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As I mentioned earlier, I have no memory of any of the events after the man in white placed his hands over my leg in the elevator. I’ve been told that I woke up four or five times in radiology. Apparently, I even conversed with my OB/GYN before a crash cart was ordered because I flat lined. It was days before I actually started to remember anything. My first memory of waking up is not one I share lightly with you now.
I was terrified. I don’t mean that anxious, nervous feeling that you’ll sometimes experience during a job interview or waiting for a medical prognosis; I mean the all encompassing fear that paralyzes not only your body but your entire thought process. I woke to the sight of my own mother hovering over my bed and seeing her touch my arm that knowing that I could not feel. I saw her place her hand on my forehead, but could not feel it. I DON’T FEEL! Why don’t I feel? I remember wanting to press my own hands against my skin, to feel them, to feel something—anything. I desperately wanted to feel, to use my own hands, but I could not move my arms. More than that, I could not speak. I was immobile and mute and could not feel any sensation in any part of my body.
I know I wrote that I woke to terror, but that cannot adequately describe the complexity or the depth of what I felt. The feeling that overwhelmed me cannot be described by any singular word or even a combination of words no matter how you string them. I felt: frightened, terrified, scared, horrified, alarmed, petrified, confused and panicked all at the same time. The absolute weight of every difficulty every anguish, every struggle, every sorrow wrapped up into that one moment. I cannot feel. I cannot talk. I can…not. I had no concept helplessness could be felt to such a great extent.
I remember I started crying. Only, I didn’t feel the tears run down my face. I don’t even remember feeling that instant pressure in the chest before eyes start to well. I don’t even know if was actually crying or just felt the immense need to release all that helplessness building in me. I told you that this feeling paralyzed my thought process. I don’t have any memory of thinking “Where am I?” or “What is going on?” or even “Why am I chained?” I thought nothing; I only felt terror and all those other feelings so immensely I was smothered by them. This was a fear I had never known was possible, could never have conceived even existed. I was trapped inside my own mind with no thoughts. I cried; I must have cried. To this day, as I write this, I have not told anyone of this experience. I cannot confirm with my mother if I actually cried. I cannot confirm that the screaming and whimpering torn from me was heard only as echoes in my head or audible to others. Finally, a thought. I thought. I remember finally thinking “Help! Help Me!” Then it all went black.
Most of my memories from this day, or perhaps even days, follow along these lines of becoming trapped. The utter terror, the overwhelming fear and despair never really faded. I was trapped. Each time I awoke the feelings engulfed me. The freelings paralyzed me; the helplessness never really relinquished hold of me. Eventually I began to think through the fear; I could focus again.
I noticed upon trying to lift my hands that my hands were strapped down to the gurney. Tan colored straps kept me chained—kept me paralyzed. They would not let me feel. Could I still feel? I was trapped! TRAPPED! I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, “PLEASE. FOR GOD’S SAKE LET ME GO!” This was my prayer, my plea—to me this was not a sacrilegious statement, but a most earnest supplication. I could not scream; I could not cry out; I was mute. The pressure of terror and helplessness chained me even more than those tan colored straps. But I had an intercessor. I was heard.
When I awoke the next time, a medal chain with a pendant in the shape of a shield was laying in my hand. I read,
Do not be terrified.
Do not be afraid for the
Lord your God is with you
Wherever you go.
I no longer felt fear; I no longer felt that panic. No longer consumed by the anguish of fear and vulnerability, I could think. Though I was confused and concerned about my lack of feeling, I no longer suffering the unexplainable agony. I had peace. It was almost as if I could see a shimmer in the air, a transparent blanket laid over me, to comfort me, a blanket of peace for me. A blanket that smothered all other feelings of hopelessness, helplessness, terror. A blanket to extinguish the panic, the fear, the helplessness. I had help. I was trapped but free. It sounds like an oxymoron, but it is the absolute truth. From that point every “waking” was done in peace and each time I became a bit more aware of my surroundings and my condition.
It was a breathing tube—the reason I could not speak—the reason I was mute. When it was determined that I was conscious enough that I would not try to pull out the breathing apparatus that was taped across my mouth,they gave me back my hands—essentially they gave me a way to communication. Gone were the tan straps that kept me immobile. They were replaced by a brown journal from the dollar store.
A pencil and a brown journal from a dollar store were my saving graces. I would not really move my head, but I know that the letters I wrote on that journal were legible, because I got answers. The book was kept on my right side by my hip. I scribbled half sentences, scrawled letters across the page and slanted almost every symbol on the page. But I was understood. My first pages looked like this.
