The Trauma that Followed the Shock - My Story: Part 2
Somehow within the first day I had the presence of mind to put together a Facebook page for posting updates. Incoming calls and texts were overwhelming; repeating everything was worse. Eddie’s boss shared the FB page and the response was staggering. People from all over the world began praying for Jesse, for us. We were astounded by the support and generosity of people. Most of all, we were grateful to God that our son was alive. We leaned heavy on His mercy and grace. It was all we could do.
The accident was horrific. The police officers, who visited the night before, said they believed he hydroplaned in the pouring rain. While driving home from the beach and through the hills, Jesse’s truck swerved off the highway and careened down a large embankment. His truck nose-dived and flipped over before it rolled several times. His head took all the trauma. His temporal bones were compressed three millimeters on each side, he sustained a diffuse axonal injury (DAI) and a subarachnoid hemorrhage (a brain bleed). He was also suffering from multiple facial fractures, including a shattered orbital bone (the bone that surrounds the eye). His condition was bad.
Jesse was laying in bed on life support. He was very still, out cold, except when he was fighting. He was under, in a coma, half induced, but still aware. When in “awake” mode, even though he wasn’t awake, he was easily agitated and fought to release himself from the restraints. He was a fighter. The nurses and doctors said his top physical shape and youth were on his side. His physical health would help him recover, but no one gave any promises. Hope yes, promises no. So we hoped, hoped for dear life, hoped in God.
Waiting for signs that he could respond to vocal commands, was torture. The nurses constantly asked him to give a thumbs up or wiggle his toes. Nothing. I watched my boy. I watched every movement he made and I analyzed him. I was convinced he was still “in there” since some of his movements (when he moved) were distinctly Jesse. Yet, some were very primal. The medical team wanted “purposeful” movement; movements done on command. Nothing was documented unless seen by a nurse or doctor.
Procedures filled our first week. They came with explanations and warnings, warnings about what could go wrong, namely death, and our need to sign releases of liability. The hardest was his tracheotomy. I knew it was cleaner and more beneficial than intubation, but when the doctor told me it was possible to lose his airway I looked him squarely in the face and asked, “Well, what are your stats?” His response, “I have never lost a patient.” Comforting, sort of. Still, I unraveled during the procedure, breaking down to a friend.
Six days in, Jesse gave us a sign. A nurse was removing some medical tape from Jesse’s broken nose. Presumably from the pain, he abruptly sat up and opened his eyes. It was a fleeting moment. A marvelous moment. Thankfully, the nurse was quick. She immediately asked for a “thumbs up”. He complied. And just like that he retreated to his former state, unconscious, critical but stable. It was the best moment of the week.
We were continuously being educated by the nurses on his course of care; most likely due to my incessant questioning. I couldn’t help myself. I was on a need to know basis. I couldn’t read, I could barely pray. I was totally consumed with the status of his condition. Understandably. I knew every drug that was dripping into his IV and what it was for. I knew what the medical team was doing and why they were doing it. I made sure to stay fully informed. But it took a toll on me. Proverbs 3:5 never meant so much to me. Ever. “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and do not lean on your own understanding.” I like to understand everything and tend to lean heavy on understanding. Intellectually figuring out how each scenario could possibly play out was dominating my mind and depleting my energy. It had to stop.
Scripture needed to fill my mind and strengthen my soul. Sitting still and reading was tough. I confiscated a whiteboard from our garage, one Jesse used to program his workouts on. Filling it with Scriptures people sent to us, it became a new fixture in his hospital room. Eddie and I would rotate out different verses every couple of days so we could meditate on them. It was our lifeline, our strength, our hope.
Whatever was written is earlier times was written for our instruction, that through perseverance and the encouragements of the Scriptures we might have hope.
-Romans 15:4
Somewhere between week one and two I fell into a deep despair. Jesse responded to commands from time to time, but he also had primal movements that made no sense at all. Not knowing the full damage to his brain, my mind went to dark places of possible forever scenarios. I was tormented by the unknown and my own imaginations. Thoughts of disability and losing my son to a broken mind was more than I could bear. Crushing probabilities squeezed the hope out of my heart. The restlessness of worry plagued me.
