Continuous coverage of John Willis' battle back to the fairway
Progress Report
Thursday, November 27, 2003
Thanksgiving from the homefront
Below is a letter from my Mom to all of you. Happy Thanksgiving.
Dear Family and Friends,
WE ARE HOME!! We want you to know how special each and every one of you are to us. Your countless visits, words of encouragement, warm hugs, and many many prayers have been a constant source of strength for us since our lives changed so quickly Oct. 19th. We are home now with an immeasurable appreciation for life and ALL it has to offer!! Thank you all, for the wonderful, kind, caring individuals you are and for all you've done! This Thanksgiving we'll be giving thanks...for life...John's life, my life(because he is my life) and for all of you, our family and our friends who have earned the right to be our chosen family.
HAPPY THANKSGIVING FROM OUR HEARTS TO YOURS!
We love you all! Jo, John, "the boys and the girls"
Tuesday, November 25, 2003
Quick Update
Quickly...
Walking--Long distances, without any kind of assistance (cane, walker, shoulder, etc.). Mom says Dad is only using a walker in parking lots and only because she makes him.
Seeing--The double vision is all but gone. The doctor doesn't believe there will be any future problems.
Reasoning--Within a normal ranges, according to a test Dad took today
Remembering and paying attention--This seems to be Dad's only area of deficit. He's scoring well, but just below normal in therapy tests. This should improve.
Grousing at Mom--Returning to normal more quickly than expected. Today he started telling her what turns to take in the car on the way to the therapists.
That sounds like Dad.
Saturday, November 22, 2003
Where the heart is
Last night Dad slept in his own bed for the first time in more than a month. In talking with him, it seemed like he enjoyed it a great deal.
We'll have more updates on his progress soon.
In the meantime, if you plan to visit, give Mom a call first just to see if Dad is awake and ready to play.
Thursday, November 20, 2003
Taking a stroll
I suppose if you're not a Willis you might find the following statement a little silly. I mean, even some Willi (that's the plural of Willis, by the way) find it a little silly. Nonetheless, it's proven true quite a few times.
Where there is a Willis, there is a way.
Apparently that axiom is among the many things Dad has not forgotten. Today, he applied it to walking.
That's right. Six hundred feet. The length of two football fields. More than one tenth of a mile.
The stubborn sonofagun walked. No cane. No walker. No shoulder on which to hold.
The guy walked.
Today he saw his house for the first time in a month. Tomorrow he moves back in. He'll sleep in his own bed, under a roof he worked his entire life to have over his head.
I've seen Dad do a number of amazing things in the last 31 days. I didn't actually see this free-walking thing happen. I wish I had. Still, the feeling is unexplainable. It's almost as powerful as the grief we all felt in October.
Grief is an odd thing. Some of us hold it in tight. Some of us let it go. I was reminded of that fact yesterday. It was the first time I'd been on a murder scene since I got back to work.
I was in a poor neighborhood. The cops and the reporters were doing their best to think about things other than the two guys inside the little brown house. Those two guys had bullet holes in their heads.
There were other things to occupy our thoughts. Gallows humor, the chief coping mechanism of cops and journalists worldwide, took over.
Someone spotted the dead dog on the front porch of one house. A taxidermist had done a heckuva job on the mutt. Apart from the obvious rigor that had set in many year earlier and the cob webs hanging off its nose, the dog looked like it was alive and alert.
Then, someone else spotted the dozens of plastic spoons, knives, and forks sticking up from a flower bed. While we were sure the homeowner had a purpose for the dirty cutlery, we joked about her planting a plasticware garden for many a picnic lunch come springtime.
It was an odd neighborhood, indeed, made even stranger by the dead people a few yards away.
The jokes, told in whispers near the fringes of the growing crowd, served their purpose. They kept the cops and reporters from going slowly insane. But no joke could stop the growing level of grief in the crowd. The dead guys had big families. Nothing was going to stop the screams. A photographer snapped this picture as the grief came to its climax.
One woman's face turned into a mask of insanity as she screamed. A man collapsed on the ground like a forgotten toy.
As it always has, the sound turned my stomach. It was made even worse this time by knowing I was very close to having those screams escape my mouth a month ago.
Over the course of the past month, Jeff and I talked about whether this experience might help us or hurt us in our jobs. Whether it would make us more sympathetic or make us unable to deal with what we have to see everyday.
The jury is still out on that one.
But one thing is sure: We know how thankful we should be.
And because we know how thankful we should be...we are.
Wednesday, November 19, 2003
NEWS FLASH!!
