I've been at the hospital every day. I don't think I've ever done anything for 15 days straight- even at camp there are weekends. It's been a blur of medical lingo, exhaustion, stress, unanswered questions and at the risk of making this about me, and not my dad (who was, ya know, in the hospital), I feel like I've been in a nonstop battle.
At first my dad was in too much pain and too drugged to comprehend anything. They told me to prepare myself that he might not walk out of the hospital. Helicopter and ICU aside, I didn't think we were talking about death serious. The doctors didn't have any answers, he was just a complete wreck. His lungs were filled with fluid. His liver couldn't keep up and was thus not functioning. His kidneys, blood pressure, pancreas- they were all messed up. He had a raging infection, somewhere in his body. I just kept thinking, "it was just a broken rib, that's not a big deal. This can't be right."
They tested everything every day and every day, I demanded to know what the results were, to see the scans, to speak with the doctors. I developed a reputation early on- polite but demanding. He wasn't coherent enough to answer questions or retain any information, and he deferred to me to speak and listen for him.
He moved out of the ICU, which they told me was a good thing, but I was still stuck on that whole, "possible death thing" so I wasn't celebrating. The first night on the regular floor went fine. But the next night I got a frantic call from my aunt, who told me he was talking gibberish (which he had been for a few days) and that he was very agitated. A few minutes later she called back to say he'd pulled everything out- chest tube and IVs. When I got to the hospital a few minutes later, my dad told me the nurse was hurting him and begged me not to leave his bedside. For 6 days he'd been telling me he was fine and to go home and not worry, so this was new.
I'd warned the nurses to watch him before I'd left earlier that day. He was confused and trying to take apart several pieces of medical equipment. I wouldn't say I yelled, but I certainly didn't hold back, and I was aware that there were several nurses watching me as I spoke with the head nurse. They moved him to a different room, with a different nurse and he calmed down. Early the next morning, I was back and ready to be there for the day. When he woke up, he didn't know where he was, was seeing things and I was afraid it was going to be a very bad day. But eventually the meds wore off and he calmed down and by the end of the day, he was okay again.
Day to day was a roller coaster- one day he would be feeling good, talking about projects at camp, telling me to go do something fun instead of hanging out at the hospital. The next day, he would be depressed, sure this was the end and he wasn't getting out of the hospital ever. I spent the days sitting by his bedside, refilling his water, telling him he would be fine, helping him change his gown or go to the bathroom, hunting down his nurse every few minutes to request another blanket, more pain medication, or any other random thing he wanted. I spoke with dozens of doctors, physical therapists, occupational therapists, the dietitian. I knew his stats better than any of them and peppered them with questions.
When he got strong enough to move around, I helped him stand up, go for walks, shower. Once he was feeling slightly better physically, the biggest challenge seemed to be emotional. With no real schedule, nothing to do and still feeling pretty awful, the days were difficult for him. I would arrive first thing in the morning and tell him our plan for the day. Brush teeth. Change gown. Walk down the hall. Nap. Eat. Breathing exercises. Nap. Snack. Walk. And so on and so on. Having a schedule seemed to help keep him upbeat.
When I was at the hospital, I was worried about my dogs or housework or feeling like I should be in the office or worried about school work. When I was in the office, I wanted to be in the hospital, afraid I was missing some new piece of information. For 15 days, I've wanted to crawl out of my skin- completely unable to feel comfortable anywhere. I felt like I was fighting the whole time- fighting for information, fighting to make sure he was getting what he needed, fighting to keep him optimistic. It's such a powerless feeling. Waiting for test results, waiting for medicines to kick in, waiting for progress, for answers, for normal to come back.
But now he's out and we're starting the rehabilitation process. The doctors say 2-3 months. He claims he's a fast healer and they don't know what they are talking about and he'll be fine in a few weeks. Arguing and knowing more than everyone is a clear sign to me that he's feeling stronger, so I'm happy to hear him rant. And hopefully he'll be good as new as quickly as he thinks...
No comments:
Post a Comment