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DAY THREE
Looking at my 25 yr old daughter, lying so still and broken
I think of when she was little ...
...a klutz and a daredevil (most hazardous of combinations)
And how she made my heart pound
With each of her boo-boo's, major and minor.
She'd stick out her little lip, and a crystal tear would sparkle and flow down her cheek
And my heart would break at the intensity of her tawny beauty.
No movement now, lip swollen....and the tears are mine.
She is comatose
Trapped both in unconsciousness and an ICU bed,
Former Old Friend of Mine and Co-worker,
Now hateful to me because it holds my precious daughter.
All a blur: highway, wreck, roll-over;
My daughter driving without a seatbelt
Hurtling through the air
Landing on unforgiving, unyielding pavement
My beautiful Baby Girl
Broken and alone
Unconscious and seizing
Mom not by her side
To protect her.
I have attended strangers on the highway
Who struggled between Life and Death
But when my own child was selected by Doom
I was far, far away,
Unknowing
Doing some ordinary daily thing
As my daughter lay in the dirt near death
In another state
As by passers gawked and gasped, thinking her dead.
Severe brain injury...
...and in one horrific blinding flash of Fates' eye
One unthinkable instant
My daughters' light went out.
I look at her now
Motionless,
The vent softly hissing
The I.V. pumps clicking metronome
Suction huffing in the background.
I watch her arterial waveform
And sureptiously reach to flush it
Just to check for resonance
Make sure those numbers are Real
Hoping her nurse doesn't come in
and catch me.
I monitor her ICP for variations and increases
Painfully aware of what each fluctuation means.
I am not the Boss here.
I have no control.
This is not my ICU.
And she is not my patient.
I am on the other side of the fence
And it is unbearable.
My nerves jangle with the pumps going unanswered
For 20 minutes at a time.
My breath catches in my throat when they suction her
And do not bag her before and after to lower her ICP.
The stains on her sheets scream at me to be changed
And her wrist restraints do not accommodate a fingers' breadth.
(It angers me that they are so certain she will not move.)
Her lips are exfoliating from being so chapped
And her mouth smells of rotten meat
From lack of oral care.
Her long, once glossy hair now lays in mats so dense they will have to be
Cut out.
I often walk into the unit to find her
Thrashing
All alone,
Chomping her ETT, setting off the vent.
No one comes but me.
I speak to her softly, stroke her forehead
Whisper to her in secret Mother languages
Tell her I will suction her, bag her...
Pass the catheter and I weep as she gags
But grateful to at least see a gag.
I try to feel encouraged by it.
I want to gather her up in my arms
And carry her out of this hell-hole,
This RN's nightmare
She and I are prisoner to.
I want to take her away
Home
Where she will be
Safe
But she is far too sick,
Perched on the precipice between living and dying.
I must sit here,
Watch her suffer, and suffer myself as well.
I hold her hand
And tell her she is safe
And pray that she will hear me
And believe what I say,
Hoping to convince myself as well.
Perhaps if I say it often enough,
It will come true.
__________________
DAY FIVE
She moves sine-like
Arms slowly waving
Reminding me of underwater anemones.
Repetitive movement
Not purposeful.
I observe each one
Like a hawk
My eyes burning to see
Just One New Gesture.
I watch all day
All evening
Like this.
There is nothing new.
The reality of her condition suffocates me.
I count her breaths over the vent.
I ask about her ABG's and labs
Searching for some infinitesimal fact
I can attach Hope to.
There is nothing.
She lays with her head turned to the right
On the side of her face that is fractured and grotesquely swollen.
I think I should look at it to inspect the injury, but I cannot.
I do a neuro check
Her gaze remains dysconjugate
Right pupil blown.
I am so afraid
So afraid
And I can find nothing to hold onto.
I am so angry with God.
I have saved so many lives
Averted numberless life-threatening occurrences
Over the span of my career in ICU and ER.
Have I not earned my daughters Life ??!?
Have I not pre-paid for her return to us ??
