by the light of the moon

[post script, pre-read: this occurred 10 years ago]


I had a private room. Except every hour when the stranger opened the door. The flashlight shone toward my sleeping frame, looking for signs of life. I refused the sleeping pill offered by the nurse with the rolling cart. I had perfected my art of sleeping. I used it and it protected me. No thank you nurse Ratched, please offer mine to the manic man.

The first few nights I journaled. Inside the loneliness I bedded. I grew accustomed to the wait and built my temporary routine. No sense complaining myself into a straight jacket. The doctor wouldn't see me until Monday morning. Why the fuck didn't you tell me this before I signed my name? I could've slept in my own bed over the weekend.

He visited me every day. After work. With the kids once. His mom took a greyhound from Chicago to support him and the children. She had the pleasure of seeing me in all my glory several times, why not peer through the locked cage as well? This animal is quarantined. Only the cuckoo birds are allowed to fly in her airspace. Enter at your own risk.

Passing time in a locked psych unit takes imagination and the last of the unburnt brain cells. I dug mine up from my mind's closet and prepared to make something out of nothing. Groups were mandatory, or so I thought. Maybe my efforts will encourage one of them to call in the doc early. Maybe they'll stop whispering about the temper tantrum I had that first night...after I learned that I had replaced my normally grey weekend at home with this blackened bracket of bullshit. You got yourself into this crazy mess, you get yourself out!

The hospital chaplain they requested for me was young. She spoke soothingly and read from the Bible. She left me her number and permission to call again. God and I spoke daily. Unfortunately, he had no pull on the psychiatrist's schedule either. More Jeopardy and circled seating was in my future.

People watching was my new favorite hobby that weekend. Especially when the cutter showed off her handiwork and the psychotic held private conversations with herself, out loud. I heard the letters ECT as they wheeled a woman away. She never spoke, before or after her shock treatments. I wondered how the electricity felt coursing through her brain. Did it hurt? Were they going to offer me a ride on the gurney?

The smokers were allowed to step into a locked courtyard off the milieu. Craziest of all, they chose to stand in the November wind. One sunny day I stepped into the natural air too, and heard their stories. The older gent wearing the greenbay packers coat hadn't slept for weeks. He couldn't. He wouldn't. He was inside the throes of his manic state. How could you go without sleeping? My favorite pastime and my safest time of the day...essential to my sanity and an obstacle to his. The other young dude was avoiding jail or drug rehab or both. Co-occurring was his label. Addiction to substance accompanied by depression of some sort. The lady with multiple razor scars lining her limbs was a frequent flier. She appeared happy to be back and played the role of cruise director. Any questions? Ask the regular. My favorite was the young lady with the box of crayons. She allowed me to share in the catharsis of coloring books and crayola scents, and I realized how easily simplicity fit into my fractured mind.

I ate their food and followed their rules. I wrote and prayed and shared in group. For three long days and nights I lived in someone else's dream. I abandoned my family. I chose to commit. I wanted help desperately and my resources were depleted. Therapy and a starter dose of prozac wasn't cutting it, there had to be another way out. My life depended on it. And so did theirs.

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HOPE

During my very last nursing clinical rotation, a few months before I received my diploma, I worked as a nurse manager on a medical/surgical (med/surg)  floor at a local hospital.  One of my patients was famous.  Well, locally.  His story had been in the papers and talked about around our community.  Tragedy had struck one of our own and it could have been one of us.

HIPPA laws intact, I greeted my patient and family with utmost respect and professionalism.  Then I realized that I knew MOM and she needed a hug.  And I gave her a big one.  Even though I only knew her first name and how she ordered her bagel at Good Grains (present employer), our instant connection was born because of who was silently lying in the hospital bed next to us...her son.

What I read in the paper was sad enough.  First ride on his new motorcycle, freak accident, brain injury, unknown prognosis, teenager.  I followed his progress through another teen I know who visited him a couple weeks post accident, when he was laying precariously balanced in ICU.  I read in the paper about his many friends and loved ones making t-shirts with his name on them to wear to our local Christian music festival, UNITY.  This was not the first time I've experienced Muskegon's compassionate rallying.  I was still amazed and honored.

A couple months later I met this young man.  Despite his contracted limbs, his tall body encompassed the skinny hospital bed.  His eyes open and distant, windows to an unknown connection.  His stuffed fish lay next to him and rolled washcloths tightly fit inside both fists.  A tracheotomy tube poked from his neck, gauze covered his cross-skull incision, and his abdomen housed a gastric feeding tube where I would later pour in his lunch.  Everything was different now.

