Not a marathon read today. You're welcome!
After Dad's surprising words Sunday, we called in the nurses and even his primary doc, Dr. Mumtaz. They weren't nearly as impressed. Ah well, I get it; it's not their dad. Plus they need cold hard data to see what's really going on.
Dad received another EEG yesterday, so I expect to hear something later today. In the meantime I've got piles of work on my desk to keep me busy and a fierce cold to brave when I go out for lunch. I've been somewhere mild for a week, so I forgot what 20 degrees feels like.
Again, human contact is what's really getting reactions out of him, so if you're able to make it to Little Rock in the next week, swing by. If not, we'll have him home in Russ Vegas soon enough. Keep on sending those happy vibes- they're reaching all the powers that be, even Santa.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Monday, December 28, 2009
While you were Holiday-ing...
...a lot has happened. Reporting on it hasn't been an option because 1) the secure socket layer for Chez Vinny's internet got a little too secure, and I wasn't able to access the site from SSH; 2) the sherwood wilderness that is my parents' property blocks any sort of wireless communication- thanks Pop for planting 1 bajillion trees when we moved in 1988; 3) any time I wasn't at SSH or home I was Mom's chauffeur. Stare at Interstate 40, stare at Dad, stare at Interstate 40. Repeat. Those were my days. I drove from Chicago, and in 8 days I've logged 1500 miles and 32 hours in my car...and I'm not even home yet.
I did draft an entry right before Christmas, so I'll publish that along with today's info. Grab a sandwich, beverage and a blanket- you'll be here a while.
WEDNESDAY, Dec 23: Taking Care Of Business
And working overtime. Work Out.
Today was less filled with Dad and more filled with errands to take care of Dad: dropping forms with his work's HR office (Hi ladies! You were all lovely), grabbing extra copies of documents from our fabulous attorney Susan, getting all the papers in ONE place for Mom, and a very different kind of Christmas shopping. For a skilled nursing facility. Cue the single, pathetic party whistle.
Here's the thing: like I mentioned, Dad's not ready for a fully aggressive rehab facility. SSH won't be able to keep him for much longer, so skilled nursing is the next step. Skilled nursing is considered short-term, but it's longer than anything we've known (90-120 days). It combines less acute nursing care with physical and occupational therapy (where possible). It gives Dad a place to be cared for and worked on while the noggin decides where and when it will show up again. There are facilities all over the state, including some that are much closer to home. The issue? Most of these facilities are housed within nursing homes. My stomach collapsed with the news.
My family knows the nursing home setup quite well- I spent lots of time in them as a kid (funeral homes too, but that's because Grandma took me to work with her...that's a story for another time). Whether we were visiting my 100-yr-old great Granny Sanders or I was singing Christmas carols as entertainment for the 3 pm dinnertime rush, I knew those places inside out. And loathed them. The musty smell, the desperate attempts to cover the gray walls with festive glitter/construction paper cutouts, the shouting of phrases like "Did you take your pill?" loud enough for Aunt Marge to hear. I hated them. At six years old I deduced one thing: this is where people were sent to die. And now, 23 years later, Mom and I had to decide which one would get my father. Merry Freaking Christmas.
To our surprise, both of the facilities we visited were not the doom chambers we remembered. There was no "nursing home smell!" Both Facility A and B were recently remodled/constructed, with modern decor and furnishings, and were remarkably clean. Both accommodated our request for a tour with no appointment and had very friendly guides/RNs to answer our questions. Facility A had wonderfully bright wall colors, and Facility B had a very open floor plan. After a short time in each place, I felt comforted, invited and safe.
What started out as the unthinkable option turned into a rational decision for both of us. Either facility can give him what he needs and keep him in one place, and that place happens to be MUCH closer to home (no more 80 mile, 1.5 hour one-way drives for her). And oh yeah, it won't smell like death. Mom can be there any time day or night, and can be near home/Daisy, eventually go back to work and get as close to back to normal as possible while we give Dad the time he needs. The closeness also makes visiting much easier, and the incredible support system that is their church, colleagues and community will remain intact (and heads-up: once this move happens I'll be relying on all of you to help. Get ready). We drove to Dad today with more optimism/relief than either of us thought possible.
Despite that relief, this holiday is going to be emotionally difficult for us. It's not lost on me that my tiny family has plummeted from 5 to 2.5 in 18 months (for those attempting to do the math, that's an accident/domestic upset every 6 months since last fall). This is only our second Christmas without Grandma, and my first without Teppei. There are moments that I silently panic when I can't find Mom, because I'm terrified I'll lose her too. But we're here. He's here. So we must be grateful for what we have, and have faith in the knowledge and understanding that these experiences can bring.
I'm not exactly sure what our holiday plans entail, except of course the daily drives to the Rock to see Dad and the nightly snuggle sessions with Daisy the dog. Wherever we end up, know that I will be remembering each of you who have called/written/read this site. Your positive energy is my Christmas gift.
May you have a pleasant holiday, however you chose to celebrate. We love you.
-----ok. Here's today's update. SIT DOWN. Trust me.------
SUNDAY, December 27. The House of "Yes"
Greetings from the Days Inn in Mt. Vernon, IL. I'm here because I got a late start home- you'll know why soon.
Mom and I had a relatively unremarkable holiday. The timing of our visits to Dad delayed all our initial plans. We had a just-the-two of us dinner on the Eve, a quick jaunt to her parents on the Morning, and simply did what we do every day. We did bookend the period with 2 visits to see my best friend and adorable baby niece, and the rest of the awesome Sorrells family. Hands down: 3 cutest grandkids in the Valley. It was the one happy, soul-restoring activity in an otherwise less-than-merry time. I'm pretty sure we both just chose not to talk about our situation and just get through the time emotionally intact. Sometimes it's best to say nothing and pretend you don't feel it.
My uncle Johnnie and aunt Valli (Dad's older brother/sis-in-law) drove in from Texas on Saturday to visit. The moment Dad heard Johnnie's voice he went to town: fingers, arms, right eye, mouth. And he didn't stop for hours. It was awesome. That morning, during my periodic lotion rubdown of Dad's feet/legs (for a man's man, he is alarmingly finicky about dry skin and smelling good, so we're keeping that up for him now), as I moved his left leg, he winced in pain. Not in an "excuse me, might you stop that?" way, but a "OW! PUT MY F*&$^NG LEG DOWN, YOU'RE KILLING ME!" way. This may sound weird, but I was thrilled. He's feeling pain in places he hasn't, and he's letting us know.
While Johnnie was playing the hand squeeze game with his brother, Dad started to open his mouth as if to say something. That stunned us- we hadn't seen that yet. We mentioned it to his respiratory therapist that night, and she offered up the option of a speaking valve on his trach tube. It's an attachment with simulated plastic vocal chords. Think less chain-smoker's robotic voice machine, more duck hunting call. In the event Dad would actually attempt to speak/make noise, we'd have a better shot at hearing him. She left the equipment in his room and suggested we try it Sunday.
Right before we left for the night, his sassy nursing assistants came in to turn him (which they do every 2 hours). These ladies are hysterical, giving each other a hard time as they tease the patients in hopes of getting a rise out of them. It's like having Frangela and the Smothers Brothers on the in-house staff. One of them got sassy with Dad, and since he can't sass back he raised his whole arm up to grab her elbow. Oh yeah, he's in there.
This morning we got there with the plan that I'd sit for an hour then go; I had a 10 hour drive home to Chicago. I kept getting delayed. Then Glenn, a high school friend of Dad's called to let us know he was coming to visit- more delay. Dad heard Glenn's voice and immediately responded with his hands (which was a bit shocking: given Dad's big show on Saturday, we were expecting crickets from him the following day). His day resp therapist put the speaking valve on him, more to appease my Mom than anything. The second it was on, Dad's mouth started moving, and we heard jibberish sounds. It was clear he was making an effort.
Then it happened.
Glenn: "Hey old buddy, you're looking good. Are you in pain?"
Dad (almost inaudibly): "Yes."
Mom and I froze. I could not believe it had happened. He spoke. Comprehensibly. I couldn't move a muscle in my body for 30 solid seconds. Nothing ever felt so wonderful or scary in my life. Mom teared up and I started looking for stuff to poke him with (so I could keep him awake and ask him questions). Six weeks ago I didn't think he'd live and now he's telling me he's in pain, most likely because I was shaking his legs in an attempt to rouse him. It was unbelievable.
He didn't respond to much else. His eyes remained closed for most of the afternoon, I think we wore him out with all the party tricks (Watch his fingers while I jiggle his arm- he'll move them!). But I didn't care. It was worth it for that one word. I couldn't leave his side for 3 more hours.
Right before Glenn left, we got one more nugget of hope.
Glenn: "OK buddy, I've got to run. I'm going to go now."
Dad, as he raises his hand to find Glenn's: "OK."
EEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! That's TWO!
Now do you understand why I told you to sit down?
I stuck around for a bit longer, but he was spent. And so were we. I said my goodbyes to Mom and drove as far as I could before crashing in this hotel.
As wonderful as those moments were, they're in no way indicative of the end of this story. There won't be a cinematic moment later this week when he suddenly sits upright, orders a cheeseburger and asks how healthcare reform is going. We are still cognizant of our yearlong, or possibly longer, journey to any sort of normal life for him. But the moments are absolutely a step (albeit a shocking one) in the right direction.
From here the focus is on the selection and move to a skilled nursing facility. The transport won't happen until the new year, but most likely in the first week. Once we know where he's going, details on how and where to visit will of course be posted here. As we've witnessed first hand, human contact is the primary stimulator that he needs. It is imperative that his friends and family surround him, speak to him, hold his hands, and once he can keep his eye(s) open, keep his gaze so he can remember. Keep this in mind- you're going to help us get him back.
I did draft an entry right before Christmas, so I'll publish that along with today's info. Grab a sandwich, beverage and a blanket- you'll be here a while.
WEDNESDAY, Dec 23: Taking Care Of Business
And working overtime. Work Out.
Today was less filled with Dad and more filled with errands to take care of Dad: dropping forms with his work's HR office (Hi ladies! You were all lovely), grabbing extra copies of documents from our fabulous attorney Susan, getting all the papers in ONE place for Mom, and a very different kind of Christmas shopping. For a skilled nursing facility. Cue the single, pathetic party whistle.
Here's the thing: like I mentioned, Dad's not ready for a fully aggressive rehab facility. SSH won't be able to keep him for much longer, so skilled nursing is the next step. Skilled nursing is considered short-term, but it's longer than anything we've known (90-120 days). It combines less acute nursing care with physical and occupational therapy (where possible). It gives Dad a place to be cared for and worked on while the noggin decides where and when it will show up again. There are facilities all over the state, including some that are much closer to home. The issue? Most of these facilities are housed within nursing homes. My stomach collapsed with the news.
My family knows the nursing home setup quite well- I spent lots of time in them as a kid (funeral homes too, but that's because Grandma took me to work with her...that's a story for another time). Whether we were visiting my 100-yr-old great Granny Sanders or I was singing Christmas carols as entertainment for the 3 pm dinnertime rush, I knew those places inside out. And loathed them. The musty smell, the desperate attempts to cover the gray walls with festive glitter/construction paper cutouts, the shouting of phrases like "Did you take your pill?" loud enough for Aunt Marge to hear. I hated them. At six years old I deduced one thing: this is where people were sent to die. And now, 23 years later, Mom and I had to decide which one would get my father. Merry Freaking Christmas.
To our surprise, both of the facilities we visited were not the doom chambers we remembered. There was no "nursing home smell!" Both Facility A and B were recently remodled/constructed, with modern decor and furnishings, and were remarkably clean. Both accommodated our request for a tour with no appointment and had very friendly guides/RNs to answer our questions. Facility A had wonderfully bright wall colors, and Facility B had a very open floor plan. After a short time in each place, I felt comforted, invited and safe.
What started out as the unthinkable option turned into a rational decision for both of us. Either facility can give him what he needs and keep him in one place, and that place happens to be MUCH closer to home (no more 80 mile, 1.5 hour one-way drives for her). And oh yeah, it won't smell like death. Mom can be there any time day or night, and can be near home/Daisy, eventually go back to work and get as close to back to normal as possible while we give Dad the time he needs. The closeness also makes visiting much easier, and the incredible support system that is their church, colleagues and community will remain intact (and heads-up: once this move happens I'll be relying on all of you to help. Get ready). We drove to Dad today with more optimism/relief than either of us thought possible.