Dateline: Springfield, MO
Sources tell our reporters in the field that John H. Willis will be going home sooner than expected.
According to an informed source (we'll call her "my mom"), the doctors and therapists decided today that Dad should go home five days early.
Mom and Dad are both excited.
Schedule:
Thursday: Therapists visit Mom and Dad's house to check out saefty measures
Friday morning: Doctors do one final CT Scan to check out Dad's melon
Friday afternoon: Dad goes home to sleep in his own bed
Saturday: Dad rests for one day
Sunday: Dad begins intense in-home and outpatient therapy
How about that?
Monday, November 17, 2003
And...it's in the hole!
It was a moment that required concentration, but it seemed as if his thoughts couldn't help but drift. Somewhere in the back of his head, he remembered the day he taught his kids to putt for real. Not that miniature golf stuff. The game. The real game. The sport.
They stood on the rough green of a cheap public course. He'd had mastered the greens here years ago, but his sons were just learning. There wouldn't be a time anytime soon that they would be proficient enough to merit a big time greens fee. But it didn't matter. The noise from the plant across the road wasn't there. The cars risking a golfball through their windshield weren't there. It was only a man and his sons, learning the game. He was teaching what he practiced. Patience.
Eventually, one of those sons would learn. The other son would always wish he had and spend his years justifying his lack of golf skill by saying he picked up his dad's other talents--music and poker.
Those were days gone by though, and the teacher was now the student again. He was not re-learning the game of golf. He was re-learning the game of knowing how to stand on his own two feet. He could do it pretty well when he was only washing his hands. But now that tricky woman named Connie was forcing him to play two games at once.
She wanted him to stand--a game he always took for granted--and putt a ball ten feet at the same time.
It had been almost exactly one month since he had come darned close to par on his home course. In had been about three weeks since his head failed him in one of the worst ways. He had long abandoned the golf hat and sunburned forearms. He was now in sweat pants
That is a long way of leading to up this picture:
In it therapist Connie holds dad by a belt, just to make sure the stress of putting for the first time doesn't knock him over. In his hand, Dad holds a putter that isn't his. He stands on a patch of green that isn't grass. He's hitting a ball that was probably in a kid's mouth at some point.
You see the ball a couple of feet out. What you don't see is...that ball fell right in the hole.
I didn't see Dad's face when it happened. Sitting a few hundred miles away, I bet it looked a lot like the day he watched one of his own children sink a ten-footer.
It's called pride. What's more...it's called potential.
Dad has them both.
Sunday, November 16, 2003
Leading a double life
So, you wake up from what seems like a nap but turns out to be three brain surgeries. You think you've been in a car wreck in Florida, but you're actually in Springfield, Missouri. Your head has been cut open three times and some guy has been messing around with your skull noodles. You'd think that'd been enough, right?
Well, you'd think.
Fortunately, we stopped thinking much about the time we authorized the doctors to do Dad's second surgery.
Thing is, when Dad wakes up he's got two wives, four kids, and two really big breakfasts to eat.
Bigamists, proponents of big families, and gluttons might find this to be an enviable problem. Dad, frankly, finds it annoying.
He's got double vision. Ask him about it. It's become one of the things he'll talk at length about. He sees one and half clocks, a couple TVs, and two of Mom (she's already considering a diet to make Dad feel better).
He saw an eye doctor on Friday. If the doctor's level of optimism is any indication, Dad's vision could return to normal on its own. The doctor believes there is some pressure behind Dad's left eye that's keeping it from tracking as well as it could. Hopefully, the pressure will let up and Mom can forget about the low carb diet.
If not, there are other options. Eye glasses with prisms in them. Eye patches. Etc. But prisms are expensive and Dad has never been much of a pirate. So, here's to hoping the vision gets back to normal.
The coming week could see Dad at home, if only for a few hours. The therapists want to see the inside of the house so they can figure out what kind of stuff Dad will need when he gets to go home.
Apart from that, Dad's working on climbing ladders and giving grief to Mom and the nurses. He's apparently doing well at all of it.
More updates to come. In the meantime, send your thoughts and prayers to Jill's dad. He's in the hospital.
And by the way, our friends were forced to deliver their baby seven weeks early. Fortunately, although it is only four pounds, it is doing very well.
Friday, November 14, 2003
The Real World: Springfield
In his days as a rambler and roustabout, Dad has been around the block a few times. His smile and street sense helped him fit in anywhere he landed. From the bright lights of Las Vegas, to the beaches of a tropical resort, to the dark roads that lead into Tunica, Mississippi, Dad could find his way around.
