Continuous coverage of John Willis' battle back to the fairway
Progress Report
Friday, October 31, 2003
Friday evening...upstairs
We're all pretty tired, so this will be quick.
Dad is out of the ICU and resting on the 8th floor of the hospital. We're adjusting to the difference in attention Dad gets from the nurses. It's a little like going immediately from the beginning days of a wonderful romance to the final days before the break-up. That is, the nurses no longer dote. That thing you've heard about a nursing shortage....turns out it is true.
Dad is getting better physically. We still have a little distance to travel on the road to mental health. He's no blathering idiot, by any means. He's fairly tired, though, and with fatigue comes lack of concentration, and with lack of concentration comes phrases like "alligator chairs."
So, for the next little bit, Dad won't be doing any entertaining. He's asked potential visitors to give him a little more time to recover.
In the meantime, you can send him e-mails through the link on the left or in the comments section of this webpage at the end of each post. We're now in a smaller waiting room on the 8th floor. You're welcome to stop by, but there will be an increasing chance we won't be hanging out in the waiting area. It's a little cramped and loud.
Please keep the e-mails and comments coming. There will be a time very soon when Dad will need something other than a saline drip to keep him going.
Take care, folks.
Nerves, their endings, and progress
(The important info is in the last couple of paragraphs of this post. Scroll down if you don't want the build-up).
Dr. Workman is a pro. He's the guy everybody wants on their side. He's reportedly one of the top three doctors in his field in the nation. When things are bad, you want him calling the shots.
So, last night around 10:30 (well past when ANYTHING should be happening with our Dad) Dr. Workman strolls into the waiting room, looks at us, and says, "Oh, there you are."
I nearly threw up in my lap. Mom started shaking like an electric toothbrush left on the counter.
Workman looked puzzled for a second. "Oh, wait. Not you." The he walks off in the other direction.
Mom shook for another 30 minutes. Mistaken identity can be a rough thing in a hospital waiting room.
Nerves: 1
Willis: 0
An hour later, Michelle had disappeared to get ready to sleep. The room had been a little spooky in recent days. Some seemingly homeless and/or grifter types had been frequenting the area enough that our ladies were no longer allowed to walk to their cars without an escort.
As the room grew quiet and Michelle had been gone for five minutes, Mom and I heard a blood-curdling scream. I first thought someone was having a rough time in the adjacent Emergency Room. Then the scream came again. Mom and I--without a word-- immediately thought Michelle was under attack. In our stocking-feet, we bolted across the waiting room in a dead sprint. As we reached the exit, we heard the scream again....behind us. Our socks slid to a stop on the waxed floor. We turned and saw a horror movie on a waiting room TV.
Nerves: 2
Willis: 0
This morning, the waiting room volunteer strolled into our area.
"I have what I think will be good news for you," she said.
I started to sigh. They were finally going to move Dad out of the ICU.
"They're getting ready to take him in for surgery."
Had she taken another half second to figure out she was talking to the wrong people, she might have had a very bad Friday. No more surgery for Dad. He's had enough.
Nerves: 3
Willis: 0
This is what happens when things seem to be getting better. You start waiting for the other shoe to drop. The nerves get the best of you.
Good for us that a few minutes later Dad's nurse announced he was "graduating" from the NTICU. By this afternoon, Dad will be moving up to the Neuro floor of the Lester E. Cox Medical Center South.
His progress is slow but encouraging. He's moving all his parts, but usually only when encouraged to do so by pretty therapists. He's remembering who everybody is. He still occasionally gets confused about where he is, but we're told that to be expected out of someone who has been locked in a dark room for 13 days. Plus, in his head, he's imagining he's golfing, bargain shopping, or in Las Vegas. Obviously, the guy we know and love is still there.
For those in the area, we're not sure what the visiting policy will be, but we'll let you know as soon as we do.
Until then, the score stands at....
NERVES: 3
WILLIS: 3 brain surgeries, 1 shoulder surgery, two weeks in the hospital, a few good laughs, and more loving friends and family than we'll ever be able to count.
