Post 55: Day 92: Turning Point

It’s been a day, or maybe a year. Time is non-existent. If there are markers of day or night, I am completely unaware. What I experience clearly is only from my inner world, a world of reflection and remembrance of things long buried, perhaps never revisited before now: family, friends, loves, disappointments, failures, accomplishments, triumphs. Are these memories of things past, or dreams concocted from wishes and fears? Or both?           

My sweet Canadian dream is followed by a long stretch of pleasing darkness. More of this, please.

            Drawl Lady, John and Kit talk a lot, but would you please speak up? I can’t make out what you’re saying. You all sound like the waah-waah of Snoopy’s voice in the Charlie Brown specials on tv. It can’t be very important conversation. Nonsense.

            Two more itchy toes. The smell of, what is it—Junior Mints? Pine nuts? I used to love Junior Mints. At the movies. With David and Denton.           

I feel moments, brief, and almost immediately shut down, of a violent event involving a deafening noise, garish lights and visual cacophony. A pressing feeling on my chest folds in on itself. Then, the briefest flash of memory, of excruciating pain, but not the actual pain itself, as if to protect me from the actual trauma. What happened? Where is everyone and everything else from before? Do I get to go home? Or are they going to finally let me rest?

Day 93: John: Please Wake Up

 I’m uncomfortable every time this happens. Very real conversations are taking place about Drew’s mortality. It seems disrespectful that talks about ending someone’s life take place in halls and break rooms. I’ve come to understand that I have to catch Drew’s doctors when I can.

            “In the end, of course, you’re driving the bus,” says a frustrated Dr. Creasey. He assumes I’m in charge of the decision. Kit and I haven’t told anyone otherwise.

“From a strictly clinical and probably legal point of view, you could invoke his Advance Directive any time now.” He removes his glasses. I know by now what will come next. He closes his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose. It’s a sign of fatigue. I know the feeling.

 “We were encouraged by Drew’s flurry of brain activity during the first week. It appeared that his brain injury was beginning to repair itself.”

            “And now?” I already know the answer.

            “We’re looking at almost eight days with no measurable activity.”

            “So you’re saying Drew is brain-dead?” This is the first time anyone has said it out loud.

            “Not exactly. Because Drew has had flurries of activity and then quiet periods, we can’t be 100 percent sure. But the longer the quiet period, the less encouraging.”

            I glance though the doorway at Drew, tethered to a myriad of machinery. “But what about now? So his last EEG that showed significant brain activity was eight days ago. He’s had quiet periods longer than this.”

“Yes. In July, several times in August. And twice so far earlier in the month.” Dr. C is pensive, more serious than usual.

Suddenly, a few other questions surface that I realize  I’ve never asked. “Is he in pain? And what about this: when he—if he—comes out of all this. Will he know us?” The thought of Drew permanently incapacitated, trapped in a body that won’t let him connect with his world caused my stomach to seize. Now I remember why Drew was so adamant about his Advance Directive. And why he quietly shifted the medical power of attorney to Kit.

            “I wish I had the answers, John. I really do. What we do know is, in cases like this, patients like Drew have regained consciousness and regained remarkable cognitive and physical function. So yes, he could wake up and know you. Of course, the operative word here is ‘could.’”

            “I know, I know.”  I catch my reflection in the glass partition separating the trauma unit from the hallway. I haven’t shaved in days. I rake my hands through my hair and shake my head. “Dr. C, it’s not time yet. Not that I ever want it to be. It’s just that Drew was so adamant about this scenario: no heroic measures. No machines. And yet.” I gesture through the door to Drew’s machine-filled room. I stare down at my shoes, ashamed to meet Dr C’s sympathetic eyes. “So tell me this. What if this were your wife or brother?”

            Dr. C pauses, then sighs. “Then I’d be faced with a terrible choice.”

            “But what would you do?”

            “I’d wait. For now, I’d wait.”

“I’m driving the bus, right?”

“You are.” Dr. C places what is supposed to be a reassuring hand on my shoulder, then turns and leaves me alone at the doorway to Drew’s room.

I look over at my husband of twenty-six years and sigh. “I hope you are blissfully unaware of all of this. And I wish you’d wake up. Wake up, Drew. Please.” Then sobs come that I cannot banish.