So, for such a man about town, 30 days in a hole is no fun, especially when you have another 13 days ahead. That made Thursday pretty cool.
As part of his therapy, the Walnut Lawn Recreational Therapist took Dad to Barnes and Noble. It was less about the books, and more about just seeing how Dad gets by in the real world. (It didn't occur to me until this moment how funny it is that they took Dad to the book store. For those who don't remember, when Dad was at his worst, he took to calling his feet "books").
Dad tooled around the store much like he would've six weeks ago (he used a walker this time, though), even pausing at one point to kick a step stool out of his way.
The highlight of the day came as Dad and the other patients got ready to board the van back to Walnut Lawn. Two therapists and a few patients had spent an inordinate amount of time talking about Captain Kangaroo, but none of them could remember the guy's real name. Though Dad hadn't been intimately involved in conversation, he quickly garnered the title of Trivia King.
"It's Bob Keeshan," he said and donned his crown.
Obviously, Dad's ability to know anything and everything at any moment is still intact.
Today, to the eye doctor to figure out the double vision thing. Dad says he thinks his vision is getting better. That's good, because it's hard to sink a 18-foot putt when you have to decide which of two holes to shoot for.
Wednesday, November 12, 2003
Saying goodbye
My friend called out of the blue one day. I knew he'd been having some troubles of his own, so it sort of touched me that he took the time to call and see how I was handling Dad's third brain surgery. At the time I was recovering from a serious bout of "what in the world have we just been through?" I was none too coherent.
Through the familiar crackle of two cell phones connected across half a country of towers, my friend offered an observation that I had not yet considered.
"I was thinking this morning," he said in a voice I'd heard talk through many a long night and problem, "you've had to say goodbye to your father three times."
I can't remember how or even if I replied. But it touched me that he'd noticed. He'd been there before. I was still learning.
The first time I said goodbye, it was in a sleep-deprived and grief-induced fog that I hardly recall. I was surrounded by faces, many that I hadn't seen in years. I saw my dad's friends, his coworkers, his family. I heard long stories of his greatness. I had not yet found a way to handle the idea that I could soon be planning my dad's funeral. I didn't even excuse myself. I just left and sat on a retaining wall that surrounded the hospital.
The second time I said goodbye, I stood alone beside Dad's unconscious body, my voice barely rising above the beeping of his vital monitors. I forced out each word, determined that I would finally say what I'd spent three decades trying to express. I told him I loved him, then fought the urge to run out of the hospital. I made it as far as the retaining wall again.
The third time, I had developed a numbness. However, with the lack of hard core emotion came a simple resolve that allowed me to believe that Dad actually might survive. That time, Dad was awake. He smiled at me as the nurses rolled him toward the operating room. I still can't believe that I pressed my hand against the window between us in a half wave. It was all too theatrical to be real.
When the ICU waiting room volunteer pulled me aside and whispered that the docs were able to fix the aneurysm, I couldn't contain the smile. I couldn't help but yell across the room to whoever would listen. "They got it!" My mom nearly collapsed in relief, the first time she publicly broke down during the entire ordeal.
A slow calm set in. It was one that said, "Save your goodbyes for another day, young man."
It seems like something that happened when I was a kid, but it was two weeks ago today.
Maybe I wouldn't have thought about the three goodbyes again for a while. Maybe I wouldn't have thought about how hard it is to tell the only male role model and hero of your life goodbye.
Thing is...in nine hours I've got to look my old man in the face and tell him I'm leaving. Two hours later, I'll be on a plane. And a few hours later I'll land in another world, one my Dad barely knows, and one that is too far away to look my Dad in the eye and tell him everything is going to be okay.
I know I've got to go. I know Jeff felt the exact same way when he got on a plane a couple of days ago. We both know we're leaving Dad in great hands. We both know there is little more we can do here but provide a small amount of moral support.
It's still one of the toughest things we've had to do. That is, next to saying goodbye to our dad three times.
Thursday afternoon, Dad will see the real world for the first time since October 19th. As part of his therapy, the therapists are taking him to Barnes and Noble. He'll get to shop around and see something other than a sanitized hospital room or what must seem like a torture chamber-ish therapy gym.
The updates will continue to show up here on this site, so we encourage you to keep reading. But from two sons who will be several hundred miles away, we'd appreciate it if you'd look in on Mom and Dad when you get a chance. Mom is going to do a great job and Dad should recover soon. Still, they could probably use the occasional smile in front of them.