Wednesday, October 29, 2003
Recovery--Day One
Dad's eyes were smeared with vaseline. A tight turban of gauze wrapped his head. Tubes and wires jutted out from the sheets over his body. Every few seconds, a compressor shot air into a specially-fitted pair of socks...a little assurance that leg-borne blood clots will stay away. Thirteeen hours had passed since we had last held our Dad's hand.
His eyelids climbed over his eyeballs and his lips fell open.
"Is it over?"
They were Dad's first words after three brain surgeries, countless tears, and a very long nap.
"It's over, Dad, and you did great."
"What time is it?"
"Eight."
"Oh." He sounded surprised, but pleased.
"That's eight p.m., Dad."
"Oh." Still surprised, a little less pleased. Deep down, I know Dad was hoping he'd kicked the aneurysm's butt in less than an hour.
When we lest him this evening, he was still very groggy from the anesthesia. He was running a fever and his blood pressure was a little high. All that...but he was alive. Each breath promised another holiday season with our Dad.
We will fall to sleep tonight with a little more peace tonight. As we do, we should consider a lot of the people who were rooting for Dad from their own private hell.
What many of us never realized is how fate never gets tired of testing the wills of some of the world's best people. The Neuro Trauma ICU is a place where you quickly learn, pain doesn't play favorites and will go after any target. Tonight as you sleep, or Thursday as you wake...consider a few people who don't have as much to smile about tonight.
First, the Logiudice family. They were in the ICU when we got there and will likely be there when we leave. They are struggling through some very rough stuff and doing it with the hearts of champions. All that and they still took enough time to check in on my dad several times a day.
The Edders family watched their dad go through surgery today. Tonight they go to sleep feeling good that their father is taking three or four out of every 16 breaths on his own.
Today, the Fairchild family watched their much-loved patient leave the ICU. Ordinarily, that's a good thing. This time though, the patient left the ICU because there was no more treatment that could help him. He's resting peacefully in a private room where he will likely die in the next couple of days. Still, as we left the hospital tonight, Mr. Fairchild's daughter Pam took five minutes to ask us how our dad was doing and tell us how happy she felt when we got the news Dad survived.
Then, there is the Ballard family. Sunday night they flooded into the ICU. Many of them were wearing Chiefs jerseys and red bandanas. Their guy had suffered the same thing as my dad, but much deeper in his brain. That night they heard the word "inoperable." Two days later they heard the doctors say, "He's just got a few minutes." The man died yesterday afternoon at age 34.
Those are just a few of the stories in that hell. About ten minutes after the ICU got Mr. Fairchild's room cleaned and disinfected, another patient rolled in on a stretcher.
I never would have thought miracles could happen in hell. Guess I've learned a lot in the last ten days.
Dad has a ways to go. Fight a fever, lower the blood pressure, rehab the leg, get his head back under his own control. That's a lot.
But, if miracles can happen in hell, my dad can certainly handle the clean-up.
Peace to all the families in the ICU, my father, and all of you.
Alive
Odd how one can be so full of words when things look so bad. Right now only one word seems appropriate:
Alive.
It took just a few hours. A doctor who will forever have me in his debt (the insurance company should pay for Dad's end) was able to take care of Dad's aneurysm. The chances of it ever being a problem again are about 1 and 500. I'll take that.
Shortly after surgery, Dad began breathing on his own. That is a good indication he is not going to die.
The tension held for another hour or so as Dad slept off the anethesia. There was a still a chance the surgery had paralyzed him. There was a chance he couldn't move anything from his nose down.
After an hour of sleeping, a nurse convinced Dad to move all his extremities. That included a thumbs-up on the left hand.
We were able to see Dad for about 10 minutes early this afternoon. He was still pretty zonked out, but we think he heard us when we told him he was going to be okay. We saw the hint of a smile under his oxygen mask.
There is still a very long road ahead. While we have reason to be optimistic today, we still don't know the full extent of his brain damage. The right side of his body is still very weak and will require serious rehabilitation. The left frontal lobe of his brain was also damaged by the aneurysm. That could cause some personality changes.
While we don't know what to expect in the coming months, we now have hope Dad can be rehabilitated to something close to how he used to be. It will just take time to figure out how close he can come. If anybody can succeed, he can. After all, he's made it through three brain surgeries in one and half weeks.