Despite that relief, this holiday is going to be emotionally difficult for us. It's not lost on me that my tiny family has plummeted from 5 to 2.5 in 18 months (for those attempting to do the math, that's an accident/domestic upset every 6 months since last fall). This is only our second Christmas without Grandma, and my first without Teppei. There are moments that I silently panic when I can't find Mom, because I'm terrified I'll lose her too. But we're here. He's here. So we must be grateful for what we have, and have faith in the knowledge and understanding that these experiences can bring.
I'm not exactly sure what our holiday plans entail, except of course the daily drives to the Rock to see Dad and the nightly snuggle sessions with Daisy the dog. Wherever we end up, know that I will be remembering each of you who have called/written/read this site. Your positive energy is my Christmas gift.
May you have a pleasant holiday, however you chose to celebrate. We love you.
-----ok. Here's today's update. SIT DOWN. Trust me.------
SUNDAY, December 27. The House of "Yes"
Greetings from the Days Inn in Mt. Vernon, IL. I'm here because I got a late start home- you'll know why soon.
Mom and I had a relatively unremarkable holiday. The timing of our visits to Dad delayed all our initial plans. We had a just-the-two of us dinner on the Eve, a quick jaunt to her parents on the Morning, and simply did what we do every day. We did bookend the period with 2 visits to see my best friend and adorable baby niece, and the rest of the awesome Sorrells family. Hands down: 3 cutest grandkids in the Valley. It was the one happy, soul-restoring activity in an otherwise less-than-merry time. I'm pretty sure we both just chose not to talk about our situation and just get through the time emotionally intact. Sometimes it's best to say nothing and pretend you don't feel it.
My uncle Johnnie and aunt Valli (Dad's older brother/sis-in-law) drove in from Texas on Saturday to visit. The moment Dad heard Johnnie's voice he went to town: fingers, arms, right eye, mouth. And he didn't stop for hours. It was awesome. That morning, during my periodic lotion rubdown of Dad's feet/legs (for a man's man, he is alarmingly finicky about dry skin and smelling good, so we're keeping that up for him now), as I moved his left leg, he winced in pain. Not in an "excuse me, might you stop that?" way, but a "OW! PUT MY F*&$^NG LEG DOWN, YOU'RE KILLING ME!" way. This may sound weird, but I was thrilled. He's feeling pain in places he hasn't, and he's letting us know.
While Johnnie was playing the hand squeeze game with his brother, Dad started to open his mouth as if to say something. That stunned us- we hadn't seen that yet. We mentioned it to his respiratory therapist that night, and she offered up the option of a speaking valve on his trach tube. It's an attachment with simulated plastic vocal chords. Think less chain-smoker's robotic voice machine, more duck hunting call. In the event Dad would actually attempt to speak/make noise, we'd have a better shot at hearing him. She left the equipment in his room and suggested we try it Sunday.
Right before we left for the night, his sassy nursing assistants came in to turn him (which they do every 2 hours). These ladies are hysterical, giving each other a hard time as they tease the patients in hopes of getting a rise out of them. It's like having Frangela and the Smothers Brothers on the in-house staff. One of them got sassy with Dad, and since he can't sass back he raised his whole arm up to grab her elbow. Oh yeah, he's in there.
This morning we got there with the plan that I'd sit for an hour then go; I had a 10 hour drive home to Chicago. I kept getting delayed. Then Glenn, a high school friend of Dad's called to let us know he was coming to visit- more delay. Dad heard Glenn's voice and immediately responded with his hands (which was a bit shocking: given Dad's big show on Saturday, we were expecting crickets from him the following day). His day resp therapist put the speaking valve on him, more to appease my Mom than anything. The second it was on, Dad's mouth started moving, and we heard jibberish sounds. It was clear he was making an effort.
Then it happened.
Glenn: "Hey old buddy, you're looking good. Are you in pain?"
Dad (almost inaudibly): "Yes."
Mom and I froze. I could not believe it had happened. He spoke. Comprehensibly. I couldn't move a muscle in my body for 30 solid seconds. Nothing ever felt so wonderful or scary in my life. Mom teared up and I started looking for stuff to poke him with (so I could keep him awake and ask him questions). Six weeks ago I didn't think he'd live and now he's telling me he's in pain, most likely because I was shaking his legs in an attempt to rouse him. It was unbelievable.
He didn't respond to much else. His eyes remained closed for most of the afternoon, I think we wore him out with all the party tricks (Watch his fingers while I jiggle his arm- he'll move them!). But I didn't care. It was worth it for that one word. I couldn't leave his side for 3 more hours.
Right before Glenn left, we got one more nugget of hope.
Glenn: "OK buddy, I've got to run. I'm going to go now."
Dad, as he raises his hand to find Glenn's: "OK."
EEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! That's TWO!
Now do you understand why I told you to sit down?
I stuck around for a bit longer, but he was spent. And so were we. I said my goodbyes to Mom and drove as far as I could before crashing in this hotel.
As wonderful as those moments were, they're in no way indicative of the end of this story. There won't be a cinematic moment later this week when he suddenly sits upright, orders a cheeseburger and asks how healthcare reform is going. We are still cognizant of our yearlong, or possibly longer, journey to any sort of normal life for him. But the moments are absolutely a step (albeit a shocking one) in the right direction.
From here the focus is on the selection and move to a skilled nursing facility. The transport won't happen until the new year, but most likely in the first week. Once we know where he's going, details on how and where to visit will of course be posted here. As we've witnessed first hand, human contact is the primary stimulator that he needs. It is imperative that his friends and family surround him, speak to him, hold his hands, and once he can keep his eye(s) open, keep his gaze so he can remember. Keep this in mind- you're going to help us get him back.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Twas the Tuesday before Christmas
...and all through Chez Vinny...I got nothing. I thought I could cutesy it up, but I'm spent. Perhaps it's from the shock and awe after seeing my father for the first time in 3 weeks.
He looks incredible. His face is completely normal. His eyelids flutter. He opens his right eye fully when stimulated (or rather, when he's being turned from side to side). His arm and hand muscles are rewiring, because he moves them constantly. He squeezes my hands and brushes his thumb/index finger together in circular motions, as if he's feeling a fabric for texture. He'll kick his legs ever so slowly if he's stimulated enough. All great things, right? Sort of.
While these are all wonderful signs, they aren't necessarily indicative of where he is mentally. But that's ok- we can let his body heal everywhere from the neck down while we observe and report on the brain progress.
So here's where we stand:
While these improvements are all reasons for me to do a happy dance, there's still an infinite amount on information we don't have on his brain status. SSH is a great facility, but it's for acute care, and soon Dad won't need or be able to be here anymore. He's not ready for rehab yet (while he does squeeze my hand, he isn't able to follow it as a command, or any other basic command), so we must start looking for another facility to move him to until he's ready for rehab. I met with the case worker today and learned about our responsibilities through the process, and will be scouting locations during my stay here.
Mom and I are here every day, and will be here for the Christmas holidays. There's no place I'd rather be.
One more piece of great news- his breathing is great! The resp therapist was planning on "capping him off" today. No, that's not a gun reference. He wanted to remove the breathing tube from Dad's trach and cover the end with a cap to let him completely breath on his own (cue the wows, hurrays and whoopees). But Dad's been producing lots of fluid from his lungs today (seeing it is just as lovely as it sounds, btw), so he decided to wait. They expect to be able to cap him in a matter of days.
Again, there's a fine line between hope and delusion. It's a tightrope, really, and we walk it daily without a balance bar.
I've got to change the music in Dad's iPod and decide which cookies I'll be baking for the nursing staff, so I'm out for now. More updates soon. Make sure Dad's on your list for Santa and let's hope he gets the point.
He looks incredible. His face is completely normal. His eyelids flutter. He opens his right eye fully when stimulated (or rather, when he's being turned from side to side). His arm and hand muscles are rewiring, because he moves them constantly. He squeezes my hands and brushes his thumb/index finger together in circular motions, as if he's feeling a fabric for texture. He'll kick his legs ever so slowly if he's stimulated enough. All great things, right? Sort of.
While these are all wonderful signs, they aren't necessarily indicative of where he is mentally. But that's ok- we can let his body heal everywhere from the neck down while we observe and report on the brain progress.
So here's where we stand:
While these improvements are all reasons for me to do a happy dance, there's still an infinite amount on information we don't have on his brain status. SSH is a great facility, but it's for acute care, and soon Dad won't need or be able to be here anymore. He's not ready for rehab yet (while he does squeeze my hand, he isn't able to follow it as a command, or any other basic command), so we must start looking for another facility to move him to until he's ready for rehab. I met with the case worker today and learned about our responsibilities through the process, and will be scouting locations during my stay here.
Mom and I are here every day, and will be here for the Christmas holidays. There's no place I'd rather be.
One more piece of great news- his breathing is great! The resp therapist was planning on "capping him off" today. No, that's not a gun reference. He wanted to remove the breathing tube from Dad's trach and cover the end with a cap to let him completely breath on his own (cue the wows, hurrays and whoopees). But Dad's been producing lots of fluid from his lungs today (seeing it is just as lovely as it sounds, btw), so he decided to wait. They expect to be able to cap him in a matter of days.
Again, there's a fine line between hope and delusion. It's a tightrope, really, and we walk it daily without a balance bar.
I've got to change the music in Dad's iPod and decide which cookies I'll be baking for the nursing staff, so I'm out for now. More updates soon. Make sure Dad's on your list for Santa and let's hope he gets the point.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
The Ides of December
Hi all,
Sorry for the weeklong absence. In all honesty, there hasn't been too much to report. Teeny tiny improvements, for which we're incredibly grateful. In fact, we got great news today-
The large respirator has been wheeled out of his room, because Dad's been able to sustain his own breathing for periods longer than 72 hours on the Tpat breathing machine! In addition, his breathing tube has been reduced from a size 8 to a size 6! I don't even know what that means, but apparently it's good so I'm excited and using exclamation points!!!!
Dr. Mumtaz, Dad's main MD, is very aware of dad's steps in the right direction and has stated to my mother that he's making "significant improvements." The goal is to keep him in SSH as long as possible, and many doctors have given us their word that they will do everything to keep him there. Again, we have MILES to go before Dad doesn't sleep, but it's still all good. Dad's eye (yes, just the one right now) is opening and blinking in response to sounds, and his fingers wiggle from time to time. All good.
If you're in the area, please do go see him. He could absolutely use the visitors and stimulation. I'll be heading there from my frozen tundra of a city on Sunday. Do me a solid and entertain him until I get there.
Sorry for the weeklong absence. In all honesty, there hasn't been too much to report. Teeny tiny improvements, for which we're incredibly grateful. In fact, we got great news today-
The large respirator has been wheeled out of his room, because Dad's been able to sustain his own breathing for periods longer than 72 hours on the Tpat breathing machine! In addition, his breathing tube has been reduced from a size 8 to a size 6! I don't even know what that means, but apparently it's good so I'm excited and using exclamation points!!!!
Dr. Mumtaz, Dad's main MD, is very aware of dad's steps in the right direction and has stated to my mother that he's making "significant improvements." The goal is to keep him in SSH as long as possible, and many doctors have given us their word that they will do everything to keep him there. Again, we have MILES to go before Dad doesn't sleep, but it's still all good. Dad's eye (yes, just the one right now) is opening and blinking in response to sounds, and his fingers wiggle from time to time. All good.
If you're in the area, please do go see him. He could absolutely use the visitors and stimulation. I'll be heading there from my frozen tundra of a city on Sunday. Do me a solid and entertain him until I get there.
Monday, December 7, 2009
2 steps forward...
...1 step back. That's the process we were told, and we're living it.
Mom and I had a teleconference with Dad's case worker and his primary MD, Dr. Mumtaz today (and by teleconference, I mean I was on a cell phone in my office in Chicago while the 3 of them in the Rock figured out how to turn on Mom's cell speakerphone). We discussed where Dad is, what's to be expected, and what he's done that's unexpected. I learned a lot and nothing at all simultaneously.
Overall, it's been a good week. Dad has had two fever spikes, this morning's as high as 105. He's had blood culture's done 3 times to check for infection, and only on the first did they find anything (which was treated). Dr. Mumtaz is pretty sure that the fever's neurological, as A. the brain also helps regulate temp, so if something's amiss it will fluctuate and B. infection temps hover more around 102. But again, with long term care you must think in weeks, not moment-to-moment. If 5 of his last 7 days are good, that week goes in the "win" column.
Dad's official diagnosis from neurology will be severe traumatic brain injury. DO NOT google or Wikipedia unless you're sitting down and prepared. And even then, don't listen to Wikipedia...ever. It's too malleable to be a reliable source. We have not been told where he is on the Glasgow Coma Scale (mostly because I failed to ask, and the neurologist wasn't present). What we do know is that unconsciousness tends to last longer for people with injuries on the left side of the brain than for those to the right. Again, we simply must wait.