To all the people we've known forever and to all the people we've met in the past four weeks...and to everyone who has been keeping tabs on Dad from afar...we offer our eternal gratitude, endless respect, and undying love.
Somehow...our family just keeps getting bigger and bigger...and somehow Mom and Dad still don't have grandkids.
How about that?
Iron Man
When I woke up this morning, I remembered something I wrote a year or so ago. Here is an excerpt.
In the months before Dad's wreck, Mothers Against Drunk Driving (or some other like group) was running a sad commercial. A young boy sat on his front porch--baseball glove in hand--waiting for his dad to come home. Dad got drunk, wrecked his car, and left the boy waiting forever.
The night my dad wrecked his car (he was sober, by the way), I had been sitting in my bedroom with my baseball glove in my hand. I had no plans to play catch with Dad that evening, but when I picked up the glove I had a brief flash of the commercial. That was followed by the quick thought: I hope Dad doesn't have a wreck. The minutes ticked by and Dad didn't come home. He had a wreck. It was really a minor fender bender that cut Dad's head a little bit, but it scared me.
That moment still scares me a little bit, because there has always been a small part of me that believed that my thought about Dad crashing his car led to the wreck. I never told people that, fearing they would think me a lunatic.
Those who have known Dad over the years have witnessed him cheat injury several times. Those times he couldn't beat the injury bug in the first round, he came back to leave it bloodied and crying on the canvas by the end of the fight.
There was the time he played all-time quarterback in the old neighborhood. I don't remember what act of football heroism led to his injury, but I've never see a leg turn so purple.
Then there was the time he took a line drive right in the gut, so hard it left an imprint of the ball's seams on his stomach. The bruise was just slightly bigger than a softball.
Then, on the same ballfield, a pop-up that landed just below Dad's eye with a crack that could be heard beyond the outfield fences. The batboy's scream of, "We need a new pitcher!" wasn't far behind.
Every time Dad came back.
Last night, I heard one of Dads friends tell my old man something I wished I had said a long time ago. "John, you inspire me."
The friend could not have been more sincere.
Today, I'm going to spend about four hours watching Dad learn to walk again. He's well on his way already, but he also has a way to go.
Over the past 30 years, that man you see at the top of his screen has inspired me more times than I can count. I told him as much just before he was about to die. He, of course, was asleep at the time. And then he didn't die.
Today, I'll just watch. Then someday I'll tell Dad of his inspiring power again. Only then...he'll be awake.
Monday, November 10, 2003
A doctor's sense of poetry
Most of the doctors we've worked with over the last few weeks have done their very best to speak in layman's terms. Inevitably and involuntarily, though, they slip into the language of white coats and John Wells' ER docs. I always thought they talked that way on TV to give the shows a sense of legitimacy. Silly me.
Just once through this entire ordeal I wanted someone to say to me, "Something in your dad's melon exploded. Believe it or not, despite the fact that our entire bodies are powered by blood, blood is actually sort of bad for the brain. Go figure, huh? So, something exploded, blood is all over the place, and it could kill your old man. Or it might not. We just don't know. But, we're going to do our best to make sure your dad's melon stays blood-free from now on. Oh, and by the way, there is a chance that something could happen in the three weeks that could cut off the blood flow to part of your dad's brain. That could kill him, too. Or paralyze him. We're just not sure. What? Well, yeah, I did say blood is a bad thing for the brain. It is and...well, apparently it's not as well. See, the brain likes blood and the brain doesn't like blood. Oh, and we've apparently run out of the medication that could stop all that bad stuff from happening. Something about the war in Iraq. Have you seen the doughnuts?"
While it would still be confusing, as least I would've understood what they were saying.
So, as much I have appreciated the doctors steady hands and reassuring smiles, I have felt myself wanting for a doctor to dumbo dictionary. That's why a simple sentence today seemed a little poetic:
"We're going to send him home the day before Thanksgiving."
Now, that I understand.
This is good for a couple of reasons:
1) In the opinions of both the Willis Family Optimist (that's me) and the Willis Family Pessimist (that's Dr. Jeff), this means the doctors must see some good reason to keep Dad in therapy. That is, they must see some potential for progress. If they thought he wasn't going to get any better, they'd boot him ASAP and make room for somebody else. That means somebody with a white coat thinks Dad can get better. Good news for optimists and pessimists alike.
2) It's just sort of poetic. Dad is one of only 30,000 people on average per year to have a ruptured aneurysm. He fell within an unlucky 15% who weren't good candidates for a revolutionary new surgery. However, he fell within a fairly small percentage of people who didn't leave the hospital in a body bag. With all his hard work, he could leave the rehab center on two feet (by the way, he walked with a cane today). So, the Willis family has reason to be thankful. And Dad will be out of rehab and at home on Thanksgiving. How about that? Bet the pilgrims never thought much about triple brain surgery when they were carving up the bird.