I will not pray
Because if God was listening
He could not have done this in the first place.
______________________________
DAY SEVEN
Her IMV is 2.
She is breathing over the vent consistently.
I am afraid to hope
Because physiologic Kelli is not all of Kelli.
I monitor her every function and movement
And ask myself if I can feel her "in there".
She opens her eyes spontaneously now
But looks at nothing.
She is far, far away from her mooring ,
Some vicious neurological tide
Holding her at bay.
Her right eye travels on its' own
Disinterested in its' usual partnership
With her left.
I watch her lids flutter in REM
And I wonder if she dreams and what her dreams are of.
I fear she nightmares of The Wreck.
I wonder if my voice reaches her
There in that dark gray fog she is suspended in
I wonder if she knows that
Mommy is here.
____________________
DAY NINE
Her eyes are open more often these days.
She sometimes even tracks synchronously.
She toys with objects in her hands,
Gropes for things to hold.
It worries me that she never tries to hold up to eye level objects she is fingering.
She rarely turns her head to look at anything;
Infrequently, she will work to focus on something
Which has moved into her line of vision
But ignores it as soon as it leaves that line.
Her right pupil remains blown
And she does not blink to threat.
My fear has stabilized, not diminished.
My family rejoices at every turn of her hand.
Their naiveté squeezes my heart and sits on my chest.
They think I am negative.
They do not grasp what lies ahead for Kelli.
They do not get that Physiologic Kelli and Our Kelli
Are estranged
And may never reconcile
Again.
I cannot tell them.
It is too heavy.
This New Kelli
Is infant-like and vulnerable
She reaches out to feel for a hand to hold
She searches for reassurance and comfort.
Her brows knit together with each new sound, each new voice.
She never lets go of the hand holding hers.
Our Kelli
Was sassy, irreverent, full of piss and vinegar
Quick to tease and jibe
Fiercely independent and fiery.
New Kelli
Is fearful, needy, wanting protection, seeking ease, eyes unsure;
The contrast is hourly pointed up
And each comparison breaks my heart
Anew.
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DAY 10
My daughter Tiffany stands at Kellis' bedside
Looking lost.
She holds her sisters' hand
And speaks to her in ordinary tone and terms
But her words sound hollow.
She is grieving in a place I cannot assuage.
She talks of everyday things when she visits
And never stays for very long.
This place is too horrible for her, too real to see her sister suspended like this
And I have no words to ease her anguish, no promises of medical miracles.
She makes a great show of Being Okay
But Mom knows she isn't.
It occurs to me as I watch her stroke her sisters' hand
That this wreck has injured not only Kelli
But all my children.
______________________
DAY ELEVEN
On my way through the hotel lobby
To catch my usual morning cab to ICU
I spy an airport shuttle preparing to leave this place.
I am surprised at the strength of the ache in me.
I despise this city.
This city nearly killed my daughter.
And I pray to leave it behind me,
Never ever to return.
I want to take Kelli home.
_________________________
DAY TWELVE
Sitting by her bed
I find myself wondering
At what moment in time was this awful thing destined?
Was it when first I held her newborn, in awe of her even-then evident beauty??
Was it when I taped her stick crayola art to the 'fridge?
Or, when she first fell in love and swore she'd run away from home ??
Or was it when she labored to birth her own child, insisting she couldn't do it; when she first laid my beloved granddaughter on my lap??
Was it all the times I held and adored her,
Or when we fought and argued, bitter and wounded
By each other??
Is God punishing me for something wrong I have done?
And if so, why does Kelli have to be involved..???
Perhaps I should have argued harder with her about moving here
So far from home.
But Our Kelli would not have listened
Did not listen.
Of all my children, she is most like me
Although she would hotly deny it.
It has always been the source of contention between us.
She has never been able to see how dearly I have loved her.
She has always had her own path, This One.
Until now.
___________________________________________________
DAY FOURTEEN
My daughter extubated herself at 5:00 a.m. today.
When I called to check on her, they casually told me.