That's the worst news. What's better is that Dr Mumtaz believes that Dad's more responsive than ever as of today. He does have periods of eye opening and blinking. His nurse this morning told the doctor that she observed an obvious attempt on his part to follow the "squeeze my hand" command, something we've tried since the beginning unsuccessfully. That's huge. He held his own on two separate TPat breathing attempts (that's a step down from his normal respirator, a good thing), and only when his fever spiked did the techs have to increase his oxygen dosage.
The prognosis is dim, but you can help brighten it. If you're looking to help and happen to be in the Little Rock area, one of the best things you can do is visit Dad and talk to him. Brain stimulation is key to bring him out of this, and the more familiar voices, the merrier. Again, he's at Select Specialty Hospital at St Vincent, Markham and University, 6th floor. A few ground rules:
1. Do not, under any circumstances, visit if you are sick or caring for someone else who is ill. The tiniest risk of infection could have devastating consequences, and we need to keep him healthy. No coughs, no sniffles, nothing. He's going to be there a while, so we can wait until you're better.
2. Speak to him as if he's lucid, wide awake and sharing a glass of tea with you on the front porch. We have no reason to believe that he can't hear and understand everything. Feel free to tell "remember the time" stories about anything. Ask him questions and see if his eyelids flutter. You can even play the squeeze my hand game- first one gets a prize!
3. If you feel overcome with emotion, get out of that room. NO CRYING near the Dad. He needs the happy, not the sad. He's got enough problems and doesn't need any reason to give up hope. I hold both Mom and myself to this same standard, and I've only broken my rule once.
4. The SSH nursing staff has been amazing, so if the staff or techs come by, feel free to ask them questions. Most of their check-ins on Dad won't require you to leave the room, but some might. Don't be surprised if they ask for a little privacy.
5. Talk to Mom as well, about anything that's not involved with this accident and injury. She'll of course debrief you on where we are with Dad, but please also include conversations about something else. Funny stories, tabloid, gossip, anything. Try to make her laugh, but not so hard that she coughs. I know, it's a fine line...
So there's your update. It's not all good, but certainly not all bad. Just keep hoping and helping. I need my Dad. Help me get him back.
Mom and I had a teleconference with Dad's case worker and his primary MD, Dr. Mumtaz today (and by teleconference, I mean I was on a cell phone in my office in Chicago while the 3 of them in the Rock figured out how to turn on Mom's cell speakerphone). We discussed where Dad is, what's to be expected, and what he's done that's unexpected. I learned a lot and nothing at all simultaneously.
Overall, it's been a good week. Dad has had two fever spikes, this morning's as high as 105. He's had blood culture's done 3 times to check for infection, and only on the first did they find anything (which was treated). Dr. Mumtaz is pretty sure that the fever's neurological, as A. the brain also helps regulate temp, so if something's amiss it will fluctuate and B. infection temps hover more around 102. But again, with long term care you must think in weeks, not moment-to-moment. If 5 of his last 7 days are good, that week goes in the "win" column.
Dad's official diagnosis from neurology will be severe traumatic brain injury. DO NOT google or Wikipedia unless you're sitting down and prepared. And even then, don't listen to Wikipedia...ever. It's too malleable to be a reliable source. We have not been told where he is on the Glasgow Coma Scale (mostly because I failed to ask, and the neurologist wasn't present). What we do know is that unconsciousness tends to last longer for people with injuries on the left side of the brain than for those to the right. Again, we simply must wait.
That's the worst news. What's better is that Dr Mumtaz believes that Dad's more responsive than ever as of today. He does have periods of eye opening and blinking. His nurse this morning told the doctor that she observed an obvious attempt on his part to follow the "squeeze my hand" command, something we've tried since the beginning unsuccessfully. That's huge. He held his own on two separate TPat breathing attempts (that's a step down from his normal respirator, a good thing), and only when his fever spiked did the techs have to increase his oxygen dosage.
The prognosis is dim, but you can help brighten it. If you're looking to help and happen to be in the Little Rock area, one of the best things you can do is visit Dad and talk to him. Brain stimulation is key to bring him out of this, and the more familiar voices, the merrier. Again, he's at Select Specialty Hospital at St Vincent, Markham and University, 6th floor. A few ground rules:
1. Do not, under any circumstances, visit if you are sick or caring for someone else who is ill. The tiniest risk of infection could have devastating consequences, and we need to keep him healthy. No coughs, no sniffles, nothing. He's going to be there a while, so we can wait until you're better.
2. Speak to him as if he's lucid, wide awake and sharing a glass of tea with you on the front porch. We have no reason to believe that he can't hear and understand everything. Feel free to tell "remember the time" stories about anything. Ask him questions and see if his eyelids flutter. You can even play the squeeze my hand game- first one gets a prize!
3. If you feel overcome with emotion, get out of that room. NO CRYING near the Dad. He needs the happy, not the sad. He's got enough problems and doesn't need any reason to give up hope. I hold both Mom and myself to this same standard, and I've only broken my rule once.
4. The SSH nursing staff has been amazing, so if the staff or techs come by, feel free to ask them questions. Most of their check-ins on Dad won't require you to leave the room, but some might. Don't be surprised if they ask for a little privacy.
5. Talk to Mom as well, about anything that's not involved with this accident and injury. She'll of course debrief you on where we are with Dad, but please also include conversations about something else. Funny stories, tabloid, gossip, anything. Try to make her laugh, but not so hard that she coughs. I know, it's a fine line...
So there's your update. It's not all good, but certainly not all bad. Just keep hoping and helping. I need my Dad. Help me get him back.
Friday, December 4, 2009
They've got a plan!
After the Thursday team meeting, we're more convinced than ever that Dad's in the right place to improve. Just counting resp techs, physical and occupational therapists, there were at least ten people in the room with Mom. Ten people whose primary goal is to make my father progress as much as humanly possible. Amazing.
The EEG Dad received Tuesday has showed brain activity...not a lot, but some. Again, I'll take it. It means he's in there. Mom walked into Dad's room yesterday to see him open his right eye. She called me and put the phone to his ear, and he blinked in response to my voice.
Dad's doing well this week. Breathing's stable, temp's stable. We're thrilled and amazed by his progress. All we need is the go-ahead to bring in more visitors so we can get all of you to swing by and talk to him. Keep on praying, chanting, hoping. I know I am.
The EEG Dad received Tuesday has showed brain activity...not a lot, but some. Again, I'll take it. It means he's in there. Mom walked into Dad's room yesterday to see him open his right eye. She called me and put the phone to his ear, and he blinked in response to my voice.
Dad's doing well this week. Breathing's stable, temp's stable. We're thrilled and amazed by his progress. All we need is the go-ahead to bring in more visitors so we can get all of you to swing by and talk to him. Keep on praying, chanting, hoping. I know I am.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Still Waiting
Monday was not the day of revelations we anticipated.
Not a bad day at all; the doctors simply didn't meet in the collective powwow we had thought would happen. Dad's main Md, Dr. Mumtaz, has ordered a neurologist consult, and it's a bit counterintuitive to have physical and occupational therapists flinging him around before the head squad's had their say.
The delay was actually great for Mom and I- we've been doing legal housekeeping. My folks have always had separate checking accounts and split the home's expenses. But these pesky things called bills have shown up in Dad's name, and they are due, um...now. So we're working to make it possible for Mom to handle those, and putting my name on a few documents as backup.
We also got a chance to meet with Brenda, our case worker at SSH. We set goals for his stay (1. get him off ventilation, 2. WAKE him) and discussed long term options. She's incredibly nice, and went out of her way to get me a list of facilities so I can start doing research for a possible transfer later.
Earlier today Dad got his first EEG (and it's about flipping time- I've been asking about them for 2 weeks- I'm a musician and I know you can't get a good read on brain function from a CT). We'll know official results tomorrow, but the second hand hearsay we got (the neurotech mumbled to fabulous Nurse David who talked to us) is ok, but not devastating. Again, though, we won't know much until tomorrow.
We tried to tackle Dr. Mumtaz in the hall today before my flight, but missed. I've got his number and he has mine, so we'll do a phone date tomorrow to touch base. There are weekly team meetings with all therapists, MDs and case workers which we're allowed to attend, so I'm sending Mom to Dad's first one Thursday.
As far as his vitals, Dad's staying strong. He breathes on his own with a tiny 30% oxygen burst on inhales. He's still got a bit of a temperature, but he's fighting an infection somewhere (we haven't totally found the cause yet). Yawns a lot, moves when something hurts, typical good day stuff.
I flew back to Chicago today with no meltdown upon departure. Now that Dad's in a facility that can really cater to his needs, I feel confident leaving him in their care. Mom's getting into the groove of the commute, and as luck would have it, a good friend of mine from high school and college works in Little Rock healthcare and has graciously offered to help Mom with travel (Thanks, Mo!). I've finally begun to learn some of the nurse and tech names over here, and I've apparently been dubbed "girl with pretty hair." Heck, I'll take it.
Not a bad day at all; the doctors simply didn't meet in the collective powwow we had thought would happen. Dad's main Md, Dr. Mumtaz, has ordered a neurologist consult, and it's a bit counterintuitive to have physical and occupational therapists flinging him around before the head squad's had their say.
The delay was actually great for Mom and I- we've been doing legal housekeeping. My folks have always had separate checking accounts and split the home's expenses. But these pesky things called bills have shown up in Dad's name, and they are due, um...now. So we're working to make it possible for Mom to handle those, and putting my name on a few documents as backup.
We also got a chance to meet with Brenda, our case worker at SSH. We set goals for his stay (1. get him off ventilation, 2. WAKE him) and discussed long term options. She's incredibly nice, and went out of her way to get me a list of facilities so I can start doing research for a possible transfer later.
Earlier today Dad got his first EEG (and it's about flipping time- I've been asking about them for 2 weeks- I'm a musician and I know you can't get a good read on brain function from a CT). We'll know official results tomorrow, but the second hand hearsay we got (the neurotech mumbled to fabulous Nurse David who talked to us) is ok, but not devastating. Again, though, we won't know much until tomorrow.
We tried to tackle Dr. Mumtaz in the hall today before my flight, but missed. I've got his number and he has mine, so we'll do a phone date tomorrow to touch base. There are weekly team meetings with all therapists, MDs and case workers which we're allowed to attend, so I'm sending Mom to Dad's first one Thursday.
As far as his vitals, Dad's staying strong. He breathes on his own with a tiny 30% oxygen burst on inhales. He's still got a bit of a temperature, but he's fighting an infection somewhere (we haven't totally found the cause yet). Yawns a lot, moves when something hurts, typical good day stuff.
I flew back to Chicago today with no meltdown upon departure. Now that Dad's in a facility that can really cater to his needs, I feel confident leaving him in their care. Mom's getting into the groove of the commute, and as luck would have it, a good friend of mine from high school and college works in Little Rock healthcare and has graciously offered to help Mom with travel (Thanks, Mo!). I've finally begun to learn some of the nurse and tech names over here, and I've apparently been dubbed "girl with pretty hair." Heck, I'll take it.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Sunday surprises
2 big things:
While cleaning off Dad's face with a cool washcloth, he let me know he didn't like it by SHAKING HIS HEAD! I was wiping his mouth and he shook his head back and forth as if to say "no." Only twice, but it was definite. I jumped back- it scared the living haysus out of me. I looked up and Mom's jaw was dropped in shock. I tried to get him to do it a second time, but no dice. Not a problem- I got one, and that's enough.
Also, his nurse Mendy (who we LERVE- she's amazing), told us that he opened his eyes and looked around as she was cleaning and turning him earlier this morning. She talked to him, but he closed his eyes again afterward. Again, that's a head shake and two open eyes! We're in business!
He's still got a fever, so Mendy is running an arsenal of labs to find the cause. A boatload of new blood cultures plus urine tests. If nothing comes out positive for infection, we'll know for sure that the fever's neurological. He'll get his first once-over from SSH's doctors tomorrow, and Mom's given consent for them to do whatever procedures they deem necessary. The next phase of the journey begins tomorrow morning.
While cleaning off Dad's face with a cool washcloth, he let me know he didn't like it by SHAKING HIS HEAD! I was wiping his mouth and he shook his head back and forth as if to say "no." Only twice, but it was definite. I jumped back- it scared the living haysus out of me. I looked up and Mom's jaw was dropped in shock. I tried to get him to do it a second time, but no dice. Not a problem- I got one, and that's enough.
