. The problem only gets worse as time goes on. Shirl is there around the clock. Laura is there at night after work, and comes home for lunch each day. Two women in the same house is never a good idea. Two women in the same house, sharing care giver duties, can become stressful in a hurry. Laura is jealous that "Mom" is there taking care of her husband. She obviously feels pushed out of what she sees as her rightful place. Shirl is continuously frustrated with Laura, because she does not want her help. Simple things, like an offer to make dinner, shop, or just clean the house, are met with negative responses. Even though it is obvious that Laura does not have the time, or the energy, to do all of these things. To try and stay out of the way, Shirl moved a small TV into the guest bedroom. She stayed in there by herself each night after dinner, so that Laura could have Chad to herself, while they watched TV in the den. No problem? Well, it was a problem, but Shirl just tried to ignore it. It was understandable that a new bride, in a new home, would feel a little put out by having her mother in law spend a month with her. All the while sharing in the care of her new husband. Hmnn, I am glad to be in Mobile.
Chad required intravenous antibiotics for four weeks after leaving the hospital. They fitted him with a permanent IV connection, and a pump that provided a continuous flow of the medication he needed. The pump had to be resupplied with a new bag every six hours or so. This went on day and night for weeks. It required that someone get up with Chad to help change the bag in the middle of the night. They girls developed a schedule that worked well. It is doubtful that one person could have done it alone.
Slowly but surely, Chad got better. The infectious decease man said that the blood cultures were almost clear. A couple more weeks of treatment should wind this up.
Almost six weeks after Chad went in the hospital, I drove back to Ft. Worth to pick up my wife. I left Mobile on Friday, stayed Saturday for a short visit with the kids, and we left for home Sunday morning, thinking that this nightmare was over.
5
We Wait
Every few days we would call Texas, and ask the same questions.
" How are you doing?"
" How's work?"
" Do you feel all right?"
" How's your knee?"
" What did the doctor say?"
"When do you go back to see him again?"
I am sure that both of the kids are tired of our constant concern, but we can't help it. Each time we get placated with responses designed to pretend that things are getting better. Each time we pretend to believe it. But in the back of our minds we know that things aren't quite right. You can here it in the way he breaths, and the lack of power in his voice. Something is wrong, and we suspect the worst, but pretend it isn’t so.
After finishing with the infection specialist, Chad had to return to the Cardiologist. It was time to see how his heart was doing after all the bacteria were eliminated from his body. Our cheer leader, Dr. Carla Lee, was happy to see him. She was not happy with the results of the echocardiogram. It showed that his Mitral Valve had a small hole in one of the leaves, causing a leak between the upper and lower chamber in the right side of his heart. This was the reason he remained a little out of breath, and did not have much stamina. He could work at his desk, and walk around in a store, but not do any prolonged physical activity without tiring quickly. Dr. Lee set up an appointment for Chad with Dr. Carter, a heart surgeon. This was scheduled for sometime around the first week in June.
The surgical team at Dr. Carter's office reviewed the charts, x-rays, and echo-grams. They examined him, and reached a conclusion. He would need surgery to repair or replace the valve. Although he could function now, it would only get worse with time. It was better to do this as soon as possible. Chad and Laura were shocked, scared, and disappointed. They had hoped that the leak would stop when the infection was cleared from the valve. It was not to be. There was a hole, and it wouldn't get better.
Friday night, June 7th, we receive another phone call. It is Chad and Laura, and they have something to tell us. I know immediately what it is, but keep quiet. We let Chad explain everything. The operation is scheduled for Friday, June 14th. They will not know whether the valve will be repaired, or replaced, until they get in there and look.
Shirl and I are both upset, mad, disappointed, shocked, all of the above. In the back of our minds we both knew this news was coming. However, when it is actually spoken out loud, it takes on a new reality. This was no longer a possibility. It was going to happen next Friday. We put on our best (not worried, this will be fine voice), and said we would be there to support them anyway we could. "Try not to worry", we said. Yea, right! After hanging up the phone, Shirl went in the bedroom and had a cry. I tried to console her for a few minutes, but there was nothing to say that would make it better. No way to relieve the pressure, or take away the fear. We both needed a little time to shift mental gears. Within an hour we were back in a planning mode. We would leave Wednesday for Texas. We would spend Thursday with Chad and Laura, then be at the hospital Friday morning.
We had previously decided, that when both sets of parents visit, we would alternate hotel stays. Since Laura's mother stayed in a motel last time, it would be our turn to stay at a hotel this time. Then when Linda (Laura’s mom) went home in a week or so, Shirl would move out to the house, and stay to help with Chad's recovery. I would go back to Mobile after a week like the last time. I got on the internet, and did a search for hotel / motel rooms close to Harris HEB Hospital. I found a place called "Studio Plus", that had a very good weekly rate. The rooms were all mini apartments, with a queen bed, couch and recliner, table and desk work area, and an equipped kitchen and bath. This all came for about half the price of a hotel room. I made reservations for two weeks, and felt good about having our plan in place. Plan your work, and work your plan I always say. I am somewhat compulsive about plans and lists.
6
Back to Fort Worth
I am getting to know this drive by heart. It is a sad stretch of road. The reason for the trip put a negative bias on everything, and the road itself offers no incentives to feel good about traveling. Most of the trip lacks any scenery worth looking at. The land is flat and boring. Whether you take I-10 across southern Louisiana, or follow I-20 from Jackson Mississippi west, it is an uninspiring drive, made even worse if you have done it several times already in the last few months.
We arrive about 6:00 PM Wed. afternoon, and check into our suite at Studio Plus. It is really quite nice. The unit has a bedroom area with two end tables and lamps, a couch and recliner grouped around the TV, a separate kitchen area, and a bath. The kitchen is fully equipped, and we have two phones. This is really a good deal, and it is almost across the street from the hospital.
After settling in and unpacking, we call Chad and Laura. They were at home, waiting on the relatives. We made plans to be out there around 7:30PM. At the appropriate time we head out, and spend the evening with them. Well, not the evening, just an hour or so. Everyone has had a long day, so around 9:00 PM we head back to the apartment, and get something to eat at a nearby "Whataburger." We did not eat prior to our visit, and Chad and Laura had already eaten. Now, it was too late for a regular meal. I hate to eat late, but there is no choice. This will make for a good nights sleep, I 'm sure.
The next day we go back out to the kids house. We hang around for a while, talk for a while, and go to a few stores to kill time for a while. I think we hit Target, and Lowes, and definitely visit the local Bombay Outlet.
We also go to the hospital with Chad and Laura to get the pre-surgery overview on what to expect the next day. We get the full treatment. We visit the ICU, and meet the nurses that will be taking care of our boy. We hear all the details about who will do what, where and when. OK, now we are prepped and ready. This can't be real, is played over and over in my mind like a broken record. Thirty year old children should not have heart operations! It’s wrong.
By late afternoon, we are all back at the house. Now we all make small talk, and pretend everything is ok. The real reason for our visit is virtually off limits. We talk about everything but the elephant in the room. After 6 PM slips by with no mention of dinner, I begin to wonder what the plan is. Knowing that Laura is not up to preparing dinner for six, I suggest that we go out, or bring something back. It is a reasonable idea, but Laura prefers that she and Chad stay home. So James, Linda, Shirl and I (the parents), head out for some dinner before it gets too late. We actually have a pleasant time. Laura's parents are good company, and easy to talk to. We have a lot in common, and share the same concerns for the kids. I keep saying "kids". The truth is, they are grown. Chad is 30 years old. However, both sets of parents think of them, and refer to them as, "The Children." Rightfully so I think.
We return to the house, talk, watch some TV, and leave again around 9:00 PM. This time we make plans to meet at the hospital at 6:00 AM. That is when they will take Chad in to do the prep required prior heart surgery.
That night, back at the apartment, we watch some TV and talk very little. There is nothing to say that can make this any easier. We set the clock for 4:45 am, and go to bed. Although we are tired, we wake up every hour and look at the clock. Our minds are too keyed up to allow for good sound sleep. We are both awake at 4:30 am, stealing glances at the bedside clock, waiting for its signal to get up. It is as if some unwritten law makes it wrong to get up prior to the alarm actually sounding. Finally I get out of bed and punch the start button on the coffee-maker. So it begins.
7
Another Hospital
We arrive at the hospital just prior to 6:00 am. Chad and Laura are not there yet. We sit down to wait, and in a few minutes see Chad, Laura, and Linda walking down the empty hallway. James is parking the car. The kids look tired, and stressed. Everyone sits down and makes small talk, as if by consent we have elected not to mention the heart operation soon to take place. It is spooky. The main topic of conversation seems to be the temperature in the building. Simply put, it is freezing. I normally like my environment on the cool side, but this is uncomfortable even for me. There would be no concern about food spoiling in here. I speculate that a bag full of burgers would last almost forever.
A nurse was coming our way, with the air of a person on a mission. She is coming to collect our son, and there is no way to stop this train now. With a feeling of disbelief, we sit and watch, as our son and his wife disappear down the hallway with the anonymous nurse. Now there is silence in the waiting area. We are alone with our thoughts, and afraid to express them aloud. I hate this!
