It is a beautiful day today, sweet boy. The kind of day you would sit on the swing and with furious determination scroll through your Ipad.
I managed to catch up on watering plants and even repotted a couple. Still, most of the day was spent on the couch unpacking the medical trauma from two weeks ago and, of course and always, missing you.
We got to the hospital on February 17th around 11:00 am. As we waited for them to call us back you were feeling well enough to be ticked off. They drew some bloodwork, got you a room, and started IV medication and fluids. After a few hours you were moved to a different part of the emergency room where the stable patients went until a bed opened. You were supposed to go to the general medicine floor. Even the medical professionals could not see and lab work hid how sick you really were.
Around 11:30 pm it all began happening so fast that I didn’t know what was happening even as it was happening.
He is in A-fib. We are moving him to the part of the ED where the ICU trained staff is.
As soon as she finished her sentence a team descended and whisked you out of the room. We have been in the hospitals enough to know rushing teams is not good.
You were taken into the resuscitation room with an unsettling brisk pace. At least twenty people went in the room. It was the same room they took Grandpa into by ambulance 2 years before… My heart sank.
What is happening?
Let me get you a chair.
What is happening with my son?
When they do not answer your question you know you do not want to hear the answer.
I peaked in your room
Your blood pressure was 60/40. You were pale. You were dying. I begged you to stay.
Please come sit down.
Afib….Low blood pressure. Cardioversion. Shock. Could die…
Where is Mom?
I see her standing in the hallway lost. She looked so small and so scared, not the feisty woman I know.
Can you get my mom a chair?
We are conferring. He may need cardioversion to shock his heart. In rare cases it can cause cardiac arrest.
I fall to my knees. Head bowed. Hands clasped.
Please God, one more time, let me keep my son.
My mom calls her best friend on the phone. It is midnight. Her friend comes immediately.
I call Steve. He is crashing. Please come.
A nurse kneels next to us.
I don’t know much because he just got here but I will answer what I can.
Finally someone is speaking to us.
I look in the room again. His blood pressure is 50/30
We are pushing a lot of fluid.
A social worker appears. Do you need a chaplain?
The only time they call a chaplain is when someone is dying. I decline.
The fluids seemed to be helping. Cardioversion postponed. They take you to the ICU.
Over the next few days I would see only small glimpses of you. You were on a lot of medication. I began missing you already.
The next big trauma would begin on February 21st and would be your last.
No more shocks to the heart, sweet boy. No more infections or failing valves. No more cascading dominoes. Not for you, anyway. Mommy is trying so hard every day to keep one domino up. I just need one to stay stable. It often teeters but I will not relent. You taught me well. I will make you proud.
the wish
to be with you there
sits on one side of me.
the desire to make you proud here
sits on the other.
and between them
I’ll sway
until i have both.
sara rian, find me there