So, November 26 is the scheduled homecoming for John Willis. By that point he will not have seen his home for 40 days. That's gotta be a new one for my old man.
Here's to many more Thanksgivings.
By the way...while this is a site for monitoring Dad's progress, there are a few other people who have been supporting Dad who are going through rough times right now. Our friend Jen has been hospitalized and will likely remain there until she has her baby (it was due on Christmas, but now it is anybody's guess). And Connie and Judy's puppy died today during a surgery to repair two broken legs. Send some extra good thoughts toward those folks. The good vibes seemed to have helped my dad a lot.
A life worth living
The day begins with Dressing and Showering. In rehab, they schedule that kind of thing. It's like prison or boot camp. Then 10am Occupational Therapy. Then 11am Physical Therapy. Then it continues.
12pm--Lunch
1pm--PT
2:00--OT
3:00--Speech Therapy (which really isn't therapy designed at making Dad speak better). There's a lot of practicing on day-to-day activities (check-writing, list making, etc) and it's starting to get on Dad's nerves.
3:30--PT
Dad is now fully convinced that the only therapy worth doing is the physical therapy. Deep down, he probably knows he needs a little bit of all of it, though.
By the time all the therapies are complete, Dad is fairly tired. However, he's been trying to put on a pretty good show for visiting guests.
Should you visit, here's what to expect.
1) Despite three brain surgeries, Dad doesn't look like Frankenstein. They've shaved some of his hair back and he has a fading scar (see the above picture). Other than that, he looks better than he usually does.
2) He'll probably be in his hospital bed, but there's a decent chance he'll get up while you're there. His right leg is still weak, but getting stronger every day. I expect he'll be walking with a cane in the next week or so, and unassisted by the first of the year. The rest of his arms and legs work just fine.
3) If you see him closing one eye when he looks at you, it's because he has double vision right now. He is just trying to focus in on you. If you ask him about it, he will give you a detailed account of how many of everything he is seeing. This problem is the most annoying thing Dad is dealing with right now. Doctors hope the vision will improve soon, but just in case, Dad is seeing an eye doctor today.
4) Mentally, Dad's brain is just about resettled into his skull. He recognizes about 95% of the people we see or talk about. He can compute his finances in his head. He can remember football scores, etc. Occasionally, he will forget a word or name and that frustrates him. As a result, he tends to be more quiet than you'll remember. We're hoping as his confidence increases, so will his usual gregarious personality. However, the doctors have said that there is a chance that Dad may be a little more laid back than he used to be.
Today we should learn when Dad will get out of rehab and go home. We'll update with that tonight.
Sunday, November 09, 2003
Could this be...real life?
It grows close to lunch time here in the middle of Central Standard. By some quirk of rehab center scheduling, Dad has finished all his therapy already this morning.
A glance at the sports page offers something Dad has missed out on for the past few weeks. Turns out the Kansas City Chiefs are undefeated. Turns out they play at noon. Turns out that Dad has nothing better to do for the rest of the day than eat some lunch and watch football with his family.
The Willis clan has always bonded around football games. Most of them had their roots in Texas, a place where--I hear--preachers aren't that subtle about getting to the benediction before kickoff.
As for the Chiefs, Dad holds the distiction of being the only person to ever take me to an NFL game. Chiefs vs. Raiders. Cold, wind-driven storm. The legs of our blue jeans were caked in ice. Neither team could manage to score a touchdown. It was at once the most miserable and fun experience I had had by that point in my life. The Chiefs won by three points.
So, today we watch football.
Monday, all of Dad's therapists (there are three) will get together with his doctor and decide how much longer the old man needs in rehab. His leg is growing stronger. His memory is getting better. His concentration level is still hurting a little, as is his vision. We can't make predictions on the length of his stay in rehab. It could last one or two more weeks.
Until then, he's still seeing visitors late in the day and early evening.
And if the pictures aren't coming up at the top of your screen, we're sorry. We appear to be having some sort of server problems. We hope to have it fixed shortly.
Friday, November 07, 2003
Dad and the Frog
With the addition of pictures, we should probably take this opportunity to explain something. We Willis folk like a good mascot.
Dad's brother Ronnie (no stranger to life struggles) bought this for Dad when things were at their most grim. As Dad woke up, we kept shoving the frog back in his face. Now Joe--as Dad named him in the middle of a brain-exploded fugue--symbolizes Dad's long walk back to the...um...green.