It seems only a short time later when another nurse appears, advising that we may wait with Chad in his pre-op room. She takes us there, which proves to be a tour of sorts. We turn left, go down a hall, then right, only to face a hall that looks to be half a mile long. We walk, and walk, and pass what seems to be an endless supply of empty rooms. At the very end of the hall, our boy is firmly tucked in bed, in the last room they could have selected. My first thought was, "What was wrong with all those empty rooms we passed in order to reach this point?" Surely one of them would have been satisfactory for as brief a visit as this was going to be. It reminds me of some motels I have checked into. Even though you arrive early, they put you on the second floor, at the end of the hall. The parking lot was empty, so why do they assign me to the room farthest from anything? Like this hospital staging room, it makes no sense, yet I resist the obvious comment. There is no point in it. I am tilting at windmills.
We visit a while. Chad is in good spirits it seems, or else it is a great act. He seems calmer than the rest of us, and I think that he is probably ready for us to leave, so they can get on with this thing. The waiting, and the idle chatter about nothing, is getting to me too. I want to scream at these people. "Don't you know that he could die? Why are you asking him about the damn cat, for God's sake?" I am seething on the inside. Mad at everything, and nothing in particular. Yet, I keep externally cool. I maintain that aloof (this is no problem) composure, that I am famous for. It is expected of fathers, and I must stay in character. I feel that somehow it is important to exhibit a kind of stoic strength. I cannot let down now. The kid needs to see that "Pop" is not worried. I do my best, as does the entire troop.
The nurse is back, with two bozo's and a gurney. They are ready to take him to the operating room. With no effort at all, no fanfare, they have Chad on the stretcher, and out the door. The whole gang walks back up the long hall, until we reach a point where the stretcher bearers turn left, and we are directed to turn right. The moms are crying, Laura gets one final hug, and I am giving my son a "thumbs up" sign, as he is wheeled away. This really sucks.
8
The Wait
We are directed to the surgical waiting room, which by now has quite a few people in it. I head for the free coffee, and pick up a magazine. I am trying to act as if I am waiting on someone to have a mole removed. Shortly after arriving I check in with the volunteer at the patient info desk. I tell her who we are, and who we are waiting for. The lady informs us that we may wait in a special waiting area downstairs, set aside just for relatives of heart patients. I suppose that is to keep all the crying and wailing out of public view if something goes wrong. How nice. So, we pack up the gear, and head downstairs. Actually we take the elevator, not knowing at all where the stairs might be. The waiting area has two couches, and four chairs, and is centered in a large lobby with essentially nothing else in it but a small table and a phone. A corridor leads off to the right, which we learn later, goes directly to the cafeteria. Very handy. Now we wait.
The surgeon promised that someone would call when they started the operation, and again when they had access to the heart valve. This was obviously to let us know how things were going, and also whether or not the valve would be repaired, or replaced. The operation was scheduled to start at 7:30 am. As you might expect, the appointed hour came and went with no word from the operating room. I truly hate it when people don't do what they say they will do. By 8:15 am, I am becoming agitated. I am sure they must have started by now. But what if they hadn't? We are expecting the operation to take about four hours. Is it to be four hours from 7:30 am, or four hours from 8:30 am? That last hour could be hell, if you didn't know that they got started late. Don't these people understand the concern, the stress that family members go through? Don't they care? I think not. I can't wait any longer. I tell everyone that I am going upstairs to check with our candy-stripper. Maybe she has a line to the operating room, or something. Besides, I need to get up and move around. I tell Laura and the moms that I am going to find out what the hold up is, and head for the elevator. Damn, I hate this.
The old lady on the desk is very nice, and informs me that, yes, she can check on it, with someone off in the magic kingdom. She didn't actually put it that way, but I forget what she actually said. I was somewhat spaced out. In short order she has the answer. "They just started." Yea right. I am thinking that this is a standard line they give to every pain in the butt who asks about the goings on in the operating room. I thank her anyway, and decide to call the grand-parents in Grove Hill. I also have to call Tony and Ann(son and daughter in law). So I find a bank of phones, and get out the credit card. I am much better at dealing with crisis, when I feel that I am useful and have a mission to accomplish. If you need something done, I am your guy. Just don't ask me to sit and wait. I make the calls, and everyone is glad to hear from me, and full of confidence that all we be well. I agree with them, but the worry remains all the same. It is time to go back down to the lower level. The girls are still there (as if anyone dares to move). I inform them that the operation just started at 8:15, so it will be a little later than we expected before we hear anything. Now we wait some more. Linda and Laura decide to head down to the cafeteria. Laura needs to eat regularly to keep her blood sugar regulated, and it is time for a snack. We don't need another child down, that's for sure. We wait some more.
I guess it was around 10:30 am when the phone rang. Laura jumped up, and ran for it. We all put our magazines down, and tried to listen as inconspicuously as possible. She said, "Yes, ok, yes I see. Uh huh, O, that's great. Right, we'll be right here. Ok. Thank you."
As she walked back to the circle of chairs and couches, I could see that she was happy, and relieved. The news was obviously good. Now we just had to let her tell it. I am all ears as she begins. "The doctor said that Chad was doing great. They repaired the valve, and were just watching it for a while, before they closed the chest. In another hour or so, it should be over." We are all so incredibly happy, and worn out at the same time. I feel mentally better, but now I realize that I am physically deflated. It is like someone let the air out. I need some coffee, I need to make some phone calls, I need some relief.
I head back upstairs, and spend the next twenty minutes on the phone. Everyone at home can quit watching the clock, and go back about their business. I promise to call again later, hopefully after Chad is awake.
We still have to wait for the operation to be really over. It was well over an hour before they operating room nurse called again, and said that we could proceed to the second floor ICU waiting room. They were bringing Chad up in a few minutes. We would be able to see him after they finished setting up all the high tech stuff in the room that he would be connected to.
Finally, just after noon, we are led into the ICU. The room is freezing. The doctor is there, and he is all smiles. Everybody seems very up. If it is an act, it is a good one. Dr. Carter makes everyone feel better immediately. Everything went well. The heart even started on it's own without being shocked. Couldn't be better. Chad is semi conscious already. He opens his eyes with flashes of recognition, then closes them again for several more minutes. Each time he spends more time looking around, almost aware of what's going on, then out again. We ask him if he can hear us, he shakes his head yes. I tell him to squeeze my hand, and he does it. Even with his eyes closed he knows what is going on. By now, I am familiar with all the monitors, and understand what the squiggley lines mean. It looks good to me. Heart rate in the seventies, temp just a little elevated, blood pressure normal, breathing around 16 times a minute, with good pressure. He is already overpowering the respirator. It will stay in for a few more hours, but it is not actually needed. For the first time in weeks, I feel the heavy hand of anxiety lifting from me. Time for lunch. ( I have never been so worried that I couldn’t eat )
Shirl and I head back to our little apartment. We make sandwiches and eat lunch watching some home show on the tube. After lunch Shirl makes some more calls, and then we both take a short nap. Actually it was a long nap. When I wake up and look at the clock, it is pushing 4 PM. It is almost visiting time in the ICU. We freshen up and head back to the hospital. A quick turn under the interstate, and a few blocks down the service road and we are there. Our location is great.
9
Recovery
The ICU keeps regular hours and we try to follow the rules. They prefer no more than two people at a time back there, so we trade off during visiting hours. Shirl and I usually get there just as visiting hours start, because we are so close. We go in and visit a while, then go out and sit, while Laura and her mom, or dad go back to see the boy. It develops into a smoothly functioning routine, executed several times a day. Morning, afternoon, and night, we make all three periods everyday.
This first visit after surgery is special. We ride the elevator up with great anticipation, and no small amount of fear that he will not be awake, or that something will have gone wrong since we were here only a few hours ago. It must be OK, we didn't get any phone calls. Unspoken thoughts. Unspoken fears.
We hit the button on the wall, and walk through the opening double doors of the ICU. As we enter the door to Chad's room, we see that he has his eyes open, and has his bed slightly elevated. The breathing tube is still in his mouth, so he can't talk yet, but he half raises his arm in greeting. There is a light in his eyes, that transmits a signal of well being. This is much better than the last time he was in ICU. I am not a doc, but I know that this is a good sign. We visit a while, and communicate with yes or no questions that can be responded to with a gentle head movements.
Chad, does it hurt? This results in a slight side to side motion, indicating a no. Somehow I doubt that response, but then again he is still pretty medicated, so maybe he doesn't feel it yet. He looks good, and only shows signs of discomfort when he coughs. They have provided him with a medium sized stuffed bear to be hugged tightly against his breast bone whenever he has to cough. This, we are told, helps prevent damage to the incision, and helps the breast bone to knit back together sooner. The beeps, clicks, bubbling and sucking sounds of the equipment is distracting. There seems to be something connected at every point that you could possibly connect something to the human body. Even his feet are covered with pressurized stockings that extend nearly to his knees. About once a minute they inflate with a noticeable click, and then the sound of air being compressed. The socks constrict, and after a few seconds deflate with the hissing sound of escaping air flow. On the floor are two gurgling devices that seem to be half full of watery looking bloody fluid coming from tubes in his chest. The doctor says it's normal. Doesn't look like my idea of normal, but here I am out of my element. I am at the mercy of people who seem to know what they are doing. I shake my head in mock understanding as different nurses come and go. Each in turn answers a different question from one of our group. It seems the timing of their visits neatly coincides with our ability to think of something else to be concerned about. It works out nicely. It is obvious that our guy is still very drugged, and very tired. He naps for five and ten minute intervals, then opens his eyes and responds to his surroundings, then he is out again. His eyes are closed, and I am standing next to the bed holding his left hand. I tell him we are going to leave, but will be back about 8:30 PM for the last visit of the day. He squeezes my hand, and we leave.
