by Allison Moore | Oct 14, 2014 | Day by Day, Uncategorized |
He’s the star of the show…he should have a decent haircut!
I believe someone on the trauma staff at Mission hospital staff shaved Vernon’s head the first night back in May, the big night of surgeries, when they had to plug in all that head-hardware. And since then, he’s been letting his freak flag fly. But today his beloved hairdresser came to the rescue to tidy up his style.
Now Maila is one of those people who is just lovely to be around. She does a great job with scissors and comb, but its more than that: she is kind and gentle and pretty—and a good listener/conversationalist as well. I didn’t think Vernon would remember her immediately (and he didn’t) but he fell right back into a certain ease and trust with her. In fact, when the speech therapist, Pilar, who was working with Vernon all through his haircut, asked: “Wouldn’t you like Alli to be your nurse?” Vernon shook his head no. But when asked the same thing about Maila, he emphatically agreed.
I don’t take it personally. No way. I wouldn’t want me as a nurse either. I would definitely want Maila.
Vernon did his best to pay attention to his speech therapy session, while obviously enjoying his haircut. I was amazed how well he was able to focus and answer most of the questions pretty clearly…all while having his hair combed and cut. Multi-sensory awareness has got to be a good challenge for the reconnection of the brain. Anyway, it was great to see him enjoying the cut and the attention of all the ladies. And he was sitting up so straight as well—I thought he looked stronger in the neck than ever.
Looking good, Vern. Not sure about that fancy razor I bought you though. Hmmm….
Speech Therapy with Pilar. She’s helping him work his wires around his cool new tee-shirt. Thank you, Montgomery Motorcycle Company. I think tee-shirts make him feel more human, and he was thrilled to put this one on.
Physical Therapy with Jaime. Jaime is being as progressive with Vernon as possible, but he is obviously disappointed with the loss of physical momentum that occurred when Vernon was away for those ‘lost’ two weeks at St. Judes. I could see it happening too. Now he is just working to get that troubling right side more flexible again, where it was before. The cliche dance continues: Vernon can’t go forward two steps without going back a step somewhere else. Maybe I should look at this whole process as learning to dance instead of learning to walk forward.
Now that you have seen all these photos above, have you noticed anything…missing?
Where are the blue plastic t-bars? Or the long curling breathing tubes attached to his neck?
His trach has been CAPPED, at least temporarily. The staff seems to think his lungs are strong and healthy enough to trial a few hours without it. He still needs oxygen help through nasal cannulas, but can go without for a little while.
So the trach may soon be gone! The more that comes off him the better, I think. Its another sign that he is healing. He has been healing all along but these are the things that make us realize it too!
One more thing. Tomorrow, Vernon has a small surgery scheduled to have a permacath inserted. The dialysis catheter replaced at St. Jude’s two weeks ago was only a temporary placement. So if he shows good signs of recovery from that procedure, they will continue to trial the capping of his trach.
Moving right along.
by Allison Moore | Oct 13, 2014 | Day by Day, Uncategorized |
One of the things I was concerned about when Vernon had that infection-interlude at St. Jude’s Hospital a week or so ago was that he lost momentum with his physical therapy and his right side, that had started showing some improvements, seized up all over again…to the point that he was convinced (when he started talking last week) that his right arm was his broken arm (that he himself had fixed, learning how “on the internet”) and anyone who tried to straighten his left arm or leg was “CRUEL!” Oh the power of words…and imagination!
His voice has come back, but his muscles still need a lot of work. Especially if he wants me to take him away with me…which he keeps talking about when its time to leave. He hasn’t shaken the idea of shoes yet, apparently.
Have I mentioned that I LOVE the approach of the staff at Kindred. They are so flexible and progressive, apparently ready for any new curve ball, because they see the patients so individually. Jaime, the physical therapist, after struggling to stretch out his stiff left leg straight, decided it was time for Vernon to get on the tilt table and try some weight-bearing on his legs. Jaime, in trying to explain it to me, called it “a Frankenstein Table.” A little ghoulish, but I understood immediately.
Here he is at about 60 degrees. Vernon was still chatty, answering and asking questions. He was uncomfortable, but he seemed to understand that it was important to work through the pain. He tends to complain a lot more lying in his bed than in his physical therapy sessions. Jaime would keep him ‘standing” at various degrees for a few minutes each time.
He was getting closer to 90 degrees, taller and straighter than he has been in months. His ankles/achilles tendons are so tight (despite the range-of motion exercises we have done over the past five months) due to disuse. But Jaime managed to get him pretty tall. After this, he tried to straighten him a little bit more, but Vernon couldn’t take it. He’d been so talkative all morning, but suddenly his head fell forward as if going to sleep. The flow of blood must have been too much at that angle and he must have just fainted.
I know if I’ve been sitting too long in one place then get up fast, I can feel a little dizzy. I am guessing this was Vernon’s version of that, stretched out and in slow motion.
It took him a little while to come back to our world after that. I wheeled him around the grounds for awhile, but he just needed to sleep. It is always surprising to find out where his physical-mental limits are. They just suddenly occur and then we know…usually without any warning.