Also, his nurse Mendy (who we LERVE- she's amazing), told us that he opened his eyes and looked around as she was cleaning and turning him earlier this morning. She talked to him, but he closed his eyes again afterward. Again, that's a head shake and two open eyes! We're in business!
He's still got a fever, so Mendy is running an arsenal of labs to find the cause. A boatload of new blood cultures plus urine tests. If nothing comes out positive for infection, we'll know for sure that the fever's neurological. He'll get his first once-over from SSH's doctors tomorrow, and Mom's given consent for them to do whatever procedures they deem necessary. The next phase of the journey begins tomorrow morning.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Gameday
All quiet here at Chez Vinny. The three of us are watching the Arkansas/LSU game, a post-thanksgiving tradition of sorts. Dad's breathing well, yawning, flinching...all wonderful things. I have the speaker turned up so he can hear the game. By the look on his face, he's not particularly impressed with Mallett's performance so far.
His hospital bed is very fancy- it's got air chambers that inflate/deflate to turn him as needed. Trouble is, it's got a short in it somewhere, so the error alarm goes off once every 15 minutes or so. Mom and I take turns hitting the cancel button. They're sending a technician in Monday to fix it, so only 1 more day of annoyance.
Monday's also the day we get a full team of doctors to do an assessment. They'll most likely order more brain scans and run a few more tests. The resp staff is going to put him on a machine that's a step down from his ventilator and see how he handles it.
...and an 87 yard punt return for LSU? Yeesh. It's only the 2nd quarter! I've got to move Dad's arms anyway, so I'll do it when they call the Hogs (for my non-Arkansas friends, ask me later. It's really best explained in person).
His hospital bed is very fancy- it's got air chambers that inflate/deflate to turn him as needed. Trouble is, it's got a short in it somewhere, so the error alarm goes off once every 15 minutes or so. Mom and I take turns hitting the cancel button. They're sending a technician in Monday to fix it, so only 1 more day of annoyance.
Monday's also the day we get a full team of doctors to do an assessment. They'll most likely order more brain scans and run a few more tests. The resp staff is going to put him on a machine that's a step down from his ventilator and see how he handles it.
...and an 87 yard punt return for LSU? Yeesh. It's only the 2nd quarter! I've got to move Dad's arms anyway, so I'll do it when they call the Hogs (for my non-Arkansas friends, ask me later. It's really best explained in person).
Friday, November 27, 2009
Friday 11/26: New contact info
If you try to go visit Dad at UAMS, you'll be out of luck. We're not there.
Here's Dad's new hospital info:
Select Specialty Hospital
on the campus of St. Vincent Infirmary
2 St. Vincent Circle, 6th Floor
Little Rock, AR 72205
(501) 552-8310
I'll leave his room number off, but you may ask at reception for his location. Visiting hours are 10 am-8 pm only. The staff has been pretty easygoing about visitors, but keep in mind that he's still at risk for infections, so no sniffles or flu recoverers allowed. Mom and I are around most of the day, stepping out for lunch and errands.
He's settling in quite well here. There's more color in his face, he's breathing like a champ and his sleep/wake cycles are becoming more obvious (I can tell when he's sleeping/dreaming, and when he yawns, when his body's alert).
One of his first nurses here generously took the time to go through his chart and medicine list with me. I apparently sounded like I new what I was talking about, because he asked if I was a nurse. I laughed so hard I think it scared Dad.
All in all, thing at Chez Vinny are rocking steady. We've had a steady flow of visitors, and we welcome any that would like to drop by. Keep up the prayers/chants/hopes. They are working.
Here's Dad's new hospital info:
Select Specialty Hospital
on the campus of St. Vincent Infirmary
2 St. Vincent Circle, 6th Floor
Little Rock, AR 72205
(501) 552-8310
I'll leave his room number off, but you may ask at reception for his location. Visiting hours are 10 am-8 pm only. The staff has been pretty easygoing about visitors, but keep in mind that he's still at risk for infections, so no sniffles or flu recoverers allowed. Mom and I are around most of the day, stepping out for lunch and errands.
He's settling in quite well here. There's more color in his face, he's breathing like a champ and his sleep/wake cycles are becoming more obvious (I can tell when he's sleeping/dreaming, and when he yawns, when his body's alert).
One of his first nurses here generously took the time to go through his chart and medicine list with me. I apparently sounded like I new what I was talking about, because he asked if I was a nurse. I laughed so hard I think it scared Dad.
All in all, thing at Chez Vinny are rocking steady. We've had a steady flow of visitors, and we welcome any that would like to drop by. Keep up the prayers/chants/hopes. They are working.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Wednesday, 11/25: Moving Day
I knew I was ready to get back to Little Rock today; I had no idea how essential it was until I got here.
Dad's no longer a patient at UAMS. In a meeting this morning with doctors from the neurology, surgery, SICU and social work staff, we were informed that ICU treatment had done everything possible for Dad, and he shouldn't stay any longer. Their primary objective was to get him out of imminent life-threatening danger, and they had succeeded. He is now stable, and the best possible move for him would be to a facility that could focus on the next objective of weaning him off his ventilator and giving his brain further time to mend. Also, with a high-traffic intensive care unit, the longer he's there, the longer he's at risk for contracting infections, pneumonia, and whatever else walks in the door (an elderly woman a few doors away from his room was brought in with H1N1 last week). Also, it's sort of an unspoken that the good ICU discharge window is 2-3 weeks.
We were moved this afternoon to Select Specialty Hospital, operating out of the 6th floor of St Vincent's Infirmary Hospital (at Markham and University in LR). It's not another ICU, but rather a long term acute care (LTAC) facility. Here the foot traffic is not as heavy, and the staff is smaller and a bit more specialized. He has 2 respiratory therapists who are monitoring him in rotation, both former ICU resp staff. Dad breathes completely on his own, but it's through his trach ventilator which needs monitoring. He'll also be receiving more aggressive physical therapy, and staff will also be more aggressive in trying to obtain a neurological response. Sounds intense, but it's good- he's to a point now that we need to start pushing his limits and see how he reacts.
One drawback (or bonus, depending on how you see it) is that we no longer have round-the-clock access to Dad. SSH does not allow any visitors between 8pm-10am. There's a family waiting area, but it's much smaller and not designed for overnight stay. While we know we won't be staying overnight in the hospital much anymore, neither of us could bear to be far from him on the first night in his new digs at Chez Vinny (that's what I've dubbed the hospital- you've gotta have fun with it). We've checked into the Guesthouse Inn on St Vincent's campus for the night. And boy, did we need it. For the first time since the accident 2 weeks ago, Mom's sleeping in a real bed (and snoring. infinitely more than her usual symphonic range, but it's wonderful because I know she's really resting). It's been nice, given the whirlwind of today's venue change, to be alone in a private hotel room with real beds and a tv.
Tomorrow we'll spend the day with Dad and plan for the next week. We've officially moved into a new stage, but it's one we weren't planning for so soon. We may come home for some time tomorrow, but nothing's definite.
Bottom line: Dad's in the best place he could be for right now. He's on no sedatives, he breathes on his own, and he yawns like a lion as part of his coma's sleep/wake cycle (it's adorable). His eyelids flutter (yes, both!), he coughs a lot (which is good- he's clearing his lungs of debris), and he moves all limbs when he gets irritated. Now we wait...more. But with a slightly different purpose, and the exact same faith that he'll keep improving.
Dad's no longer a patient at UAMS. In a meeting this morning with doctors from the neurology, surgery, SICU and social work staff, we were informed that ICU treatment had done everything possible for Dad, and he shouldn't stay any longer. Their primary objective was to get him out of imminent life-threatening danger, and they had succeeded. He is now stable, and the best possible move for him would be to a facility that could focus on the next objective of weaning him off his ventilator and giving his brain further time to mend. Also, with a high-traffic intensive care unit, the longer he's there, the longer he's at risk for contracting infections, pneumonia, and whatever else walks in the door (an elderly woman a few doors away from his room was brought in with H1N1 last week). Also, it's sort of an unspoken that the good ICU discharge window is 2-3 weeks.
We were moved this afternoon to Select Specialty Hospital, operating out of the 6th floor of St Vincent's Infirmary Hospital (at Markham and University in LR). It's not another ICU, but rather a long term acute care (LTAC) facility. Here the foot traffic is not as heavy, and the staff is smaller and a bit more specialized. He has 2 respiratory therapists who are monitoring him in rotation, both former ICU resp staff. Dad breathes completely on his own, but it's through his trach ventilator which needs monitoring. He'll also be receiving more aggressive physical therapy, and staff will also be more aggressive in trying to obtain a neurological response. Sounds intense, but it's good- he's to a point now that we need to start pushing his limits and see how he reacts.
One drawback (or bonus, depending on how you see it) is that we no longer have round-the-clock access to Dad. SSH does not allow any visitors between 8pm-10am. There's a family waiting area, but it's much smaller and not designed for overnight stay. While we know we won't be staying overnight in the hospital much anymore, neither of us could bear to be far from him on the first night in his new digs at Chez Vinny (that's what I've dubbed the hospital- you've gotta have fun with it). We've checked into the Guesthouse Inn on St Vincent's campus for the night. And boy, did we need it. For the first time since the accident 2 weeks ago, Mom's sleeping in a real bed (and snoring. infinitely more than her usual symphonic range, but it's wonderful because I know she's really resting). It's been nice, given the whirlwind of today's venue change, to be alone in a private hotel room with real beds and a tv.
Tomorrow we'll spend the day with Dad and plan for the next week. We've officially moved into a new stage, but it's one we weren't planning for so soon. We may come home for some time tomorrow, but nothing's definite.
Bottom line: Dad's in the best place he could be for right now. He's on no sedatives, he breathes on his own, and he yawns like a lion as part of his coma's sleep/wake cycle (it's adorable). His eyelids flutter (yes, both!), he coughs a lot (which is good- he's clearing his lungs of debris), and he moves all limbs when he gets irritated. Now we wait...more. But with a slightly different purpose, and the exact same faith that he'll keep improving.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Tuesday, 11/24
For a guy in a coma, Dad's sure making progress.
He's breathing almost completely on his own. His heart rate is normal, except when he hears Mom reading to him, when it accelerates (read: he's in there). His circulation is still improving, and I can't wait to see him tomorrow.
I was called by Dr. Wagner today to grant consent for a small procedure. They've implanted an IVC in one of his veins. Because he's laying still and not moving around, he's at a higher risk for blood clots, specifically in his legs. Should one of those travel to his heart, it could get passed rather quickly to his lung, resulting in a pulmonary embolism. These are incredibly dangerous and could be fatal (I lost a singer friend of mine to one of those earlier this year). The IVC will act somewhat like a sieve, allowing blood but not clots to pass back up to his heart. I granted consent, and the procedure was completed seamlessly before 6 pm.
Tracy, his day nurse, gave him a great report, as did Kelly, a new evening nurse. Again, our outlook is positive. We must, because the alternative robs us of our sanity. We understand the length of this process, but we know the amount of fight he has in him. Besides, after surviving as much as he has, and defying countless predictions, how do you not have faith?
He's breathing almost completely on his own. His heart rate is normal, except when he hears Mom reading to him, when it accelerates (read: he's in there). His circulation is still improving, and I can't wait to see him tomorrow.
I was called by Dr. Wagner today to grant consent for a small procedure. They've implanted an IVC in one of his veins. Because he's laying still and not moving around, he's at a higher risk for blood clots, specifically in his legs. Should one of those travel to his heart, it could get passed rather quickly to his lung, resulting in a pulmonary embolism. These are incredibly dangerous and could be fatal (I lost a singer friend of mine to one of those earlier this year). The IVC will act somewhat like a sieve, allowing blood but not clots to pass back up to his heart. I granted consent, and the procedure was completed seamlessly before 6 pm.
Tracy, his day nurse, gave him a great report, as did Kelly, a new evening nurse. Again, our outlook is positive. We must, because the alternative robs us of our sanity. We understand the length of this process, but we know the amount of fight he has in him. Besides, after surviving as much as he has, and defying countless predictions, how do you not have faith?
Sunday, November 22, 2009
11/22: Sunday Funday
There was no post yesterday for 2 reasons. 1. There wasn't much to report. Dad's vitals didn't change much, but all is good and stable. 2. Ashlee had a final rehearsal for the opera tonight, and when she got home she slept. She was so tired that she spoke of herself in third person.
I did have an amazing conversation with Mikal, Dad's nurse. She's the one Mom and I love to pieces- she also used to ride bikes, so she sympathizes with our situation. She put some things in perspective for me. As trite as it sounds, one of her phrases hasn't left my head: "Life changes, but it does go on."