Walking back to the elevator, the sense of relief, and pleasure at the positive outcome to all of this is over- powering. We are so happy that this day is over. That this operation didn't kill our boy. That he is going to be all right. That maybe we will sleep tonight. We don't say much, don't have to. The thought we share is that the worst of this is over. After the emotional coaster we have survived, that rest should be easy. We go to dinner, but I don't remember where.
When we return for the 8:30 PM visit, the vent tube has been removed, and he has his bed up a little higher. This is better than we had hoped for. Shirl's first question is, "Can you talk?" Chad responds in a loud clear voice. Much different than the last time he came off a ventilator. The voice is normal. The heart beat is normal, the breathing is normal, and he has had some fluid and jello. My eyes tear up a little, but I deftly adjust my glasses allowing for a quick eye wipe, without letting on that this has beat me up emotionally. Dads don't do visible eye wipes. Hey buddy, how ya doing?
We visit for a few minutes, and go out. Laura and her mom go in. During each visit for the next several days, we usually get there first, spend 15 minutes or so with our guy, then go sit in the waiting room reading mags and drinking the free coffee. Then towards the end of the visiting hours we go back in for another ten minutes or so. It is only right that Laura sit with Chad for most of the visiting period. We make a real effort not to be in the way. Plus, he is more at ease with his wife, and not so inclined to put on a good show for Mom and Pop. No matter how old boys get, they never get over trying to impress their parents. With his wife, he can go to sleep and just rest. With us, I get the feeling that he tries to put up a good front, so as not to disappoint. This is more so with fathers, than mothers. Boys don't want dad to think them weak or in need of help. They continue (even as adults) to solicit dad's approval. Even after a heart operation. We keep our visits short.
The next few days go quickly. We have a routine. Get up, eat, go to the hospital. Leave for lunch, go back for the 3:30 PM visit, stay until Chad gets his dinner tray, go have supper. Then we come back for the 8:30 PM visit. In between visits and meals, we go to the mall, shop for groceries, visit furniture galleries, and even get in a little touring. Not much, but a little. We visit the Home Depot Expo store several times, and drive out to Gravevine. We also manage to visit a Southern Living Showcase house. Didn't like it, but it was something to do.
Chad is moved into a regular room in the cardiac wing on Sunday. The whole wing is new, and they have all the latest gadgets. The nurses are good, the food ain't bad, and the furnishings are comfortable. The place has a good feel about it.
He is sore, and it hurts him when he coughs, but other than that he seems in good spirits, and happy. The specialties all visit a couple times per day. The pulse takers and pill pushers start the day, followed by the respiratory people. Then rehab comes in and takes Chad for his morning walk. He is not allowed to walk alone yet. During the day at no particular intervals, we are treated to an ever changing stream of doctors. All of these guys seem to be part of a team. You rarely see the same one more than two days in a row. Regardless of what they specialize in, they all listen, tap, go through the, "How ya doing bit," and make notations on the stack of papers clipped to the chart. Dr. Paramundi, seems to be the most caring, and patient one of the bunch. He takes the time to explain what is happening, and what is likely to happen tomorrow, without being asked too. Most of the others seem a bit hurried. Competent enough for sure, but ready to move on as quickly as possible.
Chad walks well now, and can make it up and back the entire length of the hallway. He is allowed to walk on his own, but we always have someone there with him, so he doesn't get much chance to wander around without one of us in tow. The reports from the doctors are all good. His lungs are clear, he has no infection, and he eats well. He can move around without assistance, if we would let him. Dr. Carter thinks he will go home Thursday morning, or maybe even Wednesday afternoon. Shirl and I can't believe it. Less than a week after major heart surgery, and he can go home. Somehow, it doesn't feel right. I am no doc, but it seems to me that he is more out of breath walking the hallway now, than when we started our walks a few days ago. It must be just parental worries, all the docs say he is ready to go. What do I know?
At this point, I must admit that I don't remember if it was Wed., or Thurs., when he was allowed to leave the hospital. Whenever it was, I thought it was too early. I think that is because as parents we still have doubts about our offspring's ability to care for themselves when they are well. I am sure of their incompetence when they are sick. I miss the days when I could by edict, direct them to do what needs doing. Now that they are adults, we are forced to watch our children stumble through the day without the benefit of good direction. I have talked with other parents about this, and find it to be universally true. The kids have no clue. Hell they don't even eat dinner the same time everyday. What is to become of them?
Anyway, as sure as we are that they need help, Laura is sure that they don't. She will take Chad home by herself in her car, and we can come out to the house after they get settled. Her mom would also like to drive them, but Laura and Chad are intent on doing it themselves. Maybe they can. Leaving the hospital is not really too complicated. They do know the way. Well, ok, do it yourself. Shirl and I leave the hospital and head back to our little apartment. We are glad this is over, and we began contemplating that we can both go home this weekend. It looks like they will be fine. Chad can move around by himself, and unlike last time, needs no complicated medical pumps and procedures. Just pills at various intervals. They might be able to handle it after all. Maybe.
We go out to the house later that afternoon, and all is well. Chad is settled on the couch, has his video race game working, and looks for all the world like a normal person in PJ's. Except for the ever present huggy bear companion, you would not suspect that he just had heart surgery. We have to warn him to move slowly. Each time he gets up, two moms and a wife, all crying in unison, "Slow down, don't forget your bear, let us get that." I can see where all this help could be a real pain in the butt. I remember when I had my gall bladder out back in 79. I deliberately snuck into the hospital the day after Christmas, and took vacation time through New Years, just to keep everybody in the dark about what I was doing, until I felt strong enough to deal with people. I suspect that Chad and Laura are probably ready for both sets of parents to leave. I would be. We are planning on going home Saturday. I am ready to be done with this too.
Friday, and we are somewhat concerned. Chad is bloated, and he says his chest is heavy. Two days out of the hospital, and he has gained ten pounds. It is not possible to eat that much. I tell him to increase his Lasik. (water pill). My dad took them for years, and I know the symptoms. They won't do it without talking to the doctor. All right, call him now. We do, and the diagnosis is as I suspected. Water retention, so increase the Lasik. What a surprise! A new prescription is called in, and we go to pick it up. While in Walgreens, I spot a digital scale, and buy it. Water retention can be real trouble for a heart patient. I tell Chad to weigh himself often, and let the doc know if he gains more than a pound or so. You cannot let the fluid build up. The next day he had lost most of it, and was almost back to normal. We decided to leave on Sunday. James and Linda left Saturday morning. We will hang around today, and go home tomorrow. With the fluid under control, his breathing is much better. They should be OK.
The remainder of Saturday is uneventful. I think that we cooked something on the grill, and watched a little TV. In no time it was dark, then past nine o'clock, and approaching that time when everyone knows it is time to go. We don't want to go, and leave them alone in Texas, but we have too. We all have our lives to lead, and this little episode looks to be about over. After a prolonged hug and good bye session, we are out the door and on our way back to the little rented apartment. After a half mile of crying, Shirl begins to settle down. She is soon talking about the trip home, and looking forward to seeing her big fat cat. (We have a 16lb cat named Millie) We found out on a recent vet visit that Millie is a Willie. But that is another story.
The next morning we are up early, and away from the hotel by 5:30 AM. Before 7:00 AM we are on the east side of Dallas streaking toward Mobile. No matter where I go, I always look forward to getting back in Alabama. The rest of the country can say what they will about it, but those of us that actually live here, know it is a fine place. I will be very glad to be home, and very glad this ordeal is over.
11
Maybe Not
Remember the previous mention of my friend Murphy? It appears he was not done with us yet.
After getting back in our daily routine, we called to check on Chad and Laura no less than three times per week. I told my wife that she was making a pest of herself, but she was determined to see how he was doing every other day. I operate under the premise that no news is good news. That, however, is not good enough for mom. She has to hear him say it's ok, live and in person. Each conversation is the same.
"How do you feel? Is the fluid building up? What did the doctor say? When do you go back to see the cardiologist? Is the blood thinner working? It sounds like you are coughing more now. Does your chest hurt? No really, how do you feel?"
I am sure that the kids are sick of it, but it turns out that mom had reason to be suspicious. After a couple weeks, we began to detect a weakness in Chad's voice. A breathless quality to his speech, like he is not getting enough air. They have increased his Lasik dose, but he admits that he is feeling that full feeling again. Shirl says he doesn't sound right.
Three weeks and it is obvious, he is not getting better. Damn, this is not going the way we planned. We had visions of him working in the yard, and taking long brisk walks by now. Instead, short walks tire him out, and he coughs way too much. It is Sunday, and he is to see the cardiologist again Tuesday, for an echocardiogram. Picture taking time.
Tuesday night we get the phone call. The valve is leaking, the repair did not work. This explains the fluid build up, the coughing, trying to keep the lungs clear, the weakness. We are back at square one. He will have to see the surgeon again for a consult, but there can be only one out come to this. The operation will have to be done over, and this time the valve will be replaced. Should of done that the first time. Who knew?