As for his condition: He continues to progress both physically and mentally. He still has moments where he forgets things or lets his concentration drift. We're hoping that in the coming days we'll see less of that.
Until then, Dad and Joe the Frog will keep fighting.
Thursday, November 06, 2003
Rehab: Day one
QUICK UPDATE
The past 19 days have been just about as hard for this family as any. Fortunately for Dad, he doesn't remember 80% of it. Unfortunately for Dad, he now has to pay for all the things he doesn't remember.
For the next several days, Dad will endure pain and unknowable fatigue. His schedule will be that of a school child or prison inmate. After he has conquered these rigors, the doctors hope he will be on his way to recovery.
Each morning a nurse will come in and write Dad's daily schedule on a dry erase board. The respite from the pain will come at around 3:00pm. That's when the day's rehab work is complete. That is also when he is allowed to start accepting visitors.
However, until we see how hard rehab is, we're asking that visitors stay home until around 6pm. Dad is going to need a nap and meal before he's ready to make any sense. Hopefully, Dad will get stronger very soon and we can extend greater time for him to see his friends and family. Right now, however, we're going to be a little selfish with his time and make sure he can focus on getting better.
EXTENDED UPDATE
Sleep, as you might imagine, doesn't come easy during a time like this. There are too many what-ifs left over to make room for those edge-of-dreams fantasies. When rest does finally grant you mercy, you grab hold and hope it doesn't get away. After all, if you can avoid the bad dreams, sleep is the one reprieve from worry and doubt.
That is, unless you are a woman we call Mom.
Chances are, if you've been fortunate enough to meet Dad, you've also had the fortune of meeting Mom. You might not have realized it at the time. More than likely, she was the person making you feel more at home in her house than she was. She was the one doting on your every need. She was the one who never let you see a frown on her face. In short, she was the woman behind the man.
As I type, Mom is spending her 18th consecutive night trying to find rest in an uncomfortable place.
When this hell began, something inside Mom switched off. In the past, she rarely took any time for herself. When she did, it was only an hour to make sure she looked nice for visitors or one day out of the year so she could buy some new things to wear. That thing that switched off was the last remaining concern she had for herself.
While few people would have realized it, there was no night since October 19th that Mom didn't sleep within 30 seconds of Dad. There were many days that--while she looked perfect--she never left the hospital to shower or do her hair.
Last night we thought we had Mom convinced to go home for a night. Dad was in rehab under good care. The rehab instructions encouraged her to go home. At the last minute she decided she was staying. She had to make sure the facility was going to take good care of the man she loved.
So, right now, I'm hoping she's sleeping. While we boys will be forced to go back to our homes soon, Mom will walk this long road to recovery with my father. She will need the rest that Jeff and I are starting to get. However, I have no doubt she can handle it.
What many people don't realize about Mom is that she has spent her life as a caretaker. Even as I sit at age 29 (yes, almost 30), I don't know the full scope of the lives she has affected. I just know she has nurtured since she was old enough to know any better.
Where most women of her generation were starting to find liberation and freedom, Mom was taking care of people. She married my father after only a few months of dating. Within a few years, she began raising children. When Dad started his business, she was one of the most important pistons in the engine. She worked at the office and she worked at home. If my memory isn't playing tricks on me, I believe there was a time when she even did some of the janitorial work at Dad's office.
She never stopped smiling. At least in front of the kids.
The business finally took off. With it, it took Dad. I know he always felt guilty about how much time he took making the business successful. But Mom never said anything about the struggle or the often absent husband. She took the kids to football and band practice. She never stopped smiling.
Once the kids were carted of to college, Mom had a little more time for herself. I'm not sure she knew what to do with it. Good thing, because Dad was about to sell the business. They were about to start the lives they had been working for for 25 years.
New houses and new lives both take a long time to furnish. Just when my folks were ready to hit the road and harvest a long season of labor, real life took back over. After spending more than two decades taking care of a business and children, they now had to begin taking care of my Dad's parents. Surprising how a thing like that can become a full time job. Not surprising that my parents made it one and did a darned good job. And not surprising that my Mom rarely stopped smiling.
By this time, my mom had lived a pretty long life. It had been a good one, but not one where she ever took much of anything for herself. Giving, she often said, was her way of getting.
Mom and Dad had some trips planned. They were going to hit the east coast and see their kids. They were going to go to Aruba. One of Dad's golf buddies was trying to get them to go to Hawaii. Finally, after a life of nurturing, my Mom was going to be nurtured.