Mom and I are still getting used to what is now our new normal: stats, temps, bodily fluid discussions that aren't even our own. She managed to go home for a few hours yesterday, and I'm so proud. If you see her before I do, make sure she's taking care of herself.
Dad breathed all by himself today on a CPAP machine. And that, my friends, is what we call progress! The nurses also convinced Mom that Dad's beard had to go. It's getting too long, and soon it will interfere with the trach collar, which would cause him even more discomfort. They had makeover day this morning, and Mikal sent me a shot of dad from her camera phone...c'est adrorable! Less Grizzly Adams, more Timbo circa 2002. They did a pretty good job; very few nicks.
This morning at mass at Church of the Ascension, I was thinking of not just my own father, but the patriarch of the McSheehy family in Russellville. His daughter was a friend of mine from college, and he passed yesterday morning. When you have your next spiritual moment, please send some of the good wishes you have for my father to their family so that they find peace and comfort during their grief.
Again, today is a good day for Dad. He's holding is own, which is exactly what we want for now. I'm heading to my modern opera with Vox3/Eclipse Theatre Co, where I'll be screaming above the staff as Esther Dudley in Democracy. I'll record it because my mother wants it for Dad, but my character is the daughter of an agnostic who's trying to decide if she wants to marry and Anglican priest in post-Civil War America. Not sure how my pitched religious arguments will go with the Temptations and Gladys Knight, but I'll work on it.
I did have an amazing conversation with Mikal, Dad's nurse. She's the one Mom and I love to pieces- she also used to ride bikes, so she sympathizes with our situation. She put some things in perspective for me. As trite as it sounds, one of her phrases hasn't left my head: "Life changes, but it does go on."
Mom and I are still getting used to what is now our new normal: stats, temps, bodily fluid discussions that aren't even our own. She managed to go home for a few hours yesterday, and I'm so proud. If you see her before I do, make sure she's taking care of herself.
Dad breathed all by himself today on a CPAP machine. And that, my friends, is what we call progress! The nurses also convinced Mom that Dad's beard had to go. It's getting too long, and soon it will interfere with the trach collar, which would cause him even more discomfort. They had makeover day this morning, and Mikal sent me a shot of dad from her camera phone...c'est adrorable! Less Grizzly Adams, more Timbo circa 2002. They did a pretty good job; very few nicks.
This morning at mass at Church of the Ascension, I was thinking of not just my own father, but the patriarch of the McSheehy family in Russellville. His daughter was a friend of mine from college, and he passed yesterday morning. When you have your next spiritual moment, please send some of the good wishes you have for my father to their family so that they find peace and comfort during their grief.
Again, today is a good day for Dad. He's holding is own, which is exactly what we want for now. I'm heading to my modern opera with Vox3/Eclipse Theatre Co, where I'll be screaming above the staff as Esther Dudley in Democracy. I'll record it because my mother wants it for Dad, but my character is the daughter of an agnostic who's trying to decide if she wants to marry and Anglican priest in post-Civil War America. Not sure how my pitched religious arguments will go with the Temptations and Gladys Knight, but I'll work on it.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Friday, 11/20
While on the Amtrak train from Rochester, MN to Chicago this morning I burst out laughing. I started thinking about how irritated my dad is going to be when he wakes up.
We have specific routines at home, and everything in his world is done with a system, exerting as little effort as possible (he's not lazy, he's just got his own brand of "efficient"). The lights are at a certain brightness, the coffee comes on at a certain time, and the pillows in dad's recliner sit a certain way, otherwise his back hurts and he gets irritated. This miraculous, cinematic moment when my father comes out of his current fog of a state will be about 2 seconds long. He'll then notice all the stuff sticking to him, and feel the stiffness of sitting in the same position for who knows how long. While Mom and I weeping and praising all the powers above, Dad will look around and say, "What in the Sam Hill is going on in the M*&@^D(&!#$.......GLORIA!!!!!"
This moment equally cracks me up and comforts me, because I know it will happen. He's in great shape today. The nurses reduced his pain medication today and guess what? More wiggling. Peggy's been his day nurse for 3 days in a row now, and she's learning the groove of Mom's series of questions. The resp staff added more moisture to his breathing equipment so his intake isn't drying him out as much as before. His levels jumped a bit while they were working on hm, but were back to normal after he'd had time to rest.
Rest. Hopefully Mom will get some of that tonight. Heck, maybe I will too.
We have specific routines at home, and everything in his world is done with a system, exerting as little effort as possible (he's not lazy, he's just got his own brand of "efficient"). The lights are at a certain brightness, the coffee comes on at a certain time, and the pillows in dad's recliner sit a certain way, otherwise his back hurts and he gets irritated. This miraculous, cinematic moment when my father comes out of his current fog of a state will be about 2 seconds long. He'll then notice all the stuff sticking to him, and feel the stiffness of sitting in the same position for who knows how long. While Mom and I weeping and praising all the powers above, Dad will look around and say, "What in the Sam Hill is going on in the M*&@^D(&!#$.......GLORIA!!!!!"
This moment equally cracks me up and comforts me, because I know it will happen. He's in great shape today. The nurses reduced his pain medication today and guess what? More wiggling. Peggy's been his day nurse for 3 days in a row now, and she's learning the groove of Mom's series of questions. The resp staff added more moisture to his breathing equipment so his intake isn't drying him out as much as before. His levels jumped a bit while they were working on hm, but were back to normal after he'd had time to rest.
Rest. Hopefully Mom will get some of that tonight. Heck, maybe I will too.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Thursday, 11/19: Baby Steps
Today is good for Pops- steady pressures, more independent breathing. The staff felt it safe to remove his EVD (the tube draining the excess fluid off his brain) because he's been able to regulate the pressure all on his own. Plus, his brain's not producing enough fluid from the swelling to really justify it being there anymore. This is a good thing.
Mom's been meeting more with doctors and asking more questions. She's getting much bolder in her approach with the nurses, especially the ones she feels aren't paying attention to her concerns. She gave me a list of 2 nurses and 1 MD that she "doesn't like too much." If you know Mom, that's harsh. I'll spare their names to protect the, um, negligent?
We still see tiny improvements every day. Microscopic, even, but they're there. The nurses he had last week stop by and are shocked at his progress. I'm holding on to that.
I just finished up my singing commitment in Minneapolis, and it went as well as it possibly could have given the circumstances. I'm heading back to Chicago in the morning to cram for the next gig on Sunday. I'm physically here, but my entire heart and mind is on the 4th floor of that hospital in Little Rock. The nurses give me as much info as I ask for via phone, but it's simply not the same.
Mom's getting a picture of what would be most helpful to us, and in the coming days I'll broadcast it so you know how you can help. In the meantime, just do what we do: keep up the hope.
Mom's been meeting more with doctors and asking more questions. She's getting much bolder in her approach with the nurses, especially the ones she feels aren't paying attention to her concerns. She gave me a list of 2 nurses and 1 MD that she "doesn't like too much." If you know Mom, that's harsh. I'll spare their names to protect the, um, negligent?
We still see tiny improvements every day. Microscopic, even, but they're there. The nurses he had last week stop by and are shocked at his progress. I'm holding on to that.
I just finished up my singing commitment in Minneapolis, and it went as well as it possibly could have given the circumstances. I'm heading back to Chicago in the morning to cram for the next gig on Sunday. I'm physically here, but my entire heart and mind is on the 4th floor of that hospital in Little Rock. The nurses give me as much info as I ask for via phone, but it's simply not the same.
Mom's getting a picture of what would be most helpful to us, and in the coming days I'll broadcast it so you know how you can help. In the meantime, just do what we do: keep up the hope.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Wednesday, 11/18: The C Word
Dad's status hasn't changed much, except for one word.
The doctors used the word coma yesterday for the first time. His blood pressure's great, his inter-cranial pressure is rocking steady, he still has subtle, tiny movements. He breathes well above what his respirator's levels recommend, and he reacts to pain stimuli. But he's officially in a coma.
Part of me's glad; at least it has a name. But that name isn't necessarily one you want to hear. Ever. Not for the man responsible for half your DNA, the man who did silly dances with you in the living room, the man who taught you how to fix a toilet.
Mom is still charging on- she says he looks cute with his beard trimmed and his ipod on. She still meets with nurses and doctors, takes his levels, and waits for the reports on his status. That's the thing with these injuries- you just have to wait. And pray. And hope.
The doctors used the word coma yesterday for the first time. His blood pressure's great, his inter-cranial pressure is rocking steady, he still has subtle, tiny movements. He breathes well above what his respirator's levels recommend, and he reacts to pain stimuli. But he's officially in a coma.
Part of me's glad; at least it has a name. But that name isn't necessarily one you want to hear. Ever. Not for the man responsible for half your DNA, the man who did silly dances with you in the living room, the man who taught you how to fix a toilet.
Mom is still charging on- she says he looks cute with his beard trimmed and his ipod on. She still meets with nurses and doctors, takes his levels, and waits for the reports on his status. That's the thing with these injuries- you just have to wait. And pray. And hope.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Tuesday Morning, 11/17
It's been a week since the accident. I can't tell if it feel long or short.
Today's been stable and positive. Super-Nurse, the non-blinking Stacy, helped my mom press a doctor about an antibiotic that may be causing a curious rash dad's developed. We officially love her now.
Pressures are great. They've closed the brain drain for an extended period of time today, and he's rocking steady. Mom's also bought an mp3 player and will be loading it up with some of his favorite stuff. I'll be throwing my own classical voice recordings on there soon, because he'll recognize that too. What a playlist: Temptations, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Sam Cooke, an aria from Mozart's Don Giovanni.
We know that music will help dad, because it's always been a huge part of our lives. Mom's a music teacher, I work in the music and theater arts, and dad's very active in the church music. They were my first music history professors; we'd play "Who is it?" on the radio as a kid. We'd listed to the oldies station, and thanks to my dad, I knew every artist on the Motown record label by age 6. The day they chose to let me know that Marvin Gaye had already passed, I threw my 7-year-old self on my grandmother's bed and cried for an hour.
All in all, it's a good day. I plan on chatting with the nurse a little later today, and will let you all know more when I have it. In the meantime, turn on an oldies radio station and think a happy thought for my Dad. He'll feel it, I promise.
Today's been stable and positive. Super-Nurse, the non-blinking Stacy, helped my mom press a doctor about an antibiotic that may be causing a curious rash dad's developed. We officially love her now.
Pressures are great. They've closed the brain drain for an extended period of time today, and he's rocking steady. Mom's also bought an mp3 player and will be loading it up with some of his favorite stuff. I'll be throwing my own classical voice recordings on there soon, because he'll recognize that too. What a playlist: Temptations, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Sam Cooke, an aria from Mozart's Don Giovanni.
We know that music will help dad, because it's always been a huge part of our lives. Mom's a music teacher, I work in the music and theater arts, and dad's very active in the church music. They were my first music history professors; we'd play "Who is it?" on the radio as a kid. We'd listed to the oldies station, and thanks to my dad, I knew every artist on the Motown record label by age 6. The day they chose to let me know that Marvin Gaye had already passed, I threw my 7-year-old self on my grandmother's bed and cried for an hour.
All in all, it's a good day. I plan on chatting with the nurse a little later today, and will let you all know more when I have it. In the meantime, turn on an oldies radio station and think a happy thought for my Dad. He'll feel it, I promise.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Monday: Collective Sigh/Rough Parting
Salty Nurse no more!
Well, Stacy is still our evening nurse, but I'm pretty sure I misread her. Her bedside manner and delivery of news weren't syrupy sweet like the rest of our nurses so far, and that combined with the first dose of scary news made me nervous around her. Plus, I don't think she blinks. Ever. I've yet to see any in 2 12-hour shifts.
But after my standoff at the O.K. Kuh-Neuro yesterday morning, I got the answers I needed, which is to my non-blinking nurse's credit. She scared me enough to really get mad and fight. We had her again last night, and she was Super-Nurse. She got his spiking fever down, asked about my conversation with the neurologist, and -wait for it- JOKED around with me a little. Plus, she offered to trim Dad's beard. He really needed it. We don't need any more reasons to crack Rip Van Winkle jokes.
All silliness aside, she was/is wonderful, as have been all the other nurses.
Today was a great day for Dad. His pressures, both blood and brain, have been stable and slightly lower than the day before. He's breathing almost twice as much as the ventilator tells him to (A New Record!), and his oxygen delivery is stable. I believe the respiratory staff will try a CPap on him tonight or tomorrow for a few moments, just to see how he does. He's moving a bit more, and even if it's due to a silent coughing fit, I'll take it. It means A) he's getting the gunk out of his lungs and B) he's got the strength and energy to do it. Ah yes, and C) his whole body moves, most specifically his right arm which he swings like crazy. Why is this wonderful? It's controlled by the left brain, where his trauma is.