After seeing the surgeon, it is decided that the surgery will be done on June 14th., Flag Day. It is a little over a week away. Here we go again. The dispair we feel is crushing. It presses down on us, and envelopes us like a heavy fog . I can't stand the thought of that kid having his chest ripped open again, and his heart cut and sewn on - again. It is too much, way too much. Emotionally I feel that we can't do this, they can't do this. None of us can stand it again. Especially my son. Imagine, two heart operations a month or so apart. I feel so bad for my kid. Rationally, I know that we will do what is necessary, no matter what. Emotionally it is a killer.
After the initial shock runs it course, and the denials, accusations and finger pointing is exhausted, we get down to planning our trip. Once again, mom and pop will be heading to the metroplex of Dallas / Ft. Worth. According to plan, it is our turn to stay at the house, and for Laura's folks to go the hotel route.
We decide that we actually prefer the little studio apartment. It is just so convenient to the hospital, and so nice to have your own kitchen, TV, and recliner, and most of all some privacy. A few days as a guest in someone's home is fine. But for an extended stay, you can't beat separate living arrangements. Besides, the last few visits have resulted in too many strained moments between the girls. Mom wants to cook something, and Laura doesn't want anyone moving things around in her kitchen. We get up early, they like to sleep late. I want to stay up and watch TV, they turn in around ten. We like to eat supper sometime around six, they might let eight o'clock slide by, and never mention what the plan is for food. You hate to say, "Hey, how about somebody cook something." No, it's better if we stay in our own place. Plus, Laura should have her mom with her. The health situation is stressful enough without your mother in law under foot.
12
Again
We arrive at our little studio apartment around six o'clock. We have this drive down to ten and half hours. That seems to be about the best you can do, providing you stay reasonably close to the speed limit. I do. If the sign indicates 70 mph, I set the cruise at 75. At that speed I can count on lots of folks passing me, and making a target of themselves. Those doing 80 plus, become my personal insurance that I will not be stopped. I appreciate it.
I think they gave us the same room as last time. If not, it is very close to it. Shirl says it is not the same one. I have my doubts, but let it pass.
We unpack, and then head to the kids house. This time Linda has driven out by herself in a new Toyota Camry. Very nice, light green, four door, good looking car. We are all standing around on the driveway, saying hello's, giving out hugs all around, and once again trying to put a positive feel on this get-together. If only it was for a birthday or something, but no, it is for another operation.
Chad is much worse than the last time we saw him. This time he looks somewhat pale, and literally has to cough after speaking a sentence or two. It is painful to watch. With each cough, I hope that it will be the one to finally clear his throat, to finally bring up the fluid. But, it doesn't. The lasik and the coughing, can't quite keep up with the hearts inability to clear his lungs. This time we all realize that the operation is really needed. Even Chad is ready to go in. The fact that it is the second time, no longer matters so much, this has to be done. The sooner the better.
Friday morning, and it's deja vue all over again. Here I sit in the same chair, in the same hospital, in the same waiting room, waiting on the same son, to do the same thing. It is just as cold, and unreal as before. It is 6:05 AM. I see them coming down the hallway, so Shirl and I stand up, and go to meet them. Again, hugs all around. We are more experienced at this now, and the girls have all brought blanket throws to wrap up in. They also have books, magazines, knitting tools, craft patterns for something or other, and various snacks, all stuffed in a couple of large tote bags. I have a book, and my wallet. Maybe they will give me a cookie later if I look pitiful enough.
The routine is the same. We wait, the nurse comes and takes Chad to a room. We go down there and fill the air with positive platitudes, and everyone pretends not to be upset. All except Shirl that is. My wife is not good at deception, and has no use for hiding her feelings. If she is upset, or doesn't feel good, or just doesn't care for your shirt, you will know it. This time is no exception. She says very little, but the tears, and the look, let you know that she is very worried, very upset, and not just a little mad at the whole deal. My reinforcement of the positive is of no use. The misery associated with all of this is just to good to let pass, without savoring every second of it. I am convinced that some people actually thrive on situations that allow them to wallow in depression. They refuse to see any positive outcome, and wrap themselves in a barrier of negative energy. Then they feed on it. The women in my wife's family (bless em all) are very much like that. Except Nanny, who could handle any train wreck that came along. The rest love to cry and ring their hands, fully expecting the sky to fall. I give her a look and a head nod, that says, "Straighten up." It does no good, but I feel better.
All too soon they come and take our son away. We watch him roll down the hall, and the crying starts in earnest. I really am not that worried about the operation itself. It's the week after that concerns me. I know that they can keep you alive with the machines during the operation. It is when you get off all the hook-ups, that it falls on the patient to survive and get well. This time he will have a more difficult recovery due to the fluid build up already present. He didn't have that problem last time.
Once again we head for the heart surgery waiting area. We have it all to ourselves, and we each take a compass position around a small coffee table covered with magazines, and hospital literature. Let the reading begin.
Somewhere in all of this we received word that Laura's dad, "James," was taken to the hospital, and would be undergoing a catheterization this morning, at the same time as Chad's operation. Now dammit, this is too much. Now there are three women, all with either a husband, or a son, undergoing a heart procedure, on the same day. The tension in the waiting area is too thick for me. A good med tech could read the hormone level in there without any blood tests. I head upstairs to make some calls, get some coffee, and generally de-stress as best I can. Sitting there doing nothing , well I just have to move around, that's all. As I said before, give me a mission and I can do anything. Don't ask me to sit and let events unfold by themselves. I need to be in control.
I stay gone for perhaps twenty minutes or so, and head back down to the waiting area. As the elevators doors open, I hear my wife in a heated discussion with Laura. Oh,oh, this can't be good. She is saying something like, "Let me tell you one thing, as long as I think Chad needs me, I'll stay and take care of him, regardless of what you think." She had previously let it be known that she would stay at the house, and help care for Chad after he left the hospital.
Laura responds by telling Shirl, "We don't need you there. I love him enough to care for him, without your help." Shirl continues with, "You don't love him as much as I do. You have no idea what it's like to be a mother. You don't even cook for him, how can you take care of him?"
Laura comes right back with, "I love him more than you do! We don't need your help." I expect to hear, "Oh yea, well you're one too." But it doesn't happen.
Linda is quiet, and I am sure like me, cannot believe what she is hearing. These two women are obviously stressed out, and with hormones running wild, they are attacking each other. I suppose because they have no other outlet. I get quiet, and reserved in times of high stress, my wife lets it out.
I am disappointed in my behavior during this, as I said nothing. I should have told them both to stop and think about what they are saying, and how it is just the anger and frustration of the situation talking. Then like small children on the playground, have them shake hands, and make up. Instead, I didn't even stop at the chairs, I kept walking right past them, and went out the back door into the parking lot. I stayed there awhile, afraid that what had been said, would have a permanent effect on our two family's overall relationship. It was too late to undo it. The dogs had been let out, and could not be called back. In hindsight, it had to happen. But right then it seemed an impossible hurdle to get over.
Finally I went back inside, and all was quiet. The war was over, but the air was still thick with the echoes of the battle. Everyone sat quietly, and read their books. Once again, civilized behavior demanded that certain rituals be observed. Linda did comment that she didn't think that any of that was necessary. Of course she was right.
Another hour must have passed, maybe two, when the phone finally rang. Laura jumped for it, and once again we could tell that the news was good. Her face lit up, and after another series of OK's and head nods, we knew that the worst was over. They had replaced the damaged valve, with a new titanium (never need another) valve. They would have Chad in ICU in thirty minutes, and we were to go up there.
The truth is, I don't remember when we learned of James need for an operation. I am writing this one year after the fact. However, I think it was later that day when we were in the ICU waiting room. Linda got word that James would need a triple bypass to correct blocked arteries. My God, will this never end? She flew home, either that night, or the next morning to be with her husband. I thought then, that if anyone wrote this up, no one would believe it. Now Laura has a husband and a dad in the hospital with heart problems at the same time. Little wonder nerves have been on edge.
13
Recovery
We sat in the ICU waiting room for an hour, after we were told that Chad would be up there in thirty minutes. For those of you planning a trip to the hospital, you need to get this through your head. They have no concept of time. They also have no concern for the worry they cause by not giving out accurate information. You see, I operate by simple rules of behavior. If I tell someone that I'll be there in thirty minutes, you can count of it. If for some reason I am going to be late, I'll call you. Not at the hospital. While we waited, I began to feel this dread that something had gone terribly wrong. When I went back to the ICU nurses station and asked if my son had been brought up yet, the answer was, "No, not yet, but we're expecting him." I should hope so. I am expecting him too. I expected him thirty minutes ago. Having serious doubts that a kidnapping had occurred, I could only assume that something had gone wrong with the surgery. I asked what the delay was, and the little girl in the flowery uniform behind the desk said she did not know. She volunteered no additional clarification. Damn, do I have to ask for everything. I try again. "Miss, could you call down to surgery, and see if maybe they lost their way trying to reach this floor?" I get a look that says I am being a pain, but she reaches for the phone anyway. As she is dialing someone in never land, the double doors open, and my son is wheeled in. He is accompanied by an entourage usually reserved for heads of state. Actually it was the doc, a nurse, two cart pushers, and two other guys who just happened to be coming in at the same time. I am relieved, he is covered up with tubes, wires, and beepers and bags of all kinds, but to me he looks great. About that time a very determined and competent looking nurse asks me to please wait outside until they get him hooked up to all the gear in ICU. I can take a hint, and head outside to tell the girls that he is actually up here, and looking pretty good. We never did find out what took so long. I suspect that the cart pushers were probably at lunch, and the union wouldn't let anybody else roll a Gurney upstairs.