After a solid 36 hours of complete despair, the strength of the Lord came to me through His word like never before. Two verses I had long memorized struck me with a force. 2 Corinthians 10:5 “We are destroying speculations and every lofty thing raised up against the knowledge of God and we are taking every thought captive to the obedience of Christ” and Phil 4:8 “whatever is true … dwell on these things.” In a moment I knew this was where the rubber met the road. I knew with every ounce of my being I needed to take all the dark thoughts, horrible scenarios, and unruly imaginations captive. Thinking about what was true in the moment was essential. I would not, could not, sit in despondency. It would be my ruin.
The medical team of doctors for the Trauma ICU (TIC Unit) made their rounds once a day, maybe it was twice. I always listened in. At my lowest, which must have been obvious, one doctor pulled me aside in the hallway. His tall six-foot something frame leaned against the wall and gently arched over me. Focusing intently through his glasses, he firmly spoke words of hope. “There is hope for your son! And there is a young man down the hallway who would gladly trade places with him.” I know he said more. I don’t remember all his words, but I will never forget the moment. My heart was strengthened but rattled by the comparison. Jesse was in bad shape, who could possibly want to trade places?
Week two started with a bang. When I came out of the bathroom in his room I was greeted by him sitting completely up and looking straight at me. His right eye, blue as ever, was fully open and his smile was beaming. Greeting him back, I said, “Hi baby!” Though he was unable to respond verbally and shortly returned to his slumber, it was the start to a very active week. He consistently responded to commands, began answering questions (though not always accurately), and tried to break out of his restraints. Conscious wakeful moments were short lived. His fight against the restraints was continuous. A Certified Nurse Assistant (CNA) was ordered to be by his side 24/7. A necessity since he managed to pull his feeding tube out (more than once) while restrained.
Shift changes with nurses were twice a day. We never missed one until day 13. I arrived late that morning and when I walked into the room I realized I didn’t know the nurse. “Who are you?”, she asked me curtly. Understandable, but when she stepped outside of the room I knew something was wrong. Jesse was completely still. Eerily still. Limp as could be and wasn’t even wrestling his restraints. There was no fight in him. Where did it go? What was wrong with him? I watched the nurse and wondered why she was so different from the previous nurses. She was cold and uncaring, seemingly callous to the fact that I was his mom and rarely, if at all, made eye contact with me. She bossed the CNA around, who was supposed to be by his side 24/7, asking him to do certain things while she scooted about on her little swivel stool. I was mad. Her job was easy since Jesse wasn’t even putting up a fight. Later, a few custodial workers swung by and were cat-calling to her. Are you kidding me? My anger rose. I left for lunch and as I passed the nurse station the doctor flew out of the office and called my name. He quickly excused himself from using my first name and shared some alarming news. He informed me that he ordered Jesse to be brought back down to 25 mcg of Fentanyl, like the day before, instead of 100 mcg which the current nurse had him on. Wait, what? I felt flushed and my heart began to race as my anger turned to rage. She was sedating him!
That same afternoon Jesse was scheduled for eye surgery. The swelling in his left eye continued to increase, enlarging his eye to 5 times its normal size. His eyelid wouldn’t shut. Since they didn’t know why, the surgery was exploratory, but they would reconstruct his shattered orbit at the same time. Surgery came and went and when the team dropped him back off in his room I am certain the anesthesiologist said, “Just leave him at 100 mcg Fentanyl for the pain.” She reduced his Fentanyl back to 25 mcg. Approaching her kindly, I told her what I heard the anesthesiologist said. Without even looking at me, she snipped, “That’s not what I heard!” Shaken, I approached the charge nurse and told her my concerns. She agreed there was a problem stating, “that seems to be her theme for the week.” What? Shock ran through me. She summoned the manager of nurses and they took me to a conference room. There they asked me a series of protocol questions regarding her duties. I came unglued as I advocated for my boy.
After an awful day, the following day would prove to be worse and go on to test the core of my being, my hope, my faith. Adrenaline had pushed me this far. I was strong, sort of, extremely energetic, fairly clear minded, mostly hopeful, and on top of all the details. But I had cracks in my being and my adrenal glands were shot. The evening nurse that cared for Jesse was one of my favorites. Clearly they informed her of the difficult day. As Eddie and I left the hospital for the first night as a couple (one of us had been staying the night since the beginning) the nurse assured me Jesse was in good hands. Before leaving I leaned over him to say goodbye. I told him to rest and heal promising I would return in the morning. I said “I love you”, and he finally responded to me whispering, “I love you more.”
