Suddenly, the List Gets Shorter
Most problems are paint-color problems.
We spend a lot of time optimizing our lives.
We debate diets, productivity systems, social media habits, therapy, antidepressants, career paths, and what we’re going to eat for dinner.
Then one day someone you love can’t breathe.
Suddenly the list gets much shorter.
When this happened to me, as we worked to triage what was important, I kept reminding myself: You don't worry about what color you're painting a room when the house is on fire.
All of the extra stuff went out the window when recently, my mother was critically ill. There were two surgeries, three pneumonias, and almost a month in the ICU. For the second surgery, my mom spent over a week on the ventilator. Years of smoking (please don’t smoke, and if you do, please consider quitting) have caused damage to her lungs that made coming off the ventilator difficult. To her credit, she quit smoking three years ago on her own, and we’re all glad she did. I don’t think she would be here otherwise.
Finally, last Friday and Saturday, we were able to visit her. She was alert, but required the vent to breathe. They had tried trials to wean her off the ventilator, but she would fall asleep and not breathe. They asked that we come over and keep her awake. Much of the barrier was anxiety and staying awake (she still had quite a few sedation medications on board). So, we did.
Friday was hard. She kept falling asleep. There were many tears and it was hard to leave her. I told her that I was keeping on the cat light I had bought her for Mother’s Day, and that I was keeping mine on too. So when she saw her light, she’d know mine was on and that I was thinking of and praying for her.
My Mom loves music. My whole family loves music. This was so hard, not going to lie, seeing my mom mostly alert, and trying to communicate everything with her eyes (which, she does very well—we are all familiar with ‘the look’; “make one more move and you’re gonna get it” look), but it was hard for her to be robbed of her voice. We made the best of it. We started the trial, and held our breath. I played some music on my phone that I placed near her ear, and off she went!
I swear on Rory and Lily, this woman almost needed a longer vent cord. She was air drumming, shimmying her shoulders, and absolutely rocking out, mostly to the Beatles. She was enjoying herself. We actually had to tell her to slow down; maybe some air guitar, not the high-hat drumming she was doing!
For 28 minutes we kept it up. I was just about to turn on Neil Diamond, but they cut us short.
When we went to leave, the doctor stopped my Dad and me about possible trach options as recovery seemed dismal. We were stunned. She was just rocking out and air drumming. We had to slow her down. This can’t be. My Dad said, “I wouldn’t count her out. She can surprise you and I think she’s got one more in her.”
The next day, we prepared to drive over again and try again. We got there, and I signed us in, and the person at the desk said, “You should have a nice visit, she was just extubated.” I was stunned. I said, “I’d leap over this desk and hug you right now, but that’s probably inappropriate, so I will just express my sincere thanks.” She smiled and said, “Yeah, they told your Dad.” He was surprised and said, “I guess I missed that.” I thought “Oh Lord, I can’t do two of them!”
The Doctor summed it up best, “Sometimes you just have to take a shot.”
A week later, we are talking discharge. The underlying issue appears to have resolved and she’s doing amazing. We will certainly have some challenges and planning, but after a few weeks in the ICU those things feel like miracles.
For me, I try to slow down a little. When I’m fretting over what meals to plan for the week, or what project I have to get done, or how to get more exercise in when I really just want to rest, I try to remind myself to be thankful I get to do those things. Not everyone can. Those things are usually “paint-color” problems. After a few weeks in the ICU, I found myself grateful for much simpler things.
My Mom awake. Her voice. A conversation. Music. Her being able to eat. The simple ability to breathe, talk, laugh, and tell us what she wants.
I’m also grateful for my family and friends. For rallying around my Mom. For always finding the humor in the hard situation. For prayers, phone calls, visits, and support.
Most of all, I’m grateful that she’s here to enjoy it.