And then the inside of Dad's head exploded.
You will not hear my mom complain. The next several months will not be spent on a beach. They will be spent putting her husband back together. She will not sleep. She will rarely eat. Her muscles will be sore. Still, she will smile.
This fight, after all, is one she recognizes. It's just another round of nurturing.
A couple of weeks ago as Dad came around from his first surgery, he looked at Jeff and said, "I guess you're going to have to buy Mom a birthday card for me." It might have been the sweetest thing my father had ever said.
Today is Jo Ann Willis' birthday. She will not get a makeover. She will not spend the day with friends. She will spend it learning all of the rehab tricks my father will have to perform for the foreseeable future.
My hope is that she will spend her next birthday somewhere happier. Maybe a beach. Maybe at one of her son's dinner tables. Maybe just cuddling with her husband and watching bad TV.
My hope is that the woman who has kept my dad alive for the last 33 years and smiled on the outside the entire time will be able to spend a few years smiling on the inside.
Happy birthday, Mom.
Wednesday, November 05, 2003
Destination: Rehab
There comes a point where that little thing in your brain that controls impulses starts to get weak. It's a small lever that if flipped the wrong way by illness, drink, or frustration can let loose a flurry of words you'd never say in front of your mother or preacher.
Odd, then, you might think that it's not the man with the brain aneurysm that is suffering from this malady. Dad's melon is acting pretty well under the circumstances. Wednesday morning he did all his tricks for the therapists. He got out of bed to eat twice. When he needs to see a man about a horse, he hets out of bed on his own. And for a finale today, he grabbed a walker and walked 75 feet down a hospital hallway.
So, after seeing all this and being told repeatedly that Dad would really benefit from rehab, that little lever in my brain only needed two little pushes before I let loose a sailor-approved diatribe on some poor redheaded social service worker named Judy who was always forced to be the bearer of bad news about rehab progress.
The first push came shortly after lunch.
"It appears your insurance company doesn't have a contract with any rehab facility in town. So, we're negotiating right now. However, if you'd like to go ahead and go on over to Walnut lawn, we think he'd really benefit from it."
Translation: The insurance company is stalling and we're sort of tired of dealing with it, so if you'd like to move across the street and risk getting billed $500 a day, we'd call you a cab.
Fortunately, about that time Mom brought me a big salad to put in my mouth. No bad words spilled forth.
All I needed to push me over the edge was the word that it would be another 24 hours before they admitted Dad. When Judy walked back in the room, I mentally prepared myself for some real ugliness.
"Okay. He's all set. And he'll have a private room. See you over there."
So, the lambasting I had prepared was completely unnecessary. Turns out Judy and the rest of her crew are good people.
So, at 5pm today, Dad should be transported to Cox Walnut Lawn Rehab Center. There he will undergo some really rigorous workouts designed to return him to his former physical strength.
Visiting hours will now be restricted. Anyone wanting to visit cal do so AFTER 5pm. We suggest some time between six and eight, as Dad should be eating around 5:30 every night.
We're not sure how long he'll be there. Regardless, it's a good thing he's going.
And it's a good thing he's going today. Otherwise, one of his sons might have had visting hours of his own.
In jail.
Monday, November 03, 2003
On finding a silver lining
Down a short hallway, beyond the stench of cheap BBQ sauce and old men, you'll find Room 833. It's a sterile place with a nice view. What makes it even nicer is that only one sick person calls it home.
For two days, Dad and family have been enduring what the hospital likes to call a semi-private room. Apparently that is healthcare code for a room where you can't see the naked guy sliding off his bed next to you, but you can certainly hear and smell him.
Today, the hospital made good on a surgeon's request to give Dad a little relief from semi-privacy and gave him a real pivate room.
Now, Dad rests what is certainly a tired body and mind. After the occupational, speech, and physical therapists he didn't have a lot of energy. Then there were the doctors and nurses. Then there were three square but ugly meals. Then there were visitors. Oh, yeah, then there are the people who keep calling him "dad" and wanting to know if he plans on getting better any time soon.
Tuesday morning, the doctors will do one final CT Scan to make sure what remain of Dad's marbles are still rattling around in his melon.
Tuesday afternoon, Dad will learn whether he will end up in a rehab facility and--if so--for how long. It is looking like he'll spend between seven and 16 days working to regain his head and body in rehab. Then, six months down the road, we should have a good picture of what the full extent of his recovery will look like.
The doctors continue to speak with encouraging words. Still, it's hard to watch our old man in such a condition.