He wiggled his mouth the second I walked in to talk to him, which is awesome. He's getting quicker at his responses. I picked up his favorite cologne for both him and mom from home, and she'll be waving them under his nose over the coming days. Hey, it won't hurt him. And anything that triggers a sense memory is worth a shot.
Sadly, I won't be around to see if it works. I'm writing from Gate 11 at the L.R. airport. I'm back to Chicago/Minneapolis/Chicago for 8 days. It's already killing me to be away from them. I've refused to let him hear me cry so far, but today I fell off the wagon. God Bless my cousin Chuck for holding me while I got it out of my system. The nurses all understand that I'll be calling regularly for updates on his levels, and my physical distance from Room H405 won't mean a thing when it comes to me quizzing doctors. In fact, it may get worse. Hold on to your hats, residents.
For tonight, we're just enjoying how blessed we've been so far. He's improving tiny bits every single day. I'm so proud of him. And of Mom for being, well, herself. Upbeat, positive, loving. I feel in my soul that it's working.
Well, Stacy is still our evening nurse, but I'm pretty sure I misread her. Her bedside manner and delivery of news weren't syrupy sweet like the rest of our nurses so far, and that combined with the first dose of scary news made me nervous around her. Plus, I don't think she blinks. Ever. I've yet to see any in 2 12-hour shifts.
But after my standoff at the O.K. Kuh-Neuro yesterday morning, I got the answers I needed, which is to my non-blinking nurse's credit. She scared me enough to really get mad and fight. We had her again last night, and she was Super-Nurse. She got his spiking fever down, asked about my conversation with the neurologist, and -wait for it- JOKED around with me a little. Plus, she offered to trim Dad's beard. He really needed it. We don't need any more reasons to crack Rip Van Winkle jokes.
All silliness aside, she was/is wonderful, as have been all the other nurses.
Today was a great day for Dad. His pressures, both blood and brain, have been stable and slightly lower than the day before. He's breathing almost twice as much as the ventilator tells him to (A New Record!), and his oxygen delivery is stable. I believe the respiratory staff will try a CPap on him tonight or tomorrow for a few moments, just to see how he does. He's moving a bit more, and even if it's due to a silent coughing fit, I'll take it. It means A) he's getting the gunk out of his lungs and B) he's got the strength and energy to do it. Ah yes, and C) his whole body moves, most specifically his right arm which he swings like crazy. Why is this wonderful? It's controlled by the left brain, where his trauma is.
He wiggled his mouth the second I walked in to talk to him, which is awesome. He's getting quicker at his responses. I picked up his favorite cologne for both him and mom from home, and she'll be waving them under his nose over the coming days. Hey, it won't hurt him. And anything that triggers a sense memory is worth a shot.
Sadly, I won't be around to see if it works. I'm writing from Gate 11 at the L.R. airport. I'm back to Chicago/Minneapolis/Chicago for 8 days. It's already killing me to be away from them. I've refused to let him hear me cry so far, but today I fell off the wagon. God Bless my cousin Chuck for holding me while I got it out of my system. The nurses all understand that I'll be calling regularly for updates on his levels, and my physical distance from Room H405 won't mean a thing when it comes to me quizzing doctors. In fact, it may get worse. Hold on to your hats, residents.
For tonight, we're just enjoying how blessed we've been so far. He's improving tiny bits every single day. I'm so proud of him. And of Mom for being, well, herself. Upbeat, positive, loving. I feel in my soul that it's working.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Sunday, 11/15, 2:30 pm
Last night was rough.
We've known since we got here that his head trauma was the primary concern. Our salty nurse mentioned a condition that she read in his records. She didn't say it was a diagnosis or suggestion or whatever, she just said she read the words. We had told her that none of the doctors had really spoken to us. She stared at me blankly and said "If it was my family, I'd demand to speak to the neurologist." She refused to say any more.
Mom left dad's room for a moment and I instantly grabbed my computer. It was 10 pm, I felt powerless, and all I could do was start researching. I remembered the condition and by the power vested in Google, I started to read. Then panic.
The condition she described will be left out of this discussion until I have a specific diagnosis from an MD, but it can be the most devastating of all brain traumas. Patients tend to live in a vegetative state, 90% never wake up, and those that do almost never regain full function. That's the worst of it. The milder forms can make an almost full recovery. Right now, we've got no idea where he may lie within that spectrum.
I fell apart. I sobbed into my blanket so dad wouldn't hear me. Mom came back in and I slammed my Mac shut. I couldn't bear to let her read it until I knew more. I made her get her pal Dr. Andy on the phone. He works with cardio, but I had a feeling he'd know something to help me rationalize the neuro. He did, I regrouped, and I took action.
Mom and I had a mini-conference outside the wing, then geared up for our fight. I walked back to our nurse and said that we'd be back at 3:30 am, and were not leaving his room until we spoke to a neurologist. She understood, and for the first time that night, showed compassion; she brought us 2 warm blankets.
The neurologist finally came through at 7 am. I was barely awake but angry enough to pull through it. I fired questions at him like an automatic weapon. He spoke in incredibly general terms, and I kept pushing. I needed to know if that condition was a diagnosis, a suggestion or a mere pondering. He told me it was one of a list of possibilities, none of which they were currently able to confirm. That oddly made me feel better.
We've now gotten a more realistic picture of where his brain function lies. We are exactly where we thought we were yesterday, just with a nervous curveball and shaken faith in the form of a gruff overnight nurse. Dad's got lots of contusions (bruises) on his left frontal area. That's an important one- it controls speech, movement, and some portions of memory. Surgery's not an option, nor should it be now, because removing any part of that eliminates any chance for healing itself.
According to the neurologist, the priority this week has been stabilization and reduction of swelling, which we knew. We have to ensure his other bodily functions are in tact (eg his kidneys don't fail) while his brain decides what it wants to do. He is no longer on any kind of sedative, so we do see some reactions to pain stimuli. Over the next 1-2 weeks, we should see an increase in responses in reaction and some independent action. I'm asking Santa to let my dad speak to me for Christmas.
I've got to get in line now to reserve 2 of the coveted family waiting room sleeping chairs for me and mom. She's driving back to her house to pick up clothes for the week, get the mail, and spend some time with our beloved dog Daisy. It's the first time she's left Little Rock since the accident.
So many of you ask what you can do to help. First, give care or concern for my father and family in whatever fits your belief system: prayer, candles, chants, voodoo, whatever. Second, check this site for updates. We can absolutely take phone calls as well, but this will probably be more concise. Third, if you'd like to visit, feel free, but keep in mind that no one is allowed in Dad's room between the hours of 6-8, am and pm. Odds are that if Mom leaves the building, she'll do it then. Of course, if you'd like to go with her to get coffee or dinner, that's also an option.
Once we're a little more comfortable with the groove of this place, I may put together a rotation of people to be here to relieve my mom. She's going to need to spend some time away from here to keep her sanity, but she can't bear to leave unless she knows someone's here to be with him. Keep that in the back of your minds until we get more comfortable with the idea.
I’m heading home to Chicago for a week tomorrow night. I’m not particularly ready to go yet, but Mom’s sending me back to take care of some business. Keep up the hope and faith, because I know we are. We’re still in our slow steady climb, and we are certain that we will get through this with our entire family intact.
We've known since we got here that his head trauma was the primary concern. Our salty nurse mentioned a condition that she read in his records. She didn't say it was a diagnosis or suggestion or whatever, she just said she read the words. We had told her that none of the doctors had really spoken to us. She stared at me blankly and said "If it was my family, I'd demand to speak to the neurologist." She refused to say any more.
Mom left dad's room for a moment and I instantly grabbed my computer. It was 10 pm, I felt powerless, and all I could do was start researching. I remembered the condition and by the power vested in Google, I started to read. Then panic.
The condition she described will be left out of this discussion until I have a specific diagnosis from an MD, but it can be the most devastating of all brain traumas. Patients tend to live in a vegetative state, 90% never wake up, and those that do almost never regain full function. That's the worst of it. The milder forms can make an almost full recovery. Right now, we've got no idea where he may lie within that spectrum.
I fell apart. I sobbed into my blanket so dad wouldn't hear me. Mom came back in and I slammed my Mac shut. I couldn't bear to let her read it until I knew more. I made her get her pal Dr. Andy on the phone. He works with cardio, but I had a feeling he'd know something to help me rationalize the neuro. He did, I regrouped, and I took action.
Mom and I had a mini-conference outside the wing, then geared up for our fight. I walked back to our nurse and said that we'd be back at 3:30 am, and were not leaving his room until we spoke to a neurologist. She understood, and for the first time that night, showed compassion; she brought us 2 warm blankets.
The neurologist finally came through at 7 am. I was barely awake but angry enough to pull through it. I fired questions at him like an automatic weapon. He spoke in incredibly general terms, and I kept pushing. I needed to know if that condition was a diagnosis, a suggestion or a mere pondering. He told me it was one of a list of possibilities, none of which they were currently able to confirm. That oddly made me feel better.
We've now gotten a more realistic picture of where his brain function lies. We are exactly where we thought we were yesterday, just with a nervous curveball and shaken faith in the form of a gruff overnight nurse. Dad's got lots of contusions (bruises) on his left frontal area. That's an important one- it controls speech, movement, and some portions of memory. Surgery's not an option, nor should it be now, because removing any part of that eliminates any chance for healing itself.
According to the neurologist, the priority this week has been stabilization and reduction of swelling, which we knew. We have to ensure his other bodily functions are in tact (eg his kidneys don't fail) while his brain decides what it wants to do. He is no longer on any kind of sedative, so we do see some reactions to pain stimuli. Over the next 1-2 weeks, we should see an increase in responses in reaction and some independent action. I'm asking Santa to let my dad speak to me for Christmas.
I've got to get in line now to reserve 2 of the coveted family waiting room sleeping chairs for me and mom. She's driving back to her house to pick up clothes for the week, get the mail, and spend some time with our beloved dog Daisy. It's the first time she's left Little Rock since the accident.
So many of you ask what you can do to help. First, give care or concern for my father and family in whatever fits your belief system: prayer, candles, chants, voodoo, whatever. Second, check this site for updates. We can absolutely take phone calls as well, but this will probably be more concise. Third, if you'd like to visit, feel free, but keep in mind that no one is allowed in Dad's room between the hours of 6-8, am and pm. Odds are that if Mom leaves the building, she'll do it then. Of course, if you'd like to go with her to get coffee or dinner, that's also an option.
Once we're a little more comfortable with the groove of this place, I may put together a rotation of people to be here to relieve my mom. She's going to need to spend some time away from here to keep her sanity, but she can't bear to leave unless she knows someone's here to be with him. Keep that in the back of your minds until we get more comfortable with the idea.
I’m heading home to Chicago for a week tomorrow night. I’m not particularly ready to go yet, but Mom’s sending me back to take care of some business. Keep up the hope and faith, because I know we are. We’re still in our slow steady climb, and we are certain that we will get through this with our entire family intact.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Saturday, 11/14, 9:34 pm
Tonight's Affirmation: Prayers Work. We need them. Do. Not. Stop.
Tonight's nurse is a bit salty, and not in a good, potato chips way. She's direct, but her compassion skills are less than desirable. Good thing there are not comment cards here. My pen would be on FIRE.
We got a touch of questionable news tonight, but we can't take it seriously until morning. Nothing to report, because nothing is confirmed. Thanks to Mom's friend Dr. Andy (last name withheld) for setting me straight on some facts. What it's really done is give Mom and I the strength to stand up and fight for our right to know. We will meet with a neurosurgeon first thing in the morning, if I have to tackle him linebacker style in the hallway.
Tomorrow is Sunday, the understood day of faith in the Christian community. Put Dad's name on every prayer list you can get your hands on. Twice if they'll let you. Once you've hit your own church, drive up to another one and put him there. He needs all of them, despite our little victories throughout this week.
Dad, Mom and I are all fighters, and we will prove it this weekend. Make no mistake: he WILL wake up, he WILL recognize our faces, and he WILL walk out of here.
I will never stop believing that.
Tonight's nurse is a bit salty, and not in a good, potato chips way. She's direct, but her compassion skills are less than desirable. Good thing there are not comment cards here. My pen would be on FIRE.
We got a touch of questionable news tonight, but we can't take it seriously until morning. Nothing to report, because nothing is confirmed. Thanks to Mom's friend Dr. Andy (last name withheld) for setting me straight on some facts. What it's really done is give Mom and I the strength to stand up and fight for our right to know. We will meet with a neurosurgeon first thing in the morning, if I have to tackle him linebacker style in the hallway.