The immediate future will be spent in the NTICU. We're hoping he moves out of there by the weekend. After that, it's anybody's guess. We guess it will likely be a couple of weeks in the hospital, followed by some in-patient rehab, followed by going home. I'm sort of hoping Dad makes it home by my Dec. 4th birthday. It's not an unreasonable hope.
While the immediate threat seems to have passed, the updates will continue here as often as we find time to post them. My hope is that someday soon I can turn over the password to Dad and he can post these updates on his own.
And for all the love, thoughts, and prayers you've all sent out over the past 11 days...we love you all. As I've said before...we plan to spend the rest of our lives showing you how much we appreciate every one of you.
My brother and I are now going to smile our way back to the hospital in hopes of talking to our Dad. At some point we plan to talk about the future.
It's a lot more fun to talk about the future when there's a good chance a future is actually possible.
Tuesday, October 28, 2003
Tuesday night...Surgery Time Finalized
QUICK UPDATE
We've been passing the time with Scrabble. It combines Willis-style competition with enough necessary intellect to keep our melons from atrophying. I was two rounds from a major win when I saw the doc walking toward us. We knew he had but one important thing to say to us.
"7:30am." That's Central Standard Time.
That means in less than 11 hours my dad will be in the operating room and one man's fingers will be deciding whether I will share this Christmas with my hero.
The doc had a few more things to say. Dad could wake up faster from this surgery than others. Dad's right leg may suffer more weakness after the surgery. Oh, and if all goes well, Dad could be out of the ICU by the end of the week.
All of those things sound great, but for the next 12-17 hours we'll be thinking about one thing and one thing only...Dad waking up.
If you read this at any point between getting to work and going to lunch on Wednesday, please take just 30 seconds to send something good toward the good doctor's hands and my father's heart.
I hope tomorrow night's update will be the best I've ever written.
EXTENDED UPDATE
If you dig through the Willis family archives, you'll find a picture of me standing in front of the television. I'm in my underwear and watching the Charlie Brown "Great Pumpkin" special.
As the stories go, as a child I would cry when Charlie Brown holiday specials signed off. I don't know if it was because as a child I thought I'd never see them again or if I simply enjoyed them so much I never wanted it to end.
Tonight I found myself standing in front of one of those old-school hospital televisions watching and waiting with Linus for the Great Pumpkin. I sucked on a sucker and watched quietly. It would only be a few more minutes until visiting hours began. It would probably be the last time I got to talk to my dad before he went into surgery the next morning.
Dad was lying back in the bed with his head propped up. He was holding my mom's hand tighter than he had in the last few days. He was acting tougher than he had all week. He was ready and I could see it. He's a Willis. His eyes might as well have screamed, "Let's get this thing done and get on to what's next!"
It's been almost a week since I stood beside my unconcious father and told him exactly what he meant to my life. As I stood there tonight, I felt as if he had heard me and knew what I wanted to say again. So, I grabbed his hand and held it tighter than I ever had as a child. I kissed him on his cheek and told him I loved him. He looked at me unafraid, and more gentle than I've ever see him. He loved me, too.
I wanted to reassure him, tell him not to be afriad, and that everything was going to be okay. All I could say was, "You're gonna make it through this just fine."
I felt the tears starting to form and didn't want him to see my cry. I escaped behind the curtain. As I started to walk away I heard him say confidently, "Don't worry. We'll be back. We'll be back."
With Dad, everything has always been "we."
"We'll be back," without a doubt meant he will be back.
I'm a lot older than I was when I stood in front of the TV in my underwear watching the Great Pumpkin. But, there is still a part of me that fears it will never come on again. There is still a part of me that's had so much fun that I never want it to end.
If there is anything that brings me comfort as I try to find some rest tonight, it is this: Some things are too good to not bring back every holiday season.
If you've never met my dad, I hope you soon will.
I want you to know the man who is too good to die.
Tuesday morning
QUICK UPDATE
It seems a shame to go in start tearing up what's working just fine right now. The only thing keeping Dad in his bed right now is the fact he has to go in for surgery tomorrow.