After another thirty minutes the nurse signals that we can go in to see him. We make sure that Laura goes first. I am a stickler for protocol. This again is very much like the last time. The surgeon is there, and he is very pleased with himself, and with the operation. "Everything went great," said the illustrious doc. "We replaced the valve, and it should last a lifetime, and then some." I am thinking to myself, "Why didn't you do that last month?" Then none of us would be here again. But I keep quiet. No use to spoil a fine moment like this with the truth. Chad is not awake yet, and it will probably be several hours before he is really aware of his surroundings. We all stand around and watch him sleep, and listen to the sounds of intensive care. Whooshing air and a clicking sound from the left, beeps and squiggley lines from behind him. A constant gurgle from the foot of the bed, and the sound of a small air compressor hissing air from around his feet and lower legs. Every-now and then, an alarm sounds and some nurse comes on the run, only to find that a tube is crimped, or a lead has come off. A readjustment, a look at the dials, and she is gone.
This is just awful. Very likely the worst thing I have ever had to endure. Basic training was emotionally and physically tough. But this is worse. I had an operation once back in 79, but I was drugged, and out of my head for a couple days. My memory of it seems less real, and therefore less severe. This is different. I am awake, and this is my kid. We have to endure this day after day, fully conscious, fully aware of every twitch, every grimace, every pain our son has to struggle through. I wouldn't wish it on anyone. I want him to wake up, smile, say everything is fine, and go home. If I could just trade places, do something.
We leave. Once again it is time to eat. Lunch is at the deli a couple of blocks from the hospital. They have large sandwiches just stuffed with meat, that remind me of my early years in the northeast. No place can quite measure up to an old fashioned New York Jewish Deli, but this place does a good imitation. After a good sandwich we head back to our rental, and realize soon after sitting down how sapped we are. The emotional high has worn off, and fatique resumes control. My intent is to watch "This Old House", but it seems reasonable to close my eyes, just for a minute. Somehow it is 4:30 PM. If you were to ask me if I actually went to sleep, I would say no. I just closed my eyes for a minute or two. Consciousness is a strange thing, as is time, and the sense of it. The afternoon is gone, and it is time to go back to the hospital. "Shirl, wake up." She is on the couch, also just resting her eyes for a minute or two.
We go back up to ICU, and since visiting hours have started, we go right in. He is awake, and has the bed tilted up very slightly. The breathing tube is still in, so he can't talk, but he makes a weak but definite thumbs up sign. The nurse said he will come off the vent before dinner. He is actually breathing on his own, but they want to see the back pressure reading on the air machine a little higher before they take the tube out.
Ah yes, dinner. I believe the Bill-of-Fare after surgery will be bullion, with a green jello chaser. We stay only ten minutes or so, and leave when Laura comes in, to give them some privacy. We take our usual spot in the waiting room, and hit the books one more time. After a while Laura comes out, and says they are doing some procedure. After that they are going to remove the air tube. In other words, everybody out. Laura is in good spirits, and everyone pretends that the blowup this morning never happened. It is ignored, and replaced with an air of exagerated politeness all around. Fine with me.
We wait another thirty minutes or so, and then decide to go back in, and see what's what. As we round the corner and get sight of his cubicle, we see that the curtains are still drawn. Which means that the nurses are still in there. Back to the waiting room for us. The talk centers around how this recovery will be. After all, we are experinced heart people now, having gone through all this just a little over a month ago. The main topic at the moment is about his vocal cords. Will the problem from his first time on a ventilator return, and cause him to loose his voice for a week or two. Our diagnosis is no. Then he was on the thing for nearly four days, this time it was only for eight hours or so. When we go back in, the tube will be out, and he will be able to talk. I hope so, anyway.
We wait the required thirty minutes, and then head back in. Just as I thought, jello for everybody. Well, not everybody, just the patient. Although I am sure our nurse could scare up some if we really wanted it. They are all very helpful.
Chad is awake, can talk, and is doing his best to get a little jello in his mouth. It is a struggle, but he makes it. One spoonful at a time, ever so slowly. It is obvious that he is still sedated from the drugs, and not fully in control. He says a few words, responds when spoken to, then closes his eyes for five minutes or so. He opens them again, responds, has a bite of jello, helped by his mom, then off to la-la land again. The nurse says he is doing great, and that rest is what he needs right now. Hmmn, I can take a hint, visiting hours are almost over, and we decide that it is time to leave. We say good-bye, the boy raises a hand slightly, but doesn't open his eyes. He nods his head just a little, to indicate that he heard. We'll be back later.
We eat, rest, and head back to the hospital for the late night visit. No change. He is still hooked up to all the bells and whistles, and more asleep than awake. We stand by the bed, expecting I don't know what. We are anticipating some activity to begin just any second. But of course it doesn't. He sleeps mostly, opens his eyes now and then, responds to one of us, and is out again. It seems only an instant has passed when it is time to leave. We head back to the apartment. We call it home without thinking. Strange how easily you can adapt to new surroundings. We have settled in, and soon have a new routine for our daily activities. It all seems normal now. We are hospital people, this is what we do. I think there might be a viable business in it. For a fee, we will visit people in the hospital. If a family lives too far away, or is simply to busy to visit an ailing relative, just give us a call. We are very good at it. I'll look into it.
The next morning we are back again, and our boy is sitting up in a chair, and eating breakfast. He is out of bed, looking good, and smiling. This is more like it. This is what we have been waiting for. This is very good. Well, not quite, he is still coughing. It hurts me each time I see him grab that bear and hug it to his chest. The coughing is necessary to clear the lungs, but I hate that he has to endure it.
The next couple of days our routine doesn't vary. We visit in the morning, the afternoon, and again after supper. In between we shop for food and supplies for our place. Visit furniture stores and antique shops. Go to the malls, have coffee, and wander around with no particular purpose in mind, other than killing time. However, I do know my way around the DFW area now. And, after seeing large sections of the county, I can honestly say, that I wouldn't live here if you gave me a new house for free. The traffic makes most outings more of an adventure than I care for. The interstates don't work at all. For a minute or two you might be going 70 mph. Then with no warning everybody will slow to a crawl that may go on for several miles. Then you get to speed up again, only to wonder what that was all about. Just as you get comfortable, it slows down again, and stops completely. Sometimes, all four lanes in both directions stop, for no reason at all. The restaurants are good, but don't plan on going at dinner time, unless you like waiting outside. Housing is expensive, and the half acre lot with a new home is a thing of the past. They build houses out here with literally five feet of clearance to the lot line. Hundreds of roof-tops nearly touching, as far as the eye can see. If you are eating breakfast and run out of milk, just raise the window and knock on your neighbors kitchen window. He'll pass some over to ya. I have to admit that the people are great, and the crime rate is low for a metro area this big. However, it just ain't for me. I hope all these folks never visit Alabama. We’ll never get them to leave.
14
Recovery Some More
After a few days in ICU, Chad is moved into a regular room. They say he is doing fine, but Shirl and I have some doubts. The cough is bad, and there is obviously fluid in the lungs that he can't seem to get rid of. I knew going in this time that the fluid build up and coughing prior to the operation was going to complicate things afterward, and it is. The docs listen with studied sincerity, nod and raise eyebrows. They make all the necessary doctor moves to let you know they are on the job. But, to get anything done you have to almost demand it.
It is Friday, the weekend is upon us and the regular docs will be off. The junior member of the firm will be on call, and our guy is still coughing. He weighs more than yesterday too. It is time for action. The lung guy's first suggestion is to wait and see if the fluid levels and coughing improve. I don't think so. If we wait until Monday, it will be really bad, and we'll be that much further behind in trying to clear things up. The parents demand that something be done now, and not wait until Monday. After some lip scrunching and chin rubbing, the doc decides to act now. Well glory be, he calls the nurse.
The nurse brings a large shot of lasik which is to produce a dramatic effect over the next couple of hours. She informs us that the doctor also increased the maintenance dosage to almost double what it had been. Before the night is out our boy is better. The breathing is easy, and he has literally lost a couple of pounds by the next morning. If I hadn’t complained, he would have suffered with fluid build up all weekend.
It is a mystery to me why these doctors want to wait on conditions to improve before they will act. Logic and Newton prove that when things go wrong they tend to stay going wrong, at least until acted upon by an outside force. That force being a mother who will put up with no more nonsense from the "Let's wait crowd."
By Monday the kid is much improved. The coughing is still a problem, but much better. He can walk the length of the hall without stopping to rest, and he eats with enthusiasm. Always a sign that a boy is ok. Once again, the proof is indisputable. If you have someone in the hospital, you better stay and see to their treatment. Without supervision, the docs come and go, generate bills, try one thing and then another, and wait until you heal yourself. They seem to actually forget that these are real people in pain. Instead they become chained to the process, and focused more on what they expect to happen, than on what is really happening. I am stretching it a little, but they do drag their feet when it comes to changing the protocol they had previously decided to use. Even if it isn't working, they want to keep on doing the same thing. Every now and then you find a few who will listen to what the nurses and the relatives are observing, and take action based on the input of others. We had a few of those, and they made all the difference. Many in the med profession develop the idea that they are smarter than everybody else, when in fact they are just educated in a different field. The average man on the street doesn't need a degree in medicine to recognize that his son can't breath properly. My motto is, "Fix it now dammit." You can wait a while, when it's your kid.