I’m posting this picture of him upright because to me he looks like some epic hero, handsome and brave, willing to take on the worst because its the only way. A martyr perhaps? Or Maybe his just ready for take-off into the Unknown Next. It’s also the last picture of that 2.5 week beard, until he tells someone he prefers it. I think he looks great either way.
Because St. Jude’s is not a long-term care hospital, the staff there didn’t shave their patients. At least that is what we were told on our ward when we mentioned his growing stubble. And by the time we got back to Kindred, no one wanted to touch his full beard with a plastic razor from the hospital supply closet.
So I stopped by our local Target last weekend to pick up a new electric razor. I was totally overwhelmed by the selection at the store, not knowing what to chose for Vernon, what could work around his trach, which ones were totally overpriced or a waste of money… I admit, though it sounds kind of sexy, I’ve never shaved my husband’s face. And I really didn’t want to start now when I could potentially maim him in his most vulnerable moments.
Angels are everywhere, it’s true. We just don’t notice them till we need them. Here is my proof: as I entered the store, I heard someone behind me call my name, some tall man with a bunch of kids. I didn’t recognize him at first, but it was THAD, Vernon’s main trauma-nurse in the early days at Mission Hospital. Chris had already called him at work last week to tell him the good news of Vernon’s waking, as Thad was such a pillar of strength and care to us in the hardest days of May and June. So whether he remembers us, we will always remember him. Thad used to shave Vernon in the SICU (as well as many other patients, no doubt) so he was just the person to help me shop for the right razor. What timing! As I gushed over the moment, I saw the looks on his children’s faces, and I guessed this probably wasn’t the first time their dad’s job had crossed over into their world. I expect they know he is a kind of hero when he goes to work. It was nice to have the chance to remind them.
Veronica, Vernon’s lovely Occupational Therapist (OT) volunteered for the job of shaving Vernon’s beard. He seemed so happy to receive the care, you would have thought it was a massage. And so when you see him next…he will be back to his fresh, cleaned up face.
And his hairdresser is paying a visit tomorrow. Stay tuned.
by Allison Moore | Oct 11, 2014 | Day by Day, Uncategorized |
Vernon was on form again today, chatting about all manner of things, but the thing that tickled us the most was that he kept trying to take his clothing off. His hospital gown, that is. (I won’t post that photo…though I may save it for potential blackmail later.) 🙂
At the end of our our visit, when Maki and I mentioned we were going to leave for lunch and shoe-shopping (how do 12-year-old feet grow so fast?) Vernon tugged at his gown till he was as undressed as he could get himself, and despite all the catheters and wires sticking out of him, demanded I pass him an invisible gray tee-shirt by the edge of the bed. He kept pointing at it —”THAT one!”—frustrated that I wasn’t helping him one bit. He wanted to go with us, after all. Time was ticking and we didn’t want to miss the bus.
As funny as this was, it was slightly heartbreaking for a moment. He didn’t understand that he couldn’t walk, let alone leave the hospital. He thought we were just being mean, treating him like a child and leaving him out of the fun, leaving him behind.
Soon enough, Vernon. You will be coming with us. Mark my words.
by Allison Moore | Oct 10, 2014 | Day by Day, Uncategorized |
In all the excitement of the past few days, I forgot to mention a very important detail. Vernon was moved back to Kindred Brea, the long-term rehabilitation hospital, his home-away-from-home, on Tuesday night. And for about 18 hours, he had a room to himself. A window seat, this time!
Vernon, as you can see by the last video Chris posted, is suddenly very chatty. Its entertaining if often confusing. In the course of an hour, he can call me three different names. For example, when he wanted help with something, he called me Vanessa (his sister’s name.)
When I said, “I’m not Vanessa,” he insisted, “Yes, you are!”
After arguing a little over it, he relaxed and asked, “What would you prefer to be called then?”
“By my name: Allison.”
He nodded and said, “Ok, then…Allison.” He seemed happy enough with that.
I spent much of the morning redecorating his walls with some the photos that have now been taped over four different hospital rooms. He seemed semi-interested in them, some more than others, as I showed them too him, explaining who each picture was of. In the meantime, his new roommate arrived, an elderly, quiet gentleman, who seems very nice. This man also has a wife, and when she arrived to visit him, clucking over him and saying everything would be alright, Vernon looked at me, slightly embarrassed, and said, “Maybe we should leave them alone? Maybe we should go somewhere else?” How delightfully polite and impractical of him. His Englishness is emerging, without a doubt.
Later the same day, when Chris and Maki went to visit, and they mentioned his walls, Vernon responded, “Oh yes! There was a lady who came earlier…she put up all these photos.”
One minute he responds to “I love you” with the standard “I love you too.” Ten minutes later, he might light up at the same words, totally flattered say: “REALLY? Why?” as if I’m some flirty girl he just met.
One constant to his memory, though, is Maki. Even if he did imagine two Makis in the room the other night, he knows his son and thinks of him relatively clearly. I think this is very special for Maki, who has been very brave through this whole ordeal, but missing his father very much. To know his father sees him and knows him so consistently as such an important figure in his psyche, after so many months of being somewhere else…to hear and see that he is STILL such a part of his father’s heart, even if his brain hasn’t come back completely…must be incredibly validating. And it must be a huge relief! I’m probably projecting my thoughts on to Maki here, but to me, it seems that Maki is finally able to exhale in a way. I see the spring in his step, his laugh is easier.
