So just to back up a little bit, it is difficult to keep track the flow of how everything happened, the accident was on 17 May and he had surgery for the tracheostomy on 28 May - so we're only 11 days into this story.
As it goes the tracheostomy was successful although that night his heart did that rate dropping thing again and he developed a minor infection, you know just to keep everyone on their toes. Relatively speaking though things started to improve. He was taking more breaths in his own than the ventilator was giving, settings were being reduced, he was awake and actively participating in his physio and Nadine was doing her best to become an expert lip reader. With a tracheostomy air does not pass through the vocal chords which means no sound is made when speaking. We all had to learn to lip read and to be honest, I personally never got particularly good at it during the entire process which was equally frustrating and amusing.
Then on the 30th of May his respiration rate started to increase, but not in the good kind of way. By that point he has asked for his daughters so Sam and I were already starting to think about making another trip to see him, but not exactly with any sort of urgency. Life had other plans. That day things started to go south very quickly (a phenomenon we named the ICU rollercoaster) and we were asked to please come through to the hospital, as in as soon as possible. This is never a good sign is it? Once again, panic set in, except this time we were less oblivious to the seriousness of the situation so we had an added feeling of dread. Flights were booked, airport pick ups were sorted and the next morning we made the 4 hour drive once again, thinking in the back of our minds that it was entirely possible that we were going there to say goodbye. This was now my 4th trip to Nelspruit in a month, ironically enough, having never set foot in Nelspruit before, we went on a small family weekend away to Nelspruit at the beginning of the month, just a little over a week before the accident happened. At the time I had enjoyed that little holiday and Nelspruit. Now I started to harbour some resentment towards it.
We arrived a little after lunch time, dad was once again heavily sedated and with his ventilator settings maximised. He had stabilised by this point. Critical but stable. The lower part (lobe? I don't know what it is called?) of his left lung had collapsed and the doctor believed that he had emboli on his lungs. The problem is that they couldn't really give him medication for that because it might cause a clot from the spinal surgery which could potentially result in a stroke. Things were complicated. I struggle to explain the feelings that came with news like this, but mostly I struggle to remember. Bad memory or self protection, I don't know?
Later that day we were standing over my dad's bed chatting, he was still fast asleep. We liked to have normal conversations over him because before we had often gotten a smile or chuckle out of him even if he hadn't opened his eyes. It was the closest thing we had to normal.
While I was busy tripping over the drip stand or doing something else clumsy or silly. The cardiologist came over and looked at us with that look, I can't really describe it, I don't know if it is pity and I am fairly certain it is not compassion, but there is definitely this look that doctors give you when there is pretty much jack shit that they can do for you. Along with 'the look' came his abrupt announcement that perhaps we should start to consider letting him go. All 3 of us looked at him aghast. WTF did he just say over my dad's sleeping body - the body we had been assured could hear EVERYTHING we said while it was unconscious. I was nearest the head of the bed and I found myself almost immediately and subconsciously blocking my dad's ears. I didn't even realise until Nadine asked him to discuss his opinion with us away from the bed that I was doing it. Nadine started to cry, I started to cry and my sister moved into 'let's find shit out and get everything sorted' mode. We all took turns to be the strong one in rotation it seemed, but she was best with holding us together at these big moments.
The cardiologist confirmed that we did need to discuss everything with the intensivist since she had become his primary treating doctor. You know the one that was impossible to talk to and always had her bag, ready to run? Somehow, through Sam's sheer determination and will we got an appointment at midday with the intensivist. We also for the first (and only) time got a social worker to visit with us and counsel us. This was difficult not only because of the sort of discussion we were required to have, but also because Sam and I were supposed to be leaving at 12 and this meant changing flights, etc. It seems petty now, but even tiniest action requires maximum effort when you are faced with such a monumental discussion, so it is something that I have remembered. I called my uncle in tears and told him, very dramatically might I add, that he needed to come to Nelspruit because dad had been saying there was something he wanted to tell him, but he wouldn't tell it to us to pass on to him.
Dr on-the-run showed up on time at least and she even sat down, albeit I'm pretty sure with her bag still on her shoulder. She placed my dad on a 5 out of 10 as to which way this whole thing could tip - so yes, your usual non-committal doctor stuff and then she asked us for one more try to wean him from the ventilator, she wasn't comfortable saying that she had done everything she could do to help him just yet. And so she implemented extra after hours physio, which I am sure cost the medical aid must of loved (actually I dealt with them a lot in the beginning so I know they did not), and he started to get physio every few hours to help clear his lungs.