15
It's Over
By the following Tuesday, the change is remarkable. The fluid is gone. The coughing is gone. The weakness is gone. He can walk the length of the hall and back again. without holding on to anything. Our son is back, mostly. Physically he can go home tomorrow. Mentally he will be affected by this for a long time. So will we.
All the reports are excellent, and his doctors have all said he will go home in the morning. Shirl and I have decided to head for home too. There is no need to drag this out any further, and no reason to intrude on their privacy, by going out to the house with them in the morning. So tonight’s visit is very tough. He is aware that we will be leaving in the morning, so are we. There is tension in the air. You can feel it. He obviously doesn't want us to leave, but knows that we have to. We live six hundred miles away, and his work and wife are here in Ft. Worth. Our life is in Mobile Al. I have neglected my little retirement business long enough. He is ok, and it's time to go. I think it is the seriousness of the hospital setting, that makes this parting worse. This could have been good-bye forever, and I think that is on our minds as we prepare to leave. Separations can no longer be treated casually. You never know when a visit, may turn out to be your last visit. The ordeals of the past six months have made that point all too realistic for our family. We watch TV until 9:30 PM in the hospital room with our son and Laura. Small talk and comments on the sorry state of TV dominate the conversation. The girls have made up during the week, and although all is forgiven, all is not forgotten. It only adds to the overall sense of stress.
Eventually we can drag it out no longer. We have to go. It is not that hard really. You get up, take turns with the hugs, tell each other to call, be careful, drive safe, we love you, all of that, and you walk out.
Shirl and I make it to the elevator before either of us can find the strength to speak. She asks me if he'll be ok. I croak back a less than confident "Sure." No talking again, until we reach the car. By now we have both regained our composure and rebuilt the posture that we all like to project to the world, in case someone is watching and scoring our behavior. We can see his room from the parking lot, and he has three nurses for company. They are tidying up, and giving night meds, setting up the water pitcher, and preparing the room for the night.
I start the car and we head back to our little apartment. The next morning we don't stop at the hospital. It is a long way, and the car is up to speed and heading east. Ten and a half hours from now I plan to be home.
We wait until 9:30 AM, and call Chad in his room. Imagine life without cell phones. How did we do it? Anyway, he answers, and sounds great. He is going to be discharged around noon, and he and Laura will be going home too.
We are confident that he is in good hands. Over the past few months we have observed the relationship these two have with each other. He watches out for her as closely as she looks out for him. She protects him like a momma lion with cubs, willing to take on all comers, parents included, to protect her guy. They are us thirty eight years ago, asserting their independence from the previous generation. Our son will be well cared for. He tells us that his company has agreed to set up a computer system at his house, so he can work from home. It aint so bad.
Shirl pats my hand, I look at her and smile. We have done our duty. I glance over at my wife and ask if she wants a coffee or something? We have been driving for three hours already. I need a break. Mickey D is not good for much, but they do have great coffee. Where are those damn arches when you need them?
16
Maybe Not
A little over a year goes by, and we have gotten used to the idea that all is well. Until one of those special phone calls shakes us again. Chad went to see his cardiologist, and he heard a sound he didn't like. A murmer, a slight gurgle, something not quite right. They have scheduled an echocardiogram. They place a probe down his esophagus until it is just behind the heart, and then use sound waves to produce a clear picture. Well, relatively clear. The doctor says it looks like a septal defect between the chambers, at the point where the division between the four chambers of the heart is the thinnest. In this case it is between the right ventricle, and the left atrial, on a slant. Very rare.
The cardiologist makes an appointment for Chad to see the surgeon again. We know what this means, and don't like it one bit. I try to maintain a positive outlook, telling people that surgery may not be necessary. New procedures are now available that make it possible to repair a hole, without opening the chest at all. In my heart I know this won't be what happens, but I hold on to that thought just the same. I am also concerned about having my son use the same surgeon. They like the guy. But I am very concerned. He has had two chances at my sons heart, and it still isn't right. I express this feeling as gently as I can, but the kids don't take the hint. I don't want to press it, and cause more anxiety than everyone already has. But I am convinced, that they shouldn’t use this guy again.
The visit to the surgeon is about what we expected. There is a hole, and it is between the chambers of the heart. However, the location is so unusual, that he wants Chad to see a special guy. He recommends Dr. Ryan at the Presbyterian Hospital in Dallas. He is the doctor that other surgeons send people to see when they have a problem they don't feel qualified to handle. Dr. Ryan has done over a hundred of these, while most surgeons may have done a few, if any. He has written books on specialized surgical procedures, and been featured on the Discovery Channel. He is generally considered to be the ultimate authority in this part of the country. Sounds like the right man to me. This is more like it.
The visit to Dr. Ryan results in essentially the same diagnosis, with one major difference. He is confident that this can be fixed so that we won’t have to worry with it anymore. He feels sure that to do it properly he will have to open the chest again. However, he intends to scope the area just before the operation, so that he can see for himself what the area looks like prior to starting the operation. I am getting this information second hand from Chad, but even that way, the confidence and knowledge of this man comes across. We all feel better. We are all still upset, still worried, but not like before. Dr. Ryan it seems, casts a giant shadow. It has a calming effect on us all. We are confident that he can fix this.
The operation is scheduled for Friday, July 9th. We decide to spend the 4th of July at home, and travel to Dallas on Wed. the 7th. I make reservations at an Extended Stay Hotel that is located just two miles from the hospital. We will arrive on Wed. afternoon, visit with the kids that evening, and spend the whole day Thursday with them. Of course Friday we will all meet at the hospital, and relive the agony of waiting out a heart operation for the third time on the same child. I keep referring to the kids and the children, even though they are both in their thirties. Sorry, can't help it. The parents out there know what I am talking about. I have seen 90 year old guys refer to their 70 year old son as, "The boy". I am guilty along with the rest. To me, they are just the kids.
Thursday we tour the hospital, and spend nearly an hour getting checked in, and having blood work done. This was the fast lane process. Chad was supposed to be pre-registered by his doctor. The staff is mostly foreigners, and some can barely speak English. If I am lying I'm dying. Seem to be a lot of Jamaicans at this hospital. I hope the surgical team, and floor nurses are more dynamic than this bunch in admitting. It is like watching the olympic fast walk competition, only in reverse. It looks as if someone let it slip that the slowest performer gets a raise. I may be hyper sensitive to the normal routine followed by big bureaucracies at the moment. It all seems very silly and unnecessary. The surgery patient check in window is on the fourth floor. That is where the doctor told us to go. But upon arriving there, the less than cordial little blond at the window said that she had to have a sticker, and a form from first floor admitting before she could process our boy into this great center of healing. The computer on her desk evidently can't talk to the one downstairs. It appears that none of them can receive data from the various doctors who have privileges at the hospital either. So off we go, back downstairs. At admitting, we are told that they have no info regarding pre registration, and need to get some. The doctor sent it already, but they don't have it. Name please? Chad and Laura follow a pleasant if slow clerk to a cubicle and begin the agony of filling out the forms. Finally, the task is done, and we have in our possession the much valued "sticker", that indicates we have been through the mill at admitting. Up to the fourth floor we go with the magic sticker in hand. We deliver it respectfully to the little sticker clerk. Urecka, everybody is happy. We are to report back to the first floor lobby at 6 AM tomorrow.
On our way out we learn that it cost $3.00 per day to park at this fine establishment. I am sure they will be charging several hundred thousand dollars for their services to my son, and yet they still want $3.00 to park. I guess it keeps out the riff raff. We discover that you can buy parking tickets to offset the cost. Ten tickets for ten dollars. That's better, but since we will be coming three times per day until he gets out of here, it still works out to $3.00 per day. The ticket is good for one parking episode only, not all day. If you leave, it starts over. This is a friendly little place. Actually it is monstrous. Which I think contributes to the general feeling of being in an institution. The HEB hospital over in Bedford was smaller, and really made you feel welcome. This is just another big place, going out of it's way to act like one. My first impression is not so good. They may have the best heart surgeon in Dallas on staff, but the place doesn't make me feel good. It's like going to a fine restaurant, only to have everybody make you mad before you get any food. Trouble is, we can't get up and leave. Chad needs this done, and the guy that does it - is here.
We leave and head for Chad's house. From this location it is maybe 35 miles away. Doesn't sound so bad until you consider that the only way to make the trip is to follow the 635 loop heading west until it ends. Then you get on 121 to 114, and finally exit on to South Lake Blvd to Keller. This trip with no traffic would take 30 minutes or so. However, between Dallas and Ft. Worth there is always traffic. The trip routinely takes well over an hour. Sometimes over an hour and a half. The traffic tears along at 70 plus miles per hour for three or four minutes, then suddenly comes to a stand-still. Then you crawl along for several minutes, then it speeds up again. Where-ever there is an intersection of two major highways, the traffic backs up for miles. Laura and her mother will have to fight this mess twice a day. They will have to stay on this side of town around the hospital all day. It is too far, and too dangerous to travel home and back more than once per day. It is simply awful. I wouldn't live here even if somebody else paid all my expenses.
Finally we make it to Chad and Laura's, and crash in front of the TV. Laura's mom and sister arrive about an hour later. Hugs all around, and then we all go out to eat at a little place close to the house. No one is up for more driving around, so we head for this new place Chad and Laura know about. Turns out it is one of those franchised "Wings" Sports Grills. It’s crowded and noisy, but the food is good, and they have a trivia game that you can play electronically from the table. The answers appear on monitors around the room. You can't hear yourself talk, but the young people like it. The dinner does us all good, and we head back to the house.