Tomorrow is Sunday, the understood day of faith in the Christian community. Put Dad's name on every prayer list you can get your hands on. Twice if they'll let you. Once you've hit your own church, drive up to another one and put him there. He needs all of them, despite our little victories throughout this week.
Dad, Mom and I are all fighters, and we will prove it this weekend. Make no mistake: he WILL wake up, he WILL recognize our faces, and he WILL walk out of here.
I will never stop believing that.
Saturday, 11/14, 9:59 am
Mom and I are back in Dad's room again, with the wheeze of the respirator as a gentle reminder he's still with us. It's wonderful.
It's not often that we're both back here- we've been living in the Family Waiting area at the front of the wing since we arrived. As far as hospitals go, it's pretty comfortable. There are reclining chairs that lay flat for sleeping, with mandatory quiet/dark hours from 10:30pm-6:00am. We've set up camp in 2 of the chairs, blankets and snacks in tow, and take turns answering phone calls, retuning missed ones, and going back to Dad's room to bug nurses and ask way too many questions.
Dad's holding steady. He had a bit of a temperature last night, but he had a long day. They administered Tylenol in a place I won't mention, and now he's back to normal.
Today's the day he'll begin to be fed through the stomach tube they added yesterday. Poor thing hasn't had anything nourishment since he's been here. I fully expect to see a little spring in his proverbial step once he gets some grub.
He also got another bath, so he's got that new dad smell. They've been able to prop him up a bit, and like magic the swelling in both eyes is reducing. He looks more like himself than he has all week. Even the nurses who treated him earlier this week mentioned the improvements.
Today's also a day of rest for him. We're watching his vitals like hawks, and still everything is either stable or with slight improvements. Never in my life did I think I'd do a happy dance for increased urine production, but here we are.
Every nurse we've had has been incredible, but today's assignment is one with whom we have a special connection. Mikal has literally been where we are: her former husband also had a motorcycle accident, complete with head trauma. She was actually on the scene before the EMTs. We've had a few great conversations about dad's progress (she's impressed), and she's sympathetic but gives us realistic expectations.
Once the feeding begins, I'm sure there will be more to report. For now he's rocking steady, and for that we're truly grateful.
It's not often that we're both back here- we've been living in the Family Waiting area at the front of the wing since we arrived. As far as hospitals go, it's pretty comfortable. There are reclining chairs that lay flat for sleeping, with mandatory quiet/dark hours from 10:30pm-6:00am. We've set up camp in 2 of the chairs, blankets and snacks in tow, and take turns answering phone calls, retuning missed ones, and going back to Dad's room to bug nurses and ask way too many questions.
Dad's holding steady. He had a bit of a temperature last night, but he had a long day. They administered Tylenol in a place I won't mention, and now he's back to normal.
Today's the day he'll begin to be fed through the stomach tube they added yesterday. Poor thing hasn't had anything nourishment since he's been here. I fully expect to see a little spring in his proverbial step once he gets some grub.
He also got another bath, so he's got that new dad smell. They've been able to prop him up a bit, and like magic the swelling in both eyes is reducing. He looks more like himself than he has all week. Even the nurses who treated him earlier this week mentioned the improvements.
Today's also a day of rest for him. We're watching his vitals like hawks, and still everything is either stable or with slight improvements. Never in my life did I think I'd do a happy dance for increased urine production, but here we are.
Every nurse we've had has been incredible, but today's assignment is one with whom we have a special connection. Mikal has literally been where we are: her former husband also had a motorcycle accident, complete with head trauma. She was actually on the scene before the EMTs. We've had a few great conversations about dad's progress (she's impressed), and she's sympathetic but gives us realistic expectations.
Once the feeding begins, I'm sure there will be more to report. For now he's rocking steady, and for that we're truly grateful.
After midnight...
Mom and I just finished setting up the blog. The only sounds are the whirr of the fan keeping Dad cool and the click-wheeze of his respirator. It's a welcoming symphony.
The nurses in this unit are absolutely incredible. We've been incredibly lucky; not a bad one in the bunch. Since Dad's been allowed to sit up (well, not REALLY sit up- We inclined his bed- He'll do it on his own in due time), the pressure and swelling in his eyes and face is going down dramatically. He looks less like Rocky at, well, the end of EVERY Rocky movie, and a little more like that guy I grew up with. Awesome.
Pass this along to anyone who's concerned about Tim, knowing that this will contain the most up-to-date info as we have it. If you feel so moved, leave him a not in the comment section. When he wakes up, he'll be glad to know you stopped by.
The nurses in this unit are absolutely incredible. We've been incredibly lucky; not a bad one in the bunch. Since Dad's been allowed to sit up (well, not REALLY sit up- We inclined his bed- He'll do it on his own in due time), the pressure and swelling in his eyes and face is going down dramatically. He looks less like Rocky at, well, the end of EVERY Rocky movie, and a little more like that guy I grew up with. Awesome.
Pass this along to anyone who's concerned about Tim, knowing that this will contain the most up-to-date info as we have it. If you feel so moved, leave him a not in the comment section. When he wakes up, he'll be glad to know you stopped by.
Friday: Daddy's pretty face
Boy, you take the esophageal respirator out of a guy and let him sit upright, and he looks GOOD!
FB: Fri, 9:32 am:
Dad update: surgery done. All levels are lower, but some of that's good (bp, for example). He's heavily sedated, probably not responsive for a bit. Now we wait.
FB: Fri, 12;20 pm:
Dad update: well that wait wasn't long. He started flinching 90 minutes after surgery. Surprising, but great. All is calm and stable for now. CT scans of head and chest right now to check fractures and hematomas
EMAIL: Fri, 1:04 pm:
Last night/this morning have brought a few changes. Nothing negative. I mentioned yesterday that his sedation was removed to see where his reflex/brain activity was and he moved all 4 limbs. I was in his room last night right before midnight and he did is again...ON his sedatives. Slow kicks, lost of motion in the right arm, mouth and nose flinches, back shifting. It was beautiful. The respirator tech says it's because he heard my voice, but something tells me it had much more to do with the loud metal notebook that she dropped which probably scared the living daylights out of him.
Mom and I went back again right before 6 am to wish him luck on his procedure. All his levels were relatively calm. His newest night nurse, Jessica, is AMAZING. She spent almost an hour with me explaining each of the machines, what they measure and what are good and bad readings. I feel more prepared. We're hoping to have her back again tonight.
The procedure went as well as it possibly could. The trach respirator and feeding tube are in, which leaves his mouth and lower half of his face free from pressure. He looks better already. Well, as good as you can look after multiple face fractures and brain trauma. But trust me...better.
There is a possible hematoma on his lung that the doctor mentioned to me today. After the CT scans of his head and chest, they're going in with a scope to check that out. Still knocked out from the procedures this morning with sedatives, we'd been told not to expect any reactions out of him at all. 90 minutes after the surgery, we're in the room and he starts to kick. Full shoulder shrug, back shift. That Tim, he'll surprise you.
Mom and I simply wait for results from scans, procedures and data reading. All things so far are positive. We both talk to him like he's lucid, because we don't have a reason to think otherwise. He just can't respond at the moment. Mom talks to him sweetly, I crack jokes. Bring us the family dog and it's like we're in our living room.
This evening when we have more info on his reactions, we'll start planning for the next few weeks. He's surprised us in a good way every day he's been here, so we're hoping that trend continues. More when I have it.
~Ashlee
FB: Fri, 9:32 am:
Dad update: surgery done. All levels are lower, but some of that's good (bp, for example). He's heavily sedated, probably not responsive for a bit. Now we wait.
FB: Fri, 12;20 pm:
Dad update: well that wait wasn't long. He started flinching 90 minutes after surgery. Surprising, but great. All is calm and stable for now. CT scans of head and chest right now to check fractures and hematomas
EMAIL: Fri, 1:04 pm:
Last night/this morning have brought a few changes. Nothing negative. I mentioned yesterday that his sedation was removed to see where his reflex/brain activity was and he moved all 4 limbs. I was in his room last night right before midnight and he did is again...ON his sedatives. Slow kicks, lost of motion in the right arm, mouth and nose flinches, back shifting. It was beautiful. The respirator tech says it's because he heard my voice, but something tells me it had much more to do with the loud metal notebook that she dropped which probably scared the living daylights out of him.
Mom and I went back again right before 6 am to wish him luck on his procedure. All his levels were relatively calm. His newest night nurse, Jessica, is AMAZING. She spent almost an hour with me explaining each of the machines, what they measure and what are good and bad readings. I feel more prepared. We're hoping to have her back again tonight.
The procedure went as well as it possibly could. The trach respirator and feeding tube are in, which leaves his mouth and lower half of his face free from pressure. He looks better already. Well, as good as you can look after multiple face fractures and brain trauma. But trust me...better.
There is a possible hematoma on his lung that the doctor mentioned to me today. After the CT scans of his head and chest, they're going in with a scope to check that out. Still knocked out from the procedures this morning with sedatives, we'd been told not to expect any reactions out of him at all. 90 minutes after the surgery, we're in the room and he starts to kick. Full shoulder shrug, back shift. That Tim, he'll surprise you.
Mom and I simply wait for results from scans, procedures and data reading. All things so far are positive. We both talk to him like he's lucid, because we don't have a reason to think otherwise. He just can't respond at the moment. Mom talks to him sweetly, I crack jokes. Bring us the family dog and it's like we're in our living room.
This evening when we have more info on his reactions, we'll start planning for the next few weeks. He's surprised us in a good way every day he's been here, so we're hoping that trend continues. More when I have it.
~Ashlee
Thursday: Don't turn around, you'll miss it!
EMAIL: Thurs, 10:33 am:
A few changes since last night: the nurses have changed his sedative/painkiller to something a little less intense (he was on Propofol, can't remember the new one) and are monitoring his responses. It's caused his BP, temperature and brain swell/pressure levels to increase slightly, but the staff seems to be ok with that. I was touching his right arm while the nurse was checking his levels, and he moved it- good sign.
We're simply in a holding pattern right now. Most of the staff seems to be focused on the procedures scheduled for tomorrow (changing the respirator to a trach and the ped feeding tube), and seeing how he responds. He's stable, so no change, but no deterioration. The stability we're seeing right now is positive. In fact, everything the staff has said is positive. Realistic, but positive.
Mom is a trooper. She's been keeping a diary of all the activities, has interviewed all of his nurses, and is keeping track of all his levels. We've also started a sign-in book for all Dad's visitors, so he knows how much love there's been around him. Be sure to ask to leave a message if you come by.
I'll sen an update this afternoon if I have anything new to report. Keep up the prayers/chant/candles/love/support/whatever fits your belief system. We still need them, and we know they are working.
FB: Thurs at 4:29pm:
Dad update: painkillers were changed this morning, and completely removed sedatives for now, to see how he responds. We've got movement in all limbs, and he's breathing over the ventilator's recommendation (a good thing). Not out of the woods, but no setbacks yet. All eyes are on Friday's procedures. Took Mom out for ...a taco and to get pajamas- she's doing great. You guys are wonderful! We feel your love.
EMAIL: Thurs, 5:32 pm:
What a difference an afternoon makes!
Small, subtle changes, but all in a great direction. As I said earlier, his painkillers were changed this morning to something a little less intense, to see his reaction. More activity, and stabilized pressures.
We've been mentioning to the staff that he takes medication for high blood pressure since we've been here, but he hadn't been given any. I got a call from the pharmacy confirming his prescription, and earlier this afternoon they finally started administering the medication. His blood pressure lowered almost instantly. Gold star!
The staff completely removed sedatives for a few hours, to see how he would respond. We got movement in all limbs (I saw his shoulder twitch and I jumped up and down for joy- you'd think I'd been given a pony), and he's breathing over the ventilator's recommendation (the machine is set to breathe for him 12 times a minute, and he's been as high as 16- that means he's doing it himself- a good thing). He's of course not waking up...yet. But his reactions are all positive. They've put him back on the sedation to keep him calm and comfortable, but the movement we experienced is a huge plus.
I took Mom out of the hospital for the first time since the accident. We got lunch and then picked up a few essentials- hooray for pajamas! She is such a picture of grace right now. She's got the same effect here as she does at home- everyone just loves her. Dad's first day nurse really took to her- they hugged it out before she left for the weekend. But really, who's surprised by that?
Not out of the woods by a long shot, but no setbacks yet. All eyes are on Friday's procedures. Once those are completed he'll be at a lesser risk for infection, pneumonia, and the read on his brain swelling reports will be a bit more accurate. The goal is to get that stabilized, remove the drainage tube and get started on the plethora of fractured and broken bones. We're fully aware that it's going to be a slow process, and we're preparing. But we've got faith and peace and a dad with a history of survival.