We'd forget the whole thing except for the fact that he'd have a 50/50 chance of dying if we did.
So, we wait. We play Scrabble. We do crosswords. And we hope.
Thanks for all the comments. We'll be taking them in to Dad this afternoon.
Monday, October 27, 2003
Sunday night...One Week of Hell Complete
QUICK UPDATE
That CT Scan we've been talking so much about really isn't going to mean a great deal when we finally see it. We know what's coming. Still, we awoke this morning with the idea that we'd know its results by day's end. By mid-day we learned the docs didn't feel the scan was pressing. That means the CT scan should happen tomorrow. The final surgery is still pending.
Dad sat up in bed today and ate some more real food. Aunt Judy's banana pudding made for a fine dessert.
The past three days have been full of steps forward. It's a crying shame that we have to sit here and wait for the doctors to go in and wipe out all the forward progress with the final surgery. Of course, they do so with the aim of fixing my dad's injury and helping him recover.
May their hands be true and may recovery come quickly.
EXTENDED UPDATE
Dad was always too busy reaching for success to care much about TV. He had a real world to conquer and the relative safety of America's televised fiction was a poor substitute. TV served more as background noise while he and his family sorted through work files. We learned to alphabetize early, not knowing the work we were doing would someday lead to a college education and comfortable lifestyle.
Still, when Dad took a break from ruling his life and business, he would occasionally escape into the TV. While I know we spent more time in front of the tube than I remember, the best memories are the Cardinals/Royals World Series and reruns of Cheers. Dad's laugh shook the room and made you want to laugh even if you didn't get the jokes. And he's still ticked about that call at first base.
Sometimes one of the kids--and sometimes Mom--would start talking ad naseuem during a program. Like a frog about to die in a pot of soon-boiling water, we didn't notice the volume level of the TV going up or the remote control in Dad's hand. Soon enough, though, we'd realize the noise had risen to a silly level. We'd look over and Dad would be smiling quietly. He never had to say a word. The intent was clear. Shut up...please.
This afternoon Jeff and I went back to visit Dad in the middle of the Rams/Steelers game. We chatted quietly and watched the Rams take it to the boys from Pittsburgh. When Chatty Nurse walked in and started quizzing Jeff on his medical aspirations (rather loudly) none of us noticed what we should've expected. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the TV on the wall got louder...until it was maxed out and blasting through the ICU.
Sitting here in the dark, I still feel a little guilty for my first thought. Jesus, Dad has lost it. He can't hear a damned thing and he's trying to turn up the game so he can hear it.
Then I looked down at his face. He didn't wink, but he might as well have. I almost wish I had interpreted the situation for the nurse. Shut up...please.
Dad is in there. He goes to sleep a lot and takes a while to come back after he opens his eyes, but he's in there. That sense of humor that we love is dancing behind his glazed eyes.
For instance, last night I was sitting beside his bed. We were alone and talking about his past and future. I said to him what I actually believe: This situation certainly sucks, but it could've been worse.
Dad said, "Yeah, it could've. I could've died." A brief pause. "That really would've pissed me off."
Me, too, Dad. Me, too.
I walked into the hospital exactly one week ago this minute. By this time next week, I hope...
Well, we all know what we hope.
Sunday, October 26, 2003
Sunday night...One Week of Hell Complete
QUICK UPDATE
That CT Scan we've been talking so much about really isn't going to mean a great deal when we finally see it. We know what's coming. Still, we awoke this morning with the idea that we'd know its results by day's end. By mid-day we learned the docs didn't feel the scan was pressing. That means the CT scan should happen tomorrow. The final surgery is still pending.
Dad sat up in bed today and ate some more real food. Aunt Judy's banana pudding made for a fine dessert.
The past three days have been full of steps forward. It's a crying shame that we have to sit here and wait for the doctors to go in and wipe out all the forward progress with the final surgery. Of course, they do so with the aim of fixing my dad's injury and helping him recover.
May their hands be true and may recovery come quickly.
EXTENDED UPDATE
Dad was always too busy reaching for success to care much about TV. He had a real world to conquer and the relative safety of America's televised fiction was a poor substitute. TV served more as background noise while he and his family sorted through work files. We learned to alphabetize early, not knowing the work we were doing would someday lead to a college education and comfortable lifestyle.