Chad and Laura have had a cat for some time. A few months ago they got a little Pomeranian. A pure white fluff ball of a dog. Laura's sister (Lindsey), just got a new puppy too. And to add to the confusion, she brought the dog with her. His name is Fritz. He is about as hyper as the rest of those little mutt dogs so popular with the ladies. The two dogs chase each other around the house, yapping and barking continually as they are programmed to do. . The cat ignores them. Laura's little dog is house trained, the other pup is not. Sooo, they buy pampers. That is not a typo, they actually diapered the mutt to prevent accidents around the house. I am glad we rented a studio apartment two miles from the hospital. I don't think I could take the action around here for the next week or two. I am really not a pet person, so I guess I just don't understand. Don't want to. This period of time will be stressful enough without having to worry about dogs peeing on the carpet. We stay and talk for an hour or so, then leave early so that Chad can get some rest. Besides, they will have to get up around 4:00 am, in order to make it back to the hospital by 6 am. So we say goodnight, and leave. Even at 8 PM, it takes us over an hour to make it back to our rented apartment. It is not really an apartment, but it does have a little kitchen area with a table, bedroom and desk area, and a TV area with a couch and recliner. There is a second TV in front of the bed. It will do just fine. Almost an apartment. We are close to the hospital. We can return here several times per day to cook, relax, take a nap, watch the tube, and make calls. We have no dogs.
The sense of deja vue is over-powering. We have done this same thing on four different occasions already. Once for the staph infection, and this will make the third heart surgery in two years. I am not what you would consider an old man, but I am too old for this. I seem to be in a perpetual state of worry. The anxiety associated with the situation in general makes the world around us seem not quite real. Sort of dream like I guess. We are somewhere we shouldn't be, doing things we shouldn't be doing, over and over again. Like one of those nightmares where an unseen danger keeps chasing you. You don't ever really get caught, but you can't get away.
Tomorrow morning I will go to the hospital, meet my kid in the lobby, and watch them take him away - again. I can't stand it. But then, the logical part of the brain kicks in, and you tell yourself that somehow you will. We try to go to bed early, but sleep just won't happen. Every thirty minutes or so, one of us raises up on an elbow to check the clock. Not time yet. We fluff the pillows, adjust the covers, turn over and try again. I would guess that we probably got two or three hours of actual sleep. The trouble is, it was in twenty minute segments. A little here, a little there, but not enough at any one time to do any good.
Even though we are only five minutes from the hospital, we are up and making coffee at 4:30 am. Time to have a cup or two, watch the early news and weather, toast a bagel, and get dressed. We take our time, and pack our survival kit for the day. Books, magazines, Gas-X, Advil, extra sweater and a small blanket. The waiting rooms and lobbies are usually very cold, so we are prepared. At 5:45 AM we head for the hospital. We are seated and waiting in the main lobby ten minutes later. The kids are not here yet. Very few people are. Only the unfortunate few who have an operation scheduled this morning. Wives sitting with husbands holding hands. Worried Moms and Dads with a kid sitting on Mom's lap. An old man by himself. A steady stream of employee's in scrubs and street wear, walking briskly to some duty station in the hospital. We watch as the place begins to wake up. Chad, Laura, and her Mom are just coming in the front door. So it begins.
17
The Longest Day
We are all here with bright shinny faces. Actually it is a rough looking bunch. It's obvious that no one got a solid nights sleep. Small talk about the traffic and heat consumes a few minutes. Laura has a carry-on bag with her supplies for the day, and some time is spent comparing blankets and magazines.
A nurse is heading our way. We watch her as she comes up the hall and anticipate that she will call Chad's name. But this one is not for our boy. I take a deep breath, glad for a few more minutes. It doesn't last long. Our girl is here soon enough. Chad and Laura are taken to a prep room where they get an line started. They change our guy into one of those gowns that open down the back Laura comes out, and says we can all wait in the room with Chad until they come to get him. Now I think back to the last time. His room for that wait was at the far end of a long hallway. Never mind that there were lots of empty rooms available on the way to his. I wonder if they will do it again. Different hospital, and different people, and yet, they do the same thing. We walk past room after empty room, only to find Chad at the very end of the hall. There must be reason for it, but I can't imagine what it is. Maybe it's a fitness program for the staff. No matter what you're doing, take the longest route possible.
Anyway, it is all just like the last time, only a different hospital. We spend about thirty minutes in the room with Chad, waiting on the gurney master to take him away. Then, all too soon it happens. A nurse comes in and takes vital signs again. She is immediately followed by a couple of wagon pushers, who wheel our guy out the door and down the hall. We follow along, resigned to the fact that every thing from this point on is out of our hands. We are powerless to influence the outcome. The fork in the road is soon reached. He goes one way, and the rest of us head for the waiting room.
The waiting room is built after the plan of a submarine. Narrow, and long, with no windows. It is divided into half a dozen smaller areas walled off from one another. The center section is open from one end to the other, and they have free coffee. Not very good, but free non the less. We settle in the first section. Which at first seems like a wise choice, as everyone who comes in the door, walks on past. I guess they are looking for a better location, or maybe don't like our looks. This suits me fine, as I find most people somewhat of an irritation in this context. If I am to be mad, upset, nervous and scared, I'd rather do it alone. Or, maybe with just a few family members. So spare me from some kibitzing stranger.
I should have known that our peaceful location was not to last. The talkative stranger showed up in the form of an elderly 'holiness' lady. She babbled on about her family, and family trouble for a good thirty minutes, until she finally ran out of diseases to thrill us with. Just before lunch time we were assaulted by a family that obviously considered the waiting room their own private club. They brought all the relatives. Even cousins, and kids from other marriages, all intent on talking louder than anyone else. These people even brought a picnic that consisted of trays of deli sandwiches from Jason's, along with chips and dip, a salad plate and assorted drinks. They then proceeded to eat and talk, just as if no one else existed. At least two of them were on the phone at any one moment in time. Since all their relations were busy talking, they had to talk even louder to be heard on the phone. I have never been exposed to such a rude, and inconsiderate group. The sad thing is, these were obviously well to do, educated people. But they didn't have a clue on how to behave in a public place. I understand now, how some poor guy can be driven to pull a gun and shoot into a crowd of strangers. I wouldn't, but I can see how some guy might. We had to move to another location.
I skipped ahead a bit. Sometime around mid morning we got a call from the operating room with an up-date on the procedure. They did find a hole between the chambers of the heart. They also had to remove some scar tissue from the previous operations. Dr. Ryan was not going to replace the valve again, as it was in good condition. They were going to put in a mesh of some kind to cover the hole, and would call back when they were done. Everything was going fine. Good news ! More waiting.
Sometime around noon, the phone rang again. Linda and Laura had just gone to get something to eat, so I got the call. It was the operating room nurse, and they had repaired the heart, he was off the pump, and they were closing him up. She said to meet them at the 4th floor ICU in about an hour. I managed a few Uh huhs, and thank yous, and hung up. I had a lump in my throat, and my eyes watered up a bit as I tried to tell Shirl that it was over. Once again our youngest child would live. He was going to be all right. It was never mentioned during any of our hospital trips, but the thought that our boy could die during one of these operations has always been with us. I think it is just too scary to bring up, or to actually say out loud. The relief we feel when we know that it hasn't happened, is such a rush of emotion, that it can't be controlled. It is too big, too over-whelming. It is a strange thing to actually laugh and cry at the same time. But we do. Can't hold it back.
Laura and Linda walk in, and have a freight when they look at me, knowing immediately that something has happened, but not what. We quickly tell them about the call, and now everybody is happy. We all decide to make a few phone calls, and meet up at the ICU in thirty minutes. Don't want to be late.
Of course we are not late. I call Bob and Tony. Shirl calls her Mom, who in-turn relays the good news to the rest. Then we head to the 4th floor ICU waiting room, and waited, and waited some more. This is just like the last time. Different hospital, same routine.
Meet them at the ICU in an hour they said. It is now one and a half hours, and like last time, no kid. This is where your imagination kicks in, and you begin to suspect that something has gone wrong. They haven't left the operating room because his chest blew up. Well, I don't know, something happened. Crazy thoughts run through my mind, and I am hesitant to speak them out loud for fear that everyone will get panicky if I do. They should be here by now. What if --- the elevators doors open, and it's him. We watch, as they wheel him through the double doors and into ICU. We have done this several times before, so we know not to get up. They have a good twenty minutes of set-up time in the ICU room before they will let anyone in. So we check the clock, and go back to the reading material.
It is not over, but it feels like it is. The knowledge that the operation is over is a powerful moral booster. We are pros at this, This is the third time we have endured this agonizing wait, and felt the pain of nagging fear that lurks just out of reach. Out of our control, unmentioned raw fear that your child will die. That point is past.
Now we have another week of ups and downs. Good news in the morning, replaced by a set back in the afternoon. Yes, we know the drill. Two steps forward, then one back.
I suppose it was around 1:30 pm when we were allowed into the ICU, to see our guy lying there asleep. Drugged into unconsciousness is more accurate, but asleep sounds so much better.