(They will never let me in before 11:00 a.m....they make me leave by eleven pm....
12 hours is far too long to be away from her side; too much can happen, and did.)
I ask if she is safe, if she is "flying", off the vent.
They assure me she is, but I do not believe them.
They have never taken care of her right.
Not even close.
Getting dressed wildly fast, getting to ICU
Seemed to take much longer than usual.
The cab wait was longer.
The drive here was agonizing.
The hallway was much longer.
The elevators even slower than usual.
The Docs were rounding
And Fat Charge Nurse wouldn't let me in.
I consider the consequences of bursting through the door anyway,
And the rage swirls in me
As I struggle for reason
Knowing it will not go well if I run amok now.
I despise her for being one of Those Nurses
Who gets a rush from saying "no" just because She Can.
I pace a hole in the floor, the waiting room dungeon we are condemned to.
Thirty minutes goes by.
Thirty long, interminable minutes.
I go to the door
Steady myself to be humble
And ask as meekly as I can
If I may enter
Now.
Fat Charge Nurse clearly sees herself as gracious
By allowing me to see my own child.
As I jog past her desk,
I think to myself she could never hang where I have worked
And it takes the edge off both my anger , and my desire to throttle her.
I see Kelli
Sitting High Fowlers, venti mask on
Eyes closed.
I make myself slow to a walk
So as not to frighten her.
Finally, I am at her side.
I brush the snarls from her misshapen forehead
And I say her name softly.
She opens her eyes and seems to see me with the left.
"Kelli?" I whisper again.
She nods her head at me, closes her eyes
And the barest whisper of the word makes a fog under her mask.
I bring my face as close to her mask as I can get, so that I can hear over the humidified O2.
"What did you say, honey ?"
I gulp hard, terrified to hear what comes next...what the words will be.
She forms her lips, dry and cracked
To shape the sound...
"Mommy...."
She knows who I am.
____________________________
DAY FIFTEEN
Since this cruel trick began
I have thought each new occurrence
Each fresh onslaught
Was the worst moment of my life.
It started with the phone call
When I learned my daughter lay near death.
I thought that was the worst moment of my life.
Then there was the flight to Atlanta,
Without question the longest I will ever make.
I thought that was the worst moment.
Walking in ICU, up to my baby's' bed
For the first time
Seeing her swollen out-of-shape head and face
The ETT and vent
The too-white walls
The look of pity the staff gave me
I was sure that was the worst.
Making myself realize she was not going to wake up just because
I was there...
I thought that was the worst moment.
Having to watch my son Adam crumple
When he arrived and saw his sister for the first time
I was certain that was the worst moment.
He said
"She's not okay, is she, Mom ?"
Which told me he thought the same thing I did...
...that she'd snap out of it any minute
Just because we were there.
Knowing he was afraid for her,
Holding my grown boy as he cried
I was sure that was the worst moment.
My oldest son Nick took over
Because I just could not do it.
Realizing that,
I thought that was a pretty bad moment, too.
I looked at him with new eyes,
Seeing him handle all the arrangements for hotel and cabs and family arrivals...
...and I loved him deeply, admired him...
But couldn't tell him
Because grief had numbed my senses
And rendered me useless.
All I could do was sit and look at her.
I thought that was the worst moment.
We counted the days of her coma
Thinking that she was in coma at all
Was the worst moment of my life.
Then she woke up.
She could only say a few words...
The rest were numbers.
She'd whisper, speech all slushy and thick
"Thirty-Seven !" " Four!!" "Four !!" ,
Angry that we couldn't get her meaning.
I thought that was the worst moment.
Holding her as she wailed in pain
I was pretty certain that was the worst moment....
Suddenly realizing that there would be no way to explain to Yasmin
What has happened to her Mommy,
That her Mommy would not be
The Same...
...I was positive that was indeed the worst moment.
And then it came to me.....
I might never have a good moment again
After this,
And I stopped worrying about which one was the worst.
Continued (part 2)
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