Still, when Dad took a break from ruling his life and business, he would occasionally escape into the TV. While I know we spent more time in front of the tube than I remember, the best memories are the Cardinals/Royals World Series and reruns of Cheers. Dad's laugh shook the room and made you want to laugh even if you didn't get the jokes. And he's still ticked about that call at first base.
Sometimes one of the kids--and sometimes Mom--would start talking ad naseuem during a program. Like a frog about to die in a pot of soon-boiling water, we didn't notice the volume level of the TV going up or the remote control in Dad's hand. Soon enough, though, we'd realize the noise had risen to a silly level. We'd look over and Dad would be smiling quietly. He never had to say a word. The intent was clear. Shut up...please.
This afternoon Jeff and I went back to visit Dad in the middle of the Rams/Steelers game. We chatted quietly and watched the Rams take it to the boys from Pittsburgh. When Chatty Nurse walked in and started quizzing Jeff on his medical aspirations (rather loudly) none of us noticed what we should've expected. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the TV on the wall got louder...until it was maxed out and blasting through the ICU.
Sitting here in the dark, I still feel a little guilty for my first thought. Jesus, Dad has lost it. He can't hear a damned thing and he's trying to turn up the game so he can hear it.
Then I looked down at his face. He didn't wink, but he might as well have. I almost wish I had interpreted the situation for the nurse. Shut up...please.
Dad is in there. He goes to sleep a lot and takes a while to come back after he opens his eyes, but he's in there. That sense of humor that we love is dancing behind his glazed eyes.
For instance, last night I was sitting beside his bed. We were alone and talking about his past and future. I said to him what I actually believe: This situation certainly sucks, but it could've been worse.
Dad said, "Yeah, it could've. I could've died." A brief pause. "That really would've pissed me off."
Me, too, Dad. Me, too.
I walked into the hospital exactly one week ago this minute. By this time next week, I hope...
Well, we all know what we hope.
Sunday morning
QUICK UPDATE
The time change made the morning in the NTICU seem even more screwy. That aside, the early-morning visit from the nurse was welcome. Dad was awake and he wanted to see Mom. More often than not that means he is lonely or bored. This morning...it was something else.
Mom walked in the room with no little amount of concern.
Dad looked at her and said, "Watch this."
Then with what must have looked like a magician working to levitate his assistant off a table, Dad lifted his right leg off the bed.
"That took every amount of energy and concentration I had," Dad said.
While a few inches of leg movement may not seem of great consequence, it absolutley is. Yesterday he couldn't move it at all. It scared him and it scared us. Dad is a creature of movement. He needs to be able to walk. Movement in the leg this morning shows that he has the ability to move it. That is proof to him that he could again walk someday.
Today brings a fresh CT Scan to determine how soon Dad's last surgery can happen.
In the meantime, we're bringing him a cd player and headphones so he can listen to music. Boredom reigns supreme in a dark, sterile room. And anybody who knows Dad knows that boredom can be dangerous.
Expect a full update late tonight, as well as medical updates from our resident doctor...we like to call him Dr. Jeffy.
And thanks for the comments. I'll share them with Dad.
Saturday, October 25, 2003
Saturday...No Weekend in the ICU
QUICK UPDATE
Dad continues to improve. His level of lucidity has increased. There's no doubt the man we know is there. He has grown increasingly concerned with his vision and lack of leg mobility. That's understandable.
Still, he's eating, talking, and continuing to give nurses grief. We sneaked him some BBQ tonight (the nurse said it was okay). Sometimes some good food is the best medicine.
According to a specialist, Dad has experienced a mild form of vasospasm (constriction of arteries in the brain that reduces blood flow and can sometimes cause stroke). It happens in about 70% of all people who go through what he did, but only 21% of all aneurysm victims suffer major stroke. If the spasm gets no worse, Dad's physical condition shouldn't deteriorate too much more.
Sunday brings a CT Scan to determine the level of swelling in his head. If the CT looks good, we can expect a final--hopefully--surgery on Wednesday.