If all goes well, the next update should take us from hospital to rehab center.
And that will be a good thing.
Sunday, November 02, 2003
Why she does her job
It had been sort of a funny day. Dad had opened his eyes at 3:30am and decided he felt like talking. A lot. That was quite a change from the previous day. Then he had felt more like nodding off in midsentence and then awaking to ask what was going on in Carl Junction (We're still trying to figure out where that is).
So, Dad made sense today. He rarely drifted off into the land of book-feet, alligator chairs, and Carl Junction. For two sons who have spent nearly three decades looking up to the guy, it was a relief to finally hear him make sense for longer than five minutes.
When the therapists weren't there, the kids were doing their best to work occupational therapy into the conversation. Michelle (Brad's wife, in case you don't know) spent 48 hours as the Quiz Master Therapist. Jeff sucked helium into his lungs and spoke like a chipmunk to test Dad's ability to recognize stupid humor, and I pulled out one of Dad's favorite things...money.
My intention was only to see if he remembered what bills were what and what to call the coin with Abe Lincoln on it. Instead, as I pulled doubt my small money roll, Dad asked, "Is that the new twenty?"
Sure enough, it was. Dad began comparing the new bill to the old bill and then asked me to go across the room and turn on a light. When I returned, the bill was gone and Dad had a confused look on his face.
For a half-second I started to get discouraged. I thought his brain had gone loopy again and he had lost the money. Then he smiled and I remembered Dad's old trick. He loved earning money. But even more, he loved picking up loose change off the counter and claiming it as his. This was no different. He eventually pulled the bill out from under a stuffed frog his brother gave him. Smiles around.
Just when we thought we had enough to be happy about for the day, Michelle came running in the waiting room. This was her story:
The physical therapist was working on a Sunday. She's used to seeing patients who don't have much chance at recovery. Dad should be no exception. The formerly healthy, strong man now had a weak right arm and basically useless right leg. That's what she was hearing, anyway. The fact that the man had started using his right hand and arm for just about everything was no great reason to believe any other recovery was forthcoming.
Still, she had a job to do.
"Mr. Willis, we're going to try to stand you up now." Yeah, right.
She maneuvered Dad out of the bed and near a walker.
About that time, Mom and Michelle walked out into the hallway. For a man as proud as Dad, the inevitable failure afoot was going to be too rough to watch.
Then from room 839, the therapist yelled, "Mrs. Willis, don't leave. You need to see this!"
And there, in silhouette against the light of a giant picture window, was John H. Willis walking. Step by step. Slowly, with a walker, not his usual strong steps. But he was walking.
"Now, Mr. Willis, you've reached the wall, what do you do now?"
It wasn't quite a moonwalk, but it sufficed. Dad walked backward toward the bed.
"This," announced the therapist, "is why I do my job."
We Willises have long been the type of family to hit a project hard and finish it quickly. Patience on a project is not necessarily easy for us. We're learning that this project is one that will only be reached on a path of small steps.
So, we take each day as it comes, living in four hour blocks of time, and relishing each sane, strong minute Dad gives us. Each one promises another, and each of those promises a day that we'll see Dad as the tough guy we've always known.
Oddly enough, the front of page of the local paper today was all about aneurysms. The story is about some cutting-edge technology that's available to 85% of aneurysm patients. The fact that Dad fell in the unlucky 15% was not lost on us during each of his three brain surgeries. Still, the very smart doctor pictured below, Dr. Michael Workman, consulted on Dad's case and was a great comfort to our family.
Monday we should learn when Dad can enter rehab and what kind of rehab he will face. Those answers should go a long way toward helping my family figure out how were going to handle the next few weeks and months.
By the way, Dad is now reading quite well and has been reading your comments and e-mails. I think that's one of his neatest improvements.
More updates to come. In the meantime, I encourage you all to go out and find that reason you do your job.
I know one physical therapist who found her's today.
Saturday, November 01, 2003
Saturday
QUICK UPDATE
Patience. We hear it's a virtue and we're in search of it.
The easiest way to put this is that when Dad is awake and concentrating, he's pretty close to 90% mentally. When he's tired and/or distracted, he's not so good.
He accepted a few visitors today, but only for a short period of time.
We're hoping he finds his way off the 8th floor very soon (Monday at the earliest). The standard of care on eight is not what we've come to expect or respect.
The boys are sending their wives home on Sunday. Hopefully Dad will improve quickly enough for everyone to return to their normal lives by Thanksgiving.
Patience. Optimism. Etc.