I wrote: “? Ry” My mother knew it roughly translated to “Where’s Ryan?”
“He’s visiting William right now.”
“Can i se”
“No, sweetie he’s too little to visit you here.”
“?”
“There are too many germs and William is too little.”
“Will ok?”
“Yes, he’s fine.”
Eventually, the pages became a bit more complex, the writing a bit more legible and the letters less slanted. However, it was ages before that breathing apparatus or what I not-so-lovingly call the PVC Pipe they crammed down my throat. However, that was immediately replaced with an oxygen mask after I was told not to speak for a few more days. My throat, I was told, would be too sore to speak for a while. Whatever!
My recovery was very slow going. In fact, many doctors, nurses, technicians, family members all worried that I would get pneumonia. So, what did the sadistic band of people surrounding me suggest I do? Cough. Yeah, that’s right…cough! Excuse me, but you do realize that I had my chest cracked open not once, but twice. That means my ribcage was separated from itself! Twice! And you want me to cough? So it went something like small cough…ow..cough, cough…ow…[moan]…ow.
Still my recovery was slow going…until the nurses sneaked in my son. That’s right; they brought William to me. You’d think it would be easy to hand a mom her only son, right. Not really. One nurse rerouted the chest tubes, another moved machines from one side of my bed to the other. Yet another nurse armed with pillows began to place them strategically over my chest, under my arm, over my shoulder. The first nurse went about adjusting my beautiful hospital gown to cover the majority of the scaring and tubes since my family was armed with cameras. Finally, my son was placed in my arm that was currently being supported by another set of arms. But hey…my son was in the CVICU. Neaner, neaner, to all your hospital regulations. I saw him for five whole minutes, but it was the turning point. My recovery began to become accelerated. I was recovering at a much fast rate than I had been.
You’ll notice three bracelets on my arm, the oxygen mask and perhaps the heart monitor attached to my finger on my left shoulder and the swan with a protruding tube coming out of m neck. But you should be noticing my beautiful baby boy. At this point it has been exactly one week since I saw my son.
There was still some confusion, some minor memory loss, some chest tubes that needed to be fished out of my body and a few other unpleasantries, but I was on the mend. In fact, the cough, cough…ow…cough, cough…ow routine was worth it. I could go home as soon as I could breathe on my own. Eventually, the mask came off and I was immediately replaced by the oxygen tube (cannella?). But the reward for all the coughing was another visit from William.
You’ll notice that the swan in my neck has been removed, the mask traded for the tubes, but the heart monitor, oxygen monitor still remain. The bruises on my arm, neck and chest are must more pronounced and you can see a small portion of the scar that extends past the sternum.
So, rather than bore you with the almost two week recovery like Moses and David Letterman, here are my top ten.
1. Everyone kept telling how great I looked, but nobody gave me a mirror. It was as if all the mirrors in the entire hospital were either being used, lost, or hiding from every nurse, doctor, technician and family member I asked.
2. Nurses do not mind cleaning up patient defecation or at least they do not show that they do.
3. Being tied to a bed, unable to move your arms, in probably worse than Chinese water torture—especially if you are unable to talk because a tube is crammed down your throat.
4. Oxygen masks will make your nose bleed – should you blow your nose after wearing an oxygen mask, blood boogers and blood snot are apparently a very natural thing. Do not be alarmed.
5. No matter how much you desire water, you will not get it. The oxygen mask will make you crave water, but water restriction is necessary after major surgery. Eating only ice chips, while apparently good for me, is rather worthless when all you want is a swallow of ice cold water.
6. Every coughing attack is just an excuse for your bladder to release its contents – all over the bed and yourself – also depending on the I.V. and the contents of it, it might be your colon releasing its contents all over the bed and yourself
7. Paralyzing drugs are a standard when a patient suffers a stroke, throws 4 blood clots, and suffers from a rare ascending aortic dissection. I’m told it is also standard when someone endures two heart surgeries back to back. Go figure.
8. Pulling chest tubes out of a patient is not as painful as one would think. It feels like someone taking a fishing pole and pulling it out of your chest. Or, in my case, five fishing poles being unceremoniously yanked out of the abdomen.
9. Drugs, while I am scared to death to become addicted to them, are wonderful things. The aches, the pains, the anxiety, the defecating all over yourself can all be controlled by drugs. I found the last one extremely useful.
10. Knowing that after four years of trying, 38 weeks of a pure, joyous pregnancy, 19 minutes of the easiest labor–led to not being able to see my son for two weeks.
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