Or maybe its my spring, my laugh, and so I see those around me in that light too.
If I didn’t have so much going on in our home-world, I’d be up there everyday, just as I was able to be in the summertime, when he was sleeping. Maki feels the same. We don’t want to miss anything he says.
It would be great we could videotape every single thing Vernon says right now. Then you could understand for yourselves instead of my running a commentary. Believe it or not, I don’t feel right about holding up a camera the entire time we are together. So we can only share random snippets. How like real-life conversations to retain a few gems and forget the rest. Ah, but it’s all so entertaining! This man of few words is suddenly set loose without a filter. The past is the present is the future is the past is the present: forgetting, remembering, all mixed up, words come out wrong..and exactly right. It seems like a man narrating his own dream, but to him, its TRUE. It’s his NOW. And lucky us…we get to hear about it! Who cares if it makes sense to us, its a gift just to listen.
“If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would appear to man as it is, infinite.” — William Blake
And such is the wonder of a healing mind.
by Chris Adams | Oct 9, 2014 | Uncategorized |
by Chris Adams | Oct 7, 2014 | Uncategorized |
Before a man opens his eyes everyone is positive. But after the eyes are open and they stare…and stare…and stare…people, nurses and doctors start to form opinions. Opinions which are based on large case studies and in most cases are probably highly accurate.
It was some time around 6 weeks into Vernon’s recovery and between candid conversations with nurses and a doctor. I asked the nurses one at a time to cut the sugar-coated responses and give me their straight opinion for his chances of recovery. I listened to the highly experienced SICU nurse’s opinion that Vernon at best might offer a faint smile from time to time but would most likely not recover to a coherent state of consciousness. I listened to a trusted doctor give me his opinion that Vernon had shown absolutely NO neurological progress and would most likely not progress any further. I even spoke with one highly experienced person who mentioned that in some cases it was better for the ambulance not to show up on time.
These may sound like dark conversations. But that is the reality with TBI cases. These are the conversations that take place. At least 4 men passed away while I was in the hospital with Vernon or shortly before I arrived. Many people said goodbye to sleeping friends, sons and brothers while we watched Vernon’s pulse, brain pressure and temperature.
The fact is that God saves some people and he lets other people pass away. He allows some to walk again and others to sit in a chair and drool for decades while they are cared for day in and day out. I struggle to accept that God would save someone who is prayed for more fervently than someone who doesn’t have the good fortune of having loads of Christian friends. If prayer is the key factor in someone’s recovery and we believe that, why do we not pray from the moment we wake ’til we rest our heads at night? Are Ali, Vernon, Justine and Maki worth that extra bump we can give by simply investing more into God’s bank of prayer? If it truly means the difference between recovering to 40% or 90%. Or perhaps the prayer of a righteous man availeth much and in that case we must allow the righteous man ample time to pray. Perhaps we pay his bills so he can pray without ceasing?
Being confronted with these mysteries head on I have been forced over the past few months to wrestle with my understanding of God and his methods of doing business.
Whether we have confidence in God’s course of action for our dear friend Vernon or not, in the united states the clock ticks over and medical care is provided. The patient either lives or dies. If he lives, he is tended to. If he has friends, he is visited. If he has none, he sits alone.
Some days are good, others are terrible. A son sits at home and longs for his father, he wonders why and how, perhaps he wonders how he can possibly focus on school at a time like this. But he must. A little girl waits patiently for the day Daddy will hold her again. She wants to curl up in his arms. But she can’t. A wife tries to figure out what the right thing to do is. Some decisions feel selfish and others feel justified. At the end of the day there are no good answers – no decisions that are good enough. Nothing replaces a daddy or a husband. No amount of time is short enough. Every minute is too long.
It’s like waiting at a train station for 4 1/2 months, hoping a train will come down the line carrying your daddy, your friend, your husband, your son, your brother. Knowing that there is a train on the track and it may never come back to your station. But you wait nonetheless. You must wait. You have no choice.
Then one day, a train pulls up. Today was that day for me. After 4 1/2 months. The train pulled up and Vernon was speaking. He was conversing. I suddenly have to be careful what I write about because he may wonder why he’s had such a profound impact on me and on so many others. The light is on. We just had no way of knowing. Until today.
When I walked in Vernon said: Hi…
I asked: How are you?
Good.
Do you remember me?
No, I don’t.
Do you know the font Pacifico?
Yes, I do.
Is that one of Dave Crossland’s fonts?
No, it’s one of mine.
Would you like me to bring up your iPad?
Yes, I would like that.
Do you know who your son is?
Yes…Maki.
Do you know what Glyphs software is?
Yes I do.
Is it on your mac?
No, it’s on my, um, laptop.
Do you think you could use it with your right hand?
Yeah.
And as I left I said “well, you are doing great, I’ll see you tomorrow. Is that ok?”
He replied “Yes, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Laptop from allison moore on Vimeo.