We're comforted by all of the support you're giving. Believe us- we FEEL it. Thank you to everyone who's calling/emailing/visiting/praying. We're keeping track of all of it, and it's overwhelming, inspiring and the best gift you could possibly give. Thanks doesn't seem like a big enough word, so I'll throw in a few more languages.
Thank you, gracias, merci, danke, grazie, tack and obrigado,
Ashlee
FB: Thurs 10:08 pm:
Dad update: back on sedatives after testing his responses. He is resting now. We go into surgery for the trach and the feeding tube in the morning. Please hope for a smooth procedure during the 7:00 am hour.
A few changes since last night: the nurses have changed his sedative/painkiller to something a little less intense (he was on Propofol, can't remember the new one) and are monitoring his responses. It's caused his BP, temperature and brain swell/pressure levels to increase slightly, but the staff seems to be ok with that. I was touching his right arm while the nurse was checking his levels, and he moved it- good sign.
We're simply in a holding pattern right now. Most of the staff seems to be focused on the procedures scheduled for tomorrow (changing the respirator to a trach and the ped feeding tube), and seeing how he responds. He's stable, so no change, but no deterioration. The stability we're seeing right now is positive. In fact, everything the staff has said is positive. Realistic, but positive.
Mom is a trooper. She's been keeping a diary of all the activities, has interviewed all of his nurses, and is keeping track of all his levels. We've also started a sign-in book for all Dad's visitors, so he knows how much love there's been around him. Be sure to ask to leave a message if you come by.
I'll sen an update this afternoon if I have anything new to report. Keep up the prayers/chant/candles/love/support/whatever fits your belief system. We still need them, and we know they are working.
FB: Thurs at 4:29pm:
Dad update: painkillers were changed this morning, and completely removed sedatives for now, to see how he responds. We've got movement in all limbs, and he's breathing over the ventilator's recommendation (a good thing). Not out of the woods, but no setbacks yet. All eyes are on Friday's procedures. Took Mom out for ...a taco and to get pajamas- she's doing great. You guys are wonderful! We feel your love.
EMAIL: Thurs, 5:32 pm:
What a difference an afternoon makes!
Small, subtle changes, but all in a great direction. As I said earlier, his painkillers were changed this morning to something a little less intense, to see his reaction. More activity, and stabilized pressures.
We've been mentioning to the staff that he takes medication for high blood pressure since we've been here, but he hadn't been given any. I got a call from the pharmacy confirming his prescription, and earlier this afternoon they finally started administering the medication. His blood pressure lowered almost instantly. Gold star!
The staff completely removed sedatives for a few hours, to see how he would respond. We got movement in all limbs (I saw his shoulder twitch and I jumped up and down for joy- you'd think I'd been given a pony), and he's breathing over the ventilator's recommendation (the machine is set to breathe for him 12 times a minute, and he's been as high as 16- that means he's doing it himself- a good thing). He's of course not waking up...yet. But his reactions are all positive. They've put him back on the sedation to keep him calm and comfortable, but the movement we experienced is a huge plus.
I took Mom out of the hospital for the first time since the accident. We got lunch and then picked up a few essentials- hooray for pajamas! She is such a picture of grace right now. She's got the same effect here as she does at home- everyone just loves her. Dad's first day nurse really took to her- they hugged it out before she left for the weekend. But really, who's surprised by that?
Not out of the woods by a long shot, but no setbacks yet. All eyes are on Friday's procedures. Once those are completed he'll be at a lesser risk for infection, pneumonia, and the read on his brain swelling reports will be a bit more accurate. The goal is to get that stabilized, remove the drainage tube and get started on the plethora of fractured and broken bones. We're fully aware that it's going to be a slow process, and we're preparing. But we've got faith and peace and a dad with a history of survival.
We're comforted by all of the support you're giving. Believe us- we FEEL it. Thank you to everyone who's calling/emailing/visiting/praying. We're keeping track of all of it, and it's overwhelming, inspiring and the best gift you could possibly give. Thanks doesn't seem like a big enough word, so I'll throw in a few more languages.
Thank you, gracias, merci, danke, grazie, tack and obrigado,
Ashlee
FB: Thurs 10:08 pm:
Dad update: back on sedatives after testing his responses. He is resting now. We go into surgery for the trach and the feeding tube in the morning. Please hope for a smooth procedure during the 7:00 am hour.
Wednesday: No change is good.
Wednesday was the day the email train started. WE had more time in the waiting room, since Dad's progress was uneventful. But if he's not changing, it means he's not getting any worse. Cue the somber high-five.
EMAIL: Wed 10:45 am:
I'm Ashlee, Tim's daughter. I'll be sending updates as I have them. If you're just joining us, Dad was in a terrible motorcycle accident yesterday morning, and we are currently in the ICU at UAMS.
Here's what we know:
He's here, and according to the nurses, that's a miracle. The largest concern right now is neurological- they are watching his brain activity and checking his responsiveness. He has a stint to relieve swelling on his brain, which they must reduce and stabilize before they can fix anything else. He can hear our voices (he had a physical reaction to Mom's voice), but we don't know how much he actually comprehends. He has multiple broken bones: skull fractures on the left side, clavicle, face, multiple compression fractures in spine. He's on a respirator, unconscious due to medical sedation. Sounds awful, and it is. But he's here.
Mom finally got some sleep- she's been amazingly strong and the ultimate trooper. People from their work, church and the community have been here to see us. Everyone has been incredibly supportive and we're speechless in appreciation.
We're meeting with doctors soon to learn more, but right now it's a waiting game. I'll send an update this afternoon if I get more information.
FB: Wed at 6:37pm:
Dad update: the latest CT scans show no changes. Still monitoring his head pressure, and there's still brain swelling. He's getting a trach for breathing and a feeding tube on Friday, and hopefully by then we'll be able to see how soon we can remove the brain drainage tube. Not much improvement, but certainly no more deterioration. Mom is holding up. Keep up the love and support- it's working!
EMAIL: Wed 10:45 am:
I'm Ashlee, Tim's daughter. I'll be sending updates as I have them. If you're just joining us, Dad was in a terrible motorcycle accident yesterday morning, and we are currently in the ICU at UAMS.
Here's what we know:
He's here, and according to the nurses, that's a miracle. The largest concern right now is neurological- they are watching his brain activity and checking his responsiveness. He has a stint to relieve swelling on his brain, which they must reduce and stabilize before they can fix anything else. He can hear our voices (he had a physical reaction to Mom's voice), but we don't know how much he actually comprehends. He has multiple broken bones: skull fractures on the left side, clavicle, face, multiple compression fractures in spine. He's on a respirator, unconscious due to medical sedation. Sounds awful, and it is. But he's here.
Mom finally got some sleep- she's been amazingly strong and the ultimate trooper. People from their work, church and the community have been here to see us. Everyone has been incredibly supportive and we're speechless in appreciation.
We're meeting with doctors soon to learn more, but right now it's a waiting game. I'll send an update this afternoon if I get more information.
FB: Wed at 6:37pm:
Dad update: the latest CT scans show no changes. Still monitoring his head pressure, and there's still brain swelling. He's getting a trach for breathing and a feeding tube on Friday, and hopefully by then we'll be able to see how soon we can remove the brain drainage tube. Not much improvement, but certainly no more deterioration. Mom is holding up. Keep up the love and support- it's working!
Tuesday: It begins.
Tuesday morning, right before 3 am, a deer jumped in front of my father's Harley and started the journey we're on now.
I've been updating people in the best way I knew how: Facebook status changes and mass emails. Boy I love technology.
I've compiled them in order here to fill you in, in case you're just joining us. This one's a long read. Grab a drink and sit down.
I first got word Tuesday morning around 8 am. Mom called and I had trouble processing what I heard. It begins.
FB: Tue at 8:48am:
If you pray, pray for my father. Please.
EMAIL to work and music colleagues in Chicago, Tues 10:47 am:
Hi all,
Sorry for the group email, but I need to let you know this quickly.
This morning, my father was in a terrible motorcycle accident on his way to work. It's incredibly serious. He's been unconscious since it happened, has movement in only half his body, and took a lot of impact top his head and face. I'm heading to Arkansas in an hour, and do not know when I'll be returning. You're in this email because I'm supposed to have an appointment with you sometime in the next few days. Those plans are obviously and effectively canceled.
I'm sorry to dump this on you so quickly, but his injuries are serious enough that I must be there. He's improved since this morning, but it's still too soon to tell.
I may be back as early as Saturday- I'll keep Jimmy and/or Brian posted, so you can check with them if you can't reach me.
FB: Tue at 12:07pm:
Dad update: he had a terrible motorcycle accident this morning. He's in ICU at UAMS. Unconscious, but with movement on one side. Too soon to tell his prognosis. I'm flying to Little Rock now to be with my family. Will update friends as I can. Again, if you pray/chant/light candles, do it super hard right now. Please.
FB: Tue at 11:18pm
Dad Update: he's still here, and that's a miracle. He has a stint to relieve swelling on his brain. He can hear us but, we don't know how much he comprehends. Multiple broken bones: clavicle, face, many fractures in spine. He's on a respirator, unconscious due to medical sedation. Mom is finally sleeping- she's been amazingly strong. We'll know more in the morning, but make no mistake: we are lucky he's even alive.
I've been updating people in the best way I knew how: Facebook status changes and mass emails. Boy I love technology.
I've compiled them in order here to fill you in, in case you're just joining us. This one's a long read. Grab a drink and sit down.
I first got word Tuesday morning around 8 am. Mom called and I had trouble processing what I heard. It begins.
FB: Tue at 8:48am:
If you pray, pray for my father. Please.
EMAIL to work and music colleagues in Chicago, Tues 10:47 am:
Hi all,
Sorry for the group email, but I need to let you know this quickly.
This morning, my father was in a terrible motorcycle accident on his way to work. It's incredibly serious. He's been unconscious since it happened, has movement in only half his body, and took a lot of impact top his head and face. I'm heading to Arkansas in an hour, and do not know when I'll be returning. You're in this email because I'm supposed to have an appointment with you sometime in the next few days. Those plans are obviously and effectively canceled.
I'm sorry to dump this on you so quickly, but his injuries are serious enough that I must be there. He's improved since this morning, but it's still too soon to tell.
I may be back as early as Saturday- I'll keep Jimmy and/or Brian posted, so you can check with them if you can't reach me.
FB: Tue at 12:07pm:
Dad update: he had a terrible motorcycle accident this morning. He's in ICU at UAMS. Unconscious, but with movement on one side. Too soon to tell his prognosis. I'm flying to Little Rock now to be with my family. Will update friends as I can. Again, if you pray/chant/light candles, do it super hard right now. Please.
FB: Tue at 11:18pm
Dad Update: he's still here, and that's a miracle. He has a stint to relieve swelling on his brain. He can hear us but, we don't know how much he comprehends. Multiple broken bones: clavicle, face, many fractures in spine. He's on a respirator, unconscious due to medical sedation. Mom is finally sleeping- she's been amazingly strong. We'll know more in the morning, but make no mistake: we are lucky he's even alive.
Welcome/Introduction
Greeting from the Intensive Care Unit of UAMS in Little Rock!
I've created this space for all that know and love our family (come on, we're pretty darn loveable) to keep up to date on Dad's status.
In all seriousness, we are so incredibly humbled and grateful for all of the concern, calls, love, prayer, support, offers for help, and anything else you've thrown our way in support. It's divine grace and your care that's taken us this far, and we feel everything you're sending our way. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
I'll add all the first email updates and facebook messages so you can mark his progression along with us. I'd like you to see this as Tim's electronic get-well card. Feel free to leave comments, words of encouragement, goofy stories about Dad, whatever.
Nothing too embarrassing about his checkered past, though. Remember, his wife reads this too. ;)
Blessing to you,
Ashlee
I've created this space for all that know and love our family (come on, we're pretty darn loveable) to keep up to date on Dad's status.
In all seriousness, we are so incredibly humbled and grateful for all of the concern, calls, love, prayer, support, offers for help, and anything else you've thrown our way in support. It's divine grace and your care that's taken us this far, and we feel everything you're sending our way. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
I'll add all the first email updates and facebook messages so you can mark his progression along with us. I'd like you to see this as Tim's electronic get-well card. Feel free to leave comments, words of encouragement, goofy stories about Dad, whatever.
Nothing too embarrassing about his checkered past, though. Remember, his wife reads this too. ;)
Blessing to you,
Ashlee
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