This time it seems that he has less paraphernalia around him, or stuck in him. There are no air driven boots, no blood filled gurgling boxes on the floor. He has fewer lines and hoses attached. He even looks better than last time. The respirator is still on, but the nurse says that it will be removed in a few hours. He is actually breathing on his own, overpowering the pressure the machine is currently set at. All the vital signs on the monitor look good. Ox is around 90, pulse rate is 86, and waveforms look good. I have done this enough now to know what I am looking at, and what to look for.
The doctor came in with a mixed bag of news. Mostly good, but there is a "but", always a but. It seems that the location he had to operate on was directly in the path where the electrical signals travel down through the center of the heart. He was afraid that when the area was repaired, that the heart signals would be interrupted. Chad might need a pace maker if that happened. However, so far, he is pleasantly surprised. The heart is beating on it's own in a regular steady rhythm. Everything looks good at the moment. He warns us that there could be some swelling of the heart tissue over the next few days that might cause some irregularities. "We will just have to watch it", he says.
We hear this, and yet we don't. We discount it as the usual doctor CYA prattle. After all, he looks fine, and the surgery is over. This is so much better than the last time. I am very confident, and on a happy high. Things are good, and getting better. We hang around a few minutes more watching him breath. By consensus, we decide it is time to go. So we do. Lunch and a nap is called for now. After supper we will come back, and maybe he'll be awake and have the respirator tube out. We hope so anyway.
18
Visiting hours
Six thirty pm, and we are back at the hospital. Laura and Linda are still here, and have news for us. He is awake, and the tube is out. I knew this was better than the last time. We head on into the ICU.
He is sitting up. Well, the bed is in an upright position, so by default he is too. Yet, that is a significant step considering that a few hours ago they had his chest open. Chad is happy and alert, and I think genuinely pleased to have survived another round with the reaper. Just glad to be here. Me too.
He has already had some jello, and a little chicken broth. Now all he wants is cold water. But of course it is rationed. They will let him have a few ice chips at a time, but limit the water for half a day after surgery. I suppose to reduce the possibility of retention, and fluid build up in the lungs. They want to have all systems go, before they let him have all he wants. I guess that means the Whopper is out of the question. Maybe tomorrow.
We stay a while longer, talk some, ask a dozen different ways, "How ya feeling?" He nods, opens his eyes now and then, and even mumbles a few answers. The drugs still have control. Our son will remember none of this visit, or this night for that matter. We say our good-nights, and head for the barn. I am tired, emotionally as well as physically. To paraphrase Scarlet, tomorrow will be a better day. We go back to our little leased suite, and crash.
The days go by faster than you might expect. The sameness of the routine dulls the senses, so that you don't realize the passage of time in the same way. We get up, make something to eat, shower and get dressed, and head for the hospital. Before you can turn around, it's twelve o'clock, and time for lunch. Then we visit for another few minutes, and then leave the hospital for an afternoon break. We go to various tourist traps. Maybe take in an Imax show. One afternoon we went to the infamous book depository and stood at the window used by Oswald to shoot President Kennedy. At least that's what all the reports say. We visit little towns like Grapevine, and Denton. Stop in and check out all the malls in the area. I even managed to drag my wife through the Bass Pro Shop. The days go by. After our little outing we go back to the hospital for a late afternoon visit. We stay for an hour or so, and then either check out another restaurant, or go back to the suite and cook something. Then it's back to the hospital around 8:00 pm for our nightly visit. Another day gone by.
Chad was moved to a room on the cardiac floor with all the other old guys. He looks out of place walking up and down the hall. Everyone else is thirty years older than he is. Every now and then I will catch someone giving him that "What are you doing here look." We wonder the same thing. He doesn’t belong here. I don’t know how many times I have thought to myself that it should be me. I am the one who is approaching 60, and spent a large portion of my life smoking. I am over weight. I still eat steak at least once a week, and still have a smoke after dinner. I don’t drink, but I don’t exercise either. Yet, compared to most, I am healthy. Six months ago I passed a stress test, and have low cholesterol. Go figure.
His operation was done on Friday. By Wed. of the next week he was doing really well. That afternoon the nursing supervisor came in, checked him over, and said, "Well, looks like you'll be going home tomorrow." Oh my, this seems fast to me, but he is doing good after all.
The next morning we wait, thinking that he will be discharged at any moment. It is 9:30 am or there abouts. I walk past the nurses station to stretch my legs, and see Chad's doctor sitting there looking at charts. I think to myself, won't be long now.
Several minutes later the doctor comes in and informs everyone that it will be a few more days. The heart wave-form is missing an alpha loop, or something to that effect, just prior to the main pulse. This thing triggers the heart, and without it Chad may need a pace-maker after all. But, most likely the cause is some swelling putting pressure on the nerve bundle that this signal travels on. So, he prescribes some medications for inflammation, and tells everybody not to worry. It should correct itself, but if not it can be controlled. Great! I am so tired of being lifted up, filled with hope and joy, only to be thrown to the ground again and stomped on. That nursing supervisor yesterday must have thought she could play doctor. Now we have a totally demoralized young man on our hands, not to mention his wife and parents, who currently seem struck dumb with incredulity. I want to go up to the nurses hang-out and tell that old girl what I think of her. I ought to report her to the hospital administrator. What she did was inexcusable. I am irate and ready for a fight, but I behave. Chad is handling it better than his mom, I can tell you that. Time for me to put a positive spin on this, as best I can. Which ain't easy under the circumstances.
All I can do is remind everyone that this is exactly what Dr. Ryan said would happen when we first met him in the ICU. He said that the site of the operation was on a signal path, and if it swelled some, we might see some irregular wave-forms. If it was severe, Chad might need a pace-maker. His best guess was that it would be all right, because the heart was beating properly immediately after the operation. This is probably just some swelling of the heart tissue. Everyone seems to latch on to this ray of hope, and we now start reassuring each other that this will pass.
A strange thought crosses my mind, but I keep it to myself. After the discussion dies down, I wonder why the boys heart is not missing beats now? OK, the wave form that triggers the beat appears to be missing, but the beat itself is not missing. He is not on a pace- maker now. So I have to conclude that even though the little pre bump they are looking for appears to be missing, something has to be getting through to trigger the heart beat. The old technician in me wants to trouble shoot the equipment. Discretion and common sense win out, and I have to conclude that Dr. Ryan knows what he is talking about. I let it pass. But it makes you wonder how much they really know, and how much is just guess work.
The next day there is no change. But the day after there is. When the doctor comes in we can see it on his face. This guy doesn't smile much, but he is smiling now. He says, "Everything looks fine. The wave-forms normalized yesterday afternoon, and they've been good all night. No skips, no bumps, no errors. You can go home."
So, one week after he was admitted to the hospital, they send him home. The hole in his heart has been patched, and now he has a month of recovery to look forward to. Laura and her mom drive Chad home, and we wait until late afternoon to go out there.
Chad is doing great when we arrive at the house that afternoon. We all take turns reminding him to move slowly, take it easy, don't bend over, don't pick that up. He doesn't act, or look like he had heart surgery.
Charlotte (Laura’s bosses wife ) brings dinner for everyone. It is a chicken feast from that restaurant Chad wanted us to visit the first night we arrived. I can't remember the name, but it's good chicken and you lots of it. It comes with salad, mashed potato's and gravy, string beans, cole slaw, and biscuits. I am hungry and eat my share and then some. Shirl doesn't think it is so good. The beans are mushy, the potato's starchy, the gravy is a flour paste of some sort, and the chicken in truth is just average. KFC on a good night is just as good, maybe better. But it's here, all prepared, and delivered with loving care, so we enjoy the heck out of it. I did anyway. Chad did too. We ate with the intent of doing serious harm to the poultry industry.
The next morning Linda and Lindsey head for home. They have been here the whole time, and like us are ready to sleep in their own bed.
We stay one more day, spending all of Saturday with Chad and Laura. He is O.K., and I am sure they are both ready to be alone. I don't remember what we did for dinner that night, but I know we stayed until around 9:00 pm. Then it was time to go. Once again, hugs and teary eyes all around. Then we are out the door. Sad to leave, but glad it's over. It takes about thirty minutes to bring about an attitude change. By the time we are back at the apartment we are ready to pack, and looking forward to heading east. The ordeal is over, our son will live. Now maybe we can too.
For the next couple of months we jump whenever the phone rings. We are gun shy. Worried that something will slip. Something will come undone. He will bust something loose by working around the house. It is too much to hope that all will finally be completely and permanently well. But it is. Each call is good news. Each day without a mishap reinforces our optimism. This time I think it really is over. It's has to be.
Ordeal is too light a word for the last two years. And that's from my point of view. For Chad, I can't imagine a word strong enough to describe this part of his life. Nothing I can lay my tongue to has enough impact. So I won't try. Suffice it to say, it's over.
This all started some time in February of 2002. Today is the day before Thanksgiving 2004. His last operation was in July of this year. A little over two and a half years of physical and emotional turmoil for both families has come to an end. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving . Chad and Laura, Laura's mom and dad, and her sister Lindsey, will all be here. Laura and Lindsey will bring the dogs too. My brother and his wife will also be here. It truly is a day of Thanksgiving. Nobody sick, nobody in the hospital, nobody planning on going in the hospital. It should be a great day. James is bringing a smoked turkey, and we just took another bird out of the oven.
Oh yea, I almost forgot. James bypass operation went very well. He too, is doing fine. I ask ya, what could be better than two turkeys, and a healthy family? Nothing.
posted by Fred C. Dobbs @ 1:50 PM
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