Hand written notes were taped to the hospital walls with instructions for daily range of motion exercises and clues to communication.  Mom explained with professional precision and proceeded to demonstrate the removal of his leg braces.  I was slightly overwhelmed.  And extremely humbled.  This family had already experienced much more than any nursing student in two months time.  My ears and eyes were wide open.

Bells and whistles aside, caring for this patient was simple.  Care.  Easy for me, mom of two teens.  All I had to do was picture one of my children lying helplessly, imagine the empty answers to unending questions, feel the love emanating in that little room.  Every visitor I met had a smile and thank you for me.  Every chat with mom and dad ended up with a hug and a thank you from me.  This was an awesome three day opportunity.  My formal education may have been ending but my nursing education was beginning with a bang.  I wanted to spend all my time with this family.  To soak up every bit of knowledge.  To learn all of this boy's needs and how to fulfill each.

Stories about his sense of humor and love for life filled our time as I worked side by side with his parents.  They wanted to share and they wanted to teach.  Their strength lifted mine and their hope encouraged more.  They didn't care who knew their story as long as it was told.  And I have been listening ever since.

Now it's my turn to tell and your turn to hear the story of my friend Andrew.  His family made a Care Pages website about life with Andrew since accident day #1 in April 2008.  Myke is his mother's name and my former bagel customer.  She and her husband write as often as possible, including entries of doctor visits, insurance challenges, and life with Andrew's brother, sister, and girlfriend.

I get emailed alerts with each new post and occasionally I'll comment.  I have not seen Andrew in person and I don't think he would remember our first meeting.  However, the incredible miracles he has shown since then prove that his brain is healing.  He won't be the same Andrew who jumped on that motorcycle almost two years ago.  He'll be New Andrew.  Andrew begun again.  Speaking, multiplying, recognizing, remembering, joking, traveling, inspiring.

I pray that you will be inspired by Andrew Steven Bos.

Peace and love.

just so you know, Myke Bos granted me permission to publish this story...thanks friend!

Round 2

The call comes in, waking me from the soundest sleep I've enjoyed in five days.  She has an update, about Dad.  He's on the move, traveling to Milwaukee tonight to check in at hospital number two.  Dad's favorite cardiologist works there and Dad wants his expert second opinion.  After all, a week at hospital number one provided no concrete answer for the man who lives in denial and mistrusts the results of the risky procedure he just paid for.  "Everything looks the same," is not what my father can live with.  Because if everything is the same, and his quality of daily life is consistently changing, what solution can he apply?  What invasion can he request to reverse his labored breathing, swollen belly, and confusion?

Dr. number 2 may be able to rebuild him.  This man is Dad's idol.  The only man I've ever know dad to be intimidated by.  Dad treats this mortal like a god and balances his life on his words.  My father has hope now.  Dad called doc at home, explained his disapproval of the results from the first hospital, and, snap, a room is available at the inn.  Get on your donkey and ride north.  Dad's pride is re inflated and his control is reinstated...for now.

Many emotions fill the time we sit in the waiting pattern.  This last week alone included fire and brimstone and much guilty groveling.  Accepting family for who they are is an exhausting endeavor, even for one who has over 30 years of experience.  Introducing neutrality for the sake of sanity is my job.  Well, my sister in law helps, since she's an outsider and sees us objectively.  Her perspective is right on, and developed in less time then my insider's view.  She reminds me that I am not alone in this dysfunction and that I can laugh at the situation...after we share a glass or two of wine. 

My brother's wife loves life and her children produce it.  I feel comfortable at their house, even though my brother is barely present.  Ironically, I have jumped ship, been recruited to the other side, the non-blood, non-Italian, not-to-be-trusted outsider team.  Dad's mantra to the three of his children: "You can only trust your family, your blood."  Even as a young girl, watching my grandmother ignore her brother, her neighbor, as he walked past her house everyday, just felt wrong.  As wrong as when she made us cross to the other side of the street to avoid the man-of-a-different-color walking toward us.  Their definitions of morality made no sense to me.  My father modeled loyalty to accountants, lawyers, and financial advisers to keep his business afloat, and at the same time dismissed the opinions and dreams of his intelligent 17 year old daughter.  Some familial patterns aren't meant to be repeated.

Teach your children well.  A father's hell will slowly go by...