So there we were.
I kitted back up into what felt like my 112th plastic apron and pair of latex gloves, I laugh at how badly used to fumble putting those gloves on and by now it is the most natural thing in the world to me. And then in I went back into the ICU to say goodbye. I put my earphones into his ears and hooked up my ipod and played Zoe Jane by Staind for him (which is not exactly allowed, but under the circumstances fuck it, right?) and then Sam and I said goodbye to him, wondering if it would be the last goodbye. To be fair we felt this with every goodbye for most of this experience.
Just before we left we watched his heart rate dip into the mid-40s and he was taking hardly any breaths on his own, the ventilator was doing it all. It was if he had just given up and I was sure it was going to be all over soon.
Well I was wrong. Apparently all my dad needed to hear was that we might switch him off to get him fighting again.
The next morning, back at home, and with my uncle having rushed through to Nelspruit, my dad proceeded to wake up and be the most alert and responsive he had been since the beginning. It was an unbelievable turnaround and made me look like a complete fool for having called my uncle sobbing about dad's impending death just the day before. But that is the life in the ICU for you, and a happy (well somewhat less distraught) fool I was.
Was this the miracle we had been waiting for?
While I was busy tripping over the drip stand or doing something else clumsy or silly. The cardiologist came over and looked at us with that look, I can't really describe it, I don't know if it is pity and I am fairly certain it is not compassion, but there is definitely this look that doctors give you when there is pretty much jack shit that they can do for you. Along with 'the look' came his abrupt announcement that perhaps we should start to consider letting him go. All 3 of us looked at him aghast. WTF did he just say over my dad's sleeping body - the body we had been assured could hear EVERYTHING we said while it was unconscious. I was nearest the head of the bed and I found myself almost immediately and subconsciously blocking my dad's ears. I didn't even realise until Nadine asked him to discuss his opinion with us away from the bed that I was doing it. Nadine started to cry, I started to cry and my sister moved into 'let's find shit out and get everything sorted' mode. We all took turns to be the strong one in rotation it seemed, but she was best with holding us together at these big moments.
The cardiologist confirmed that we did need to discuss everything with the intensivist since she had become his primary treating doctor. You know the one that was impossible to talk to and always had her bag, ready to run? Somehow, through Sam's sheer determination and will we got an appointment at midday with the intensivist. We also for the first (and only) time got a social worker to visit with us and counsel us. This was difficult not only because of the sort of discussion we were required to have, but also because Sam and I were supposed to be leaving at 12 and this meant changing flights, etc. It seems petty now, but even tiniest action requires maximum effort when you are faced with such a monumental discussion, so it is something that I have remembered. I called my uncle in tears and told him, very dramatically might I add, that he needed to come to Nelspruit because dad had been saying there was something he wanted to tell him, but he wouldn't tell it to us to pass on to him.
Dr on-the-run showed up on time at least and she even sat down, albeit I'm pretty sure with her bag still on her shoulder. She placed my dad on a 5 out of 10 as to which way this whole thing could tip - so yes, your usual non-committal doctor stuff and then she asked us for one more try to wean him from the ventilator, she wasn't comfortable saying that she had done everything she could do to help him just yet. And so she implemented extra after hours physio, which I am sure cost the medical aid must of loved (actually I dealt with them a lot in the beginning so I know they did not), and he started to get physio every few hours to help clear his lungs.
So there we were.
I kitted back up into what felt like my 112th plastic apron and pair of latex gloves, I laugh at how badly used to fumble putting those gloves on and by now it is the most natural thing in the world to me. And then in I went back into the ICU to say goodbye. I put my earphones into his ears and hooked up my ipod and played Zoe Jane by Staind for him (which is not exactly allowed, but under the circumstances fuck it, right?) and then Sam and I said goodbye to him, wondering if it would be the last goodbye. To be fair we felt this with every goodbye for most of this experience.
Just before we left we watched his heart rate dip into the mid-40s and he was taking hardly any breaths on his own, the ventilator was doing it all. It was if he had just given up and I was sure it was going to be all over soon.
Well I was wrong. Apparently all my dad needed to hear was that we might switch him off to get him fighting again.
The next morning, back at home, and with my uncle having rushed through to Nelspruit, my dad proceeded to wake up and be the most alert and responsive he had been since the beginning. It was an unbelievable turnaround and made me look like a complete fool for having called my uncle sobbing about dad's impending death just the day before. But that is the life in the ICU for you, and a happy (well somewhat less distraught) fool I was.
Was this the miracle we had been waiting for?
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