Tomorrow marks one week since the thing that set this whole process in motion.
We're hoping Dad will see home sooner than later.
Thanks for checking in.
Friday, October 24, 2003
This is Friday...AKA Day 6
Editor's note: While we never know when we'll have time to update Dad's progress, we decided to offer this option to people who live far away or can't make it to the hospital for regular updates. Every once in a while you'll see a QUICK UPDATE as well as an EXTENDED UPDATE. As you might expect, the first will give you condition and a quick rundown of the day's events. The latter will offer a little more in-depth look at what's happening inside the hearts and minds of Willis & Friends.
QUICK UPDATE
Today--for the first time since Sunday--Dad came out of his head and talked to us. Instead of a man void of lucidity, we found a man who undersood what was happening to him. He was able to ask questions regarding his condition and affliction, identify his children and inlaws, and on a few occasions joke and give his nurses grief. While this is all good news and is happening more quickly than we thought it would, Dad still has a long road ahead. Tomorrow (Saturday) he reaches a dangerous day statistically. Tomorrow, if statistics are correct, Dad has the greatest chance of having something called a vasospasm--essentially a very bad stroke associated the the aneurysm. If that doesn't happen, Dad has a better chance at a full recovery. However, he still faces a major surgery to repair the aneurysm. That surgery is scheduled for Wednesday, but that could change. We should know more on Sunday when the doctors perform a new CT Scan to check the pressure in Dad's brain. Until then, we wait. While the progress is encouraging, the fear of what could happen in the next few days tempers our excitement. As always, we appreciate your thoughts, cards, letters, calls, and emotional support.
If you're still confused about what caused all this in the first place...click on these words to learn more about brain aneurysms.
If, as many of you have, you want to send a message to Dad or the family, you can do it through the hospital's site, which you can find by clicking on these words.
EXTENDED UPDATE
The Neuro Trauma ICU has windows and televisions. Though they masquerade well as portals to the outside world, they are more decoration than anything else. On more than one occasion, one of the assembled masses (usually one who hasn't seen a shower in a couple of days) looks up from a crossword puzzle and asks, "What day is it?"
To remedy the problem, at least in part, we've started hanging handmade signs from the bottom of our lifeless TV. Today's read: Today is...FRIDAY...October 24, 2003.
On the surface, Friday was much like any other day this week. Waking up in a flourescent-lit room, dry-nosed from the coniditoned air, and chilled to the bone by the vents overhead. Eating something quick from the hospital cafeteria. Slugging down coffee and double shots of espresso to shake out the cobwebs.
Deep down, today was different. For instance...a few of cried today...out of happiness. That doesn't happen much around the NTICU.
Dad is waking up from a week in the fog. He has a large semi-circular scar etched around his hairline. His eyes are glazed. His hands often feel cold. Still, he smiles occasionally and is finding some humor in the middle of his hell.
Michelle and I sat next to his bed today. The nurse poked him the chest. They do that to wake him up when he doesn't feel like it.
"Hey, there. Will you tell me your name?" She did this every time she woke him up from his deep nap.
Dad didn't answer. I sat on the edge of my chair, hoping against hope that he would say something...anything resembling his name. Just two days before he had called his feet "books."
Dad didn't say anything.
"What's your name?"
I was getting ready to cry when I heard him say something. The nurse didn't hear him through his croaking throat (the breathing tube made it sore).
"What? What's your name?"
Dad spoke louder...this time with a smile. "I said I thought you'd know it by now."
Dear God, my Dad is joking. Unbelievable.
Two minutes later, after a couple more jokes, Dad looked at Michelle and me. The nurse asked if he knew who we were. I clenched my wife's hand. While he had seen me there a few times, he had never really acknowledged me.
"That's my son, Brad, and his wife, Michelle."
That's when I started crying.
Everyone was smiling today. We understand there are dangerous days ahead. In a few short hours everything could change and we could be facing tough decisions. We've already made a few, including authorizing a surgery that could've killed our father. We did it because we knew he would've wanted it. Though the decision nearly made us collapse emotionally, the surgery worked and we believe it is why Dad is talking to us now.