My father's hell has arrived to greet him today.  He sits at the mercy of medicine and limited choices.  He laughs at the predicament over the phone, and his mind races with questions and worry as soon as he hangs up.  He wants to protect his family until the final moment of his strength.  He wants to pretend everything is status quo, and keep everyone feeling good.  He is our patriarch and he is falling off his throne.  We are his subjects, responsible to keep tempers at bay and emotions in check, and entertain our king.  We have lived, are living, because this proud man sacrificed for us.  Dad fought poverty and educational challenges to rise above his past.  Dad adjusted his delivery to sell more and build more and create more than he ever imagined he could.  A self-made man, striving for the common goal of most fathers...to provide.  On this accomplishment alone, my father will sail into Heaven and feel the spirit of positive energy eternally.  Hell has no fury like a daughter who forgives.

let go and let God

My father sits in the recliner chair, blanket wrapped around his shoulders, glasses on, hair combed, sipping hot tea.  We are meeting in a hospital room where dad must live until Tuesday.  Tuesday the doctors examine his heart and arteries for reasons why he arrested three times this week.  Dad shows no concern about the procedure;  this is the easy part for him.  Has been for 30 years.  What Dad finds difficult to deal with is the abstract and unanswered. 

He has no recollection of passing out, of losing consciousness or the strength of the defibrillator pounding on his chest and awakening him...temporarily.  Dad's only concern is that we go to his house before we leave town and take frozen meatballs and sausage home with us.  For this man, stability equates to denial.  Everything that happened before now is erased, forgotten, and filed as yesterday.  One hell of a way to live in the now.

This works for dad.  He doesn't wonder or research or ask many questions.  He may be naive or he may be the smartest thinker on this earth.  Maybe we all would live longer if we didn't face our fears.  Maybe life would be stress free if dad taught lessons on survival. 

Today is Wednesday and Dad's hospital agenda has changed.  No procedure yesterday, maybe today.  Blown veins, swollen belly, short breath, insomnia, anxiety, questions...uh oh.  Wife number three is most of the anxiety.  She is fragile in mind and spirit.  Her confidence is missing and she needs to be taken care of, on controlled days.  Today she falls apart.  Dad doesn't need this distraction.  I've witnessed this scene before, I know.

A few years ago, during another week long hospital visit, #3 told Dad to fuck off.  Picture this:  weak man wearing hospital gown, in bed, day 11, unsure of his plan, asking his wife for a small favor.  "Call Dr. and have them send the echo results here."  #3 starts to stumble...can't go home now to get the phone number.  Uh, look it up in the phone book here. Suddenly Dad is thinking clearer.  Clearer than his healthy spouse.  That's when she blew and told him where to go...in front of his two daughters.  

My younger sister has the temper of a bull dog.  She had to run away from the scene to keep her fists in her pocket.  I sat with dad after everything calmed, and we were alone.  He kept shaking his head, looking down, hard to make eye contact with me now.  "Can you believe that?" he repeated to me.  I listened.  "Do you know that she wouldn't even help me get washed up this morning?  She called the aide to do it."  So sad.  One of the weakest moments for an adult is realizing you are helpless. 

After simple expressions of my love and support for my father, I left to search for the mad dog on the loose in the hospital.  Simply said, that was a trying and emotional day.  One my sister and I remember and no one speaks of again.

Here we are, playing the waiting game.  Dad's voice on the phone last night was weak and tired, but of course he was reassuring me that everything is fine.  Even from his hospital bed my father feels in control.  Good.  One gift I can provide long distance.  Got the whole scoop from sis, so no need to bother him with questions.  I've learned how to listen.  This conversation I hear a hint of fear.  I say a prayer and ask God to keep dad comfortable.  I know He will.

this morning

He called me from his car.  I could hear the background noises.  "This is what I want you to do," he commands impatiently.  I agree politely and answer his questions with the forethought of short, simple words.  Gotta' go to work Dad, I'll talk to you later.

Later that night I am told he went to the hospital shortly after we talked.  He has trouble breathing and he hasn't slept for days and he is weak.  Doctor tells him his heart stopped seven times and the defibrillator inside his chest shocked him back to life with each occurrence.  Dad woke up during the night screaming, eyes wide open, with no recollection of awakening.  Only his body was aware...and his wife lying next to him.  Scared straight to say the least.  Straight into the hospital, again.

IV diuretics to alleviate the fluid drowning his lungs and heart, oral meds to keep his heartbeat rhythm regular, shoot dye into his veins to hunt for a blocked artery or broken valve.  Dad wants it all.  All the quick fix possibilities.  All the concrete diagnostics and explainable answers.  If you can't fix or explain, don't bring it up.  If he's tried your treatment, be prepared to be refused.  72 year old man, with dying organs wants to be rebuilt and stood upright again, now.  Sorry Dad, you are a decade too late. You no longer qualify for the brand spanking new heart, and the docs who know you best say your body can't withstand any more invasion.  You will die with or without the fix you crave.

Rest now.  Clear your mind.  Let others care.  Find peace.  Find home.  Know life...now.