Sleep must come now. In lieu of a closing thought, we'll include a letter sent to a few folks a couple of days ago. It should've been addressed to the more than 100 people who have called, written, or visited. We do love you all.
The thing about a brain injury--as near as I can tell--is that it not only
affects the decision making skills of the afflicted, but also the people in the
vicinity. Exactly 12 hours ago I thought we were in a holding pattern in which
there would be no further action taken on my father's head until at least the
weekend. After all, that was what the doctors said. Of course, the doctors
had said the same thing the last two days and changed their minds. On both
days we were fairly sure my dad was going to die.
Nine hours ago my dad went in for the second brain surgery he's had this week.
This one was more life-threatening than the last. While I'll spare everyone
the emotional details, there is something to be said for the cathartic
qualities of taking one last chance to tell your father what he has meant to
your life.
In what was a relieving but frustrating sequence of events, Dad came out of the
second surgery intact and alive. He is again breathing on his own and is
sleeping off the anethesia. Medical-types will be interested to know the
doctors have still not been able to fix the original problem. However, today,
they removed a blood clot from my dad's brain that was about the size of an
egg. That should help some the problems he was having. On the frustrating
side, Dad now requires a third essential brain surgery. We have to wait a few
days before that will happen.
Michelle has been the backbone I'm sure all of you expected she would be. I'm
trying to find the strength to send her back home. However, in the past three
days I've had reason to believe my dad was going to die each afternoon. I'm
hoping Thursday proves to be an exception to this week's pattern.
Just as important as Michelle's support has been that I've been getting from
friends and family around the country. From phone and e-mail messages,to
internet comment sites, to blogs, the support has been overhwelming.
This afternoon, I stood in the entryway to the waiting room. My dad had been
in surgery for a couple of hours and I was trying to find a way to not puke on
the reception desk. A woman walked in carrying a thick envelope. She was
looking for my dad's family.
"We had so many e-mails they almost wouldn't fit in the envleope," she said.
I took them and walked toward my assembled family, expecting to read a few. I
started flipping through them and started recognizing names. Michelle saw me
from across the room and did as she's learned to do when she sees "the look" on
my face. A few seconds later, Chelle was sharing all of your well-wishes with
my family as I took a walk around the perimeter of the hospital. Sometimes the
good stuff can get to as hard as a bad stuff.
I'd like to spend the next hour writing about how much I appreciate everybody.
I like to consider myself a rock. Turns out, it's easy to be stable when
you're entire foundation is built on friendships like the kinds I've seen this
week.
One thought before I see a bed for the first time in 40 hours...
As Chelle and I sit in the Neuro Trauma ICU, our journalist brains kick in.
Chelle's heart has found itself in the middle of many a family's pow-wow. As
my family goes through it's greatest struggle yet, we are surrounded by at
least five families going through the same or worse in the very same week. The
names travel from mundane to exotic. The stories are all horrible.
Jennifer Lojudice begged her husband not to buy a sports car. She didn't think
she would have to beg him not to drive 120 mph and flip the car. Two weeks
ago
doctors told her to plan his funeral. Today he is still alive, but barely.
Randy Lawson was Marshfield, Missouri's answer to Lance Armstrong (or in the
case of the WYFF'ers, Scott Enright). He got hit by a car while riding down
the road. His daughter pulled up on the wreck and called back to ask, "Mom,
Daddy didn't go out riding tonight did he?" He's a bag of mangled pieces that
sometimes wakes up and sometimes doesn't. We've lost count of the surgeries
and number of doctors.
Margaret Edders dad had just retired a couple of years ago. He was bored and
decided to help his son clean a high ceiling. He fell off a 12 foot ladder.
The concrete below met the left side of his head with enough force to make sure
he didn't wake up for the last three days.
There is likely a great message in all this, but I don't feel qualified to
assess what it is. Suffice it for me to admit that I have been more naive than
I thought I was.
Again, I hope to send Chelle home soon. I don't know when I'll be back. For
the sake of my mom, the rest of my family, and frankly myself, I hope I have
reason to see Greenville again very soon.
Again, I'll never be able to repay the love you've all shown my father, me, and
Michelle so far.
But, damn it, I'll spend the rest of my life trying.
