The Time We Have Been Given

I sat on the bench in the hospital hall, trying to wrap my head around the last fifteen minutes? ten? thirty? I was unsure how long had passed, and it really did not matter. Or did it? It did, I suddenly remembered. Neil has had multiple strokes, has a nearly complete basal artery blockage, the brain cannot go without oxygen but for a couple of minutes. The next few minutes felt far too long, then suddenly a motherly looking nurse was coming down the hallway towards me. I remember the rush of “either he’s gone, or I can go to him” and the stress of “but which is it” in those few seconds. It turned out to be neither. “Come with me, I am going to put you in a waiting area so you can have some privacy” and she reached out a hand to help me up. I have no idea what was on my face at that point. Abuse had taught me to never belay emotion, no matter what is happening to you in the moment. It had also had a hand in my pragmatism. Things can only happen for so long, and they will either stop, or I will. In the meantime, don’t give the person hurting you the satisfaction of knowing they are. I came face to face with the fact that I still have a lot of healing to do in that ER. I’ve never grieved the aforementioned losses, there hasn’t been time or space to do so, and my fall back is “Ok, what needs doing/done, lets get it done.” Practical things.

She brought me to a small room with a shelf and a desk, and gestured for me to sit, so I did. “The good news is we were ready for him. The paramedics called and told us what was coming, they intubated him on the way(at least, I’m pretty sure she told me that), as soon as he coded there was a doctor on his chest and 14 people in the room, they’re still fighting for him! Respiratory, cardiology, everyone is in there. If he can be saved, we’ll do it!” I remember thinking, and I’m pretty sure asking, “he isn’t back yet?” It had been, or seemed like it had been, at least 15 minutes since I had made it into the ER and heard the code called. I honestly don’t remember what she answered. She asked if she could get me anything, a soda? some water?

Some water would be nice, I replied. My mind was wondering how I was going to tell our children he was gone, tell his mother, his sisters, his lifelong best friend. How I was going to live without him. How the hell this had happened. It had been a normal day of exhaustion and trying to get as much done on my ‘day off’ as humanly possible. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He’s my rock, I am his, we need each other. As our oldest described us – you’re like the same person in two bodies, its so weird. That was only one year in, when that statement was made. I had not ever dared to believe this kind of oneness was real, let alone it would happen to me. How do you live when the other piece of you that you’d always hoped to find, was found, then lost?

The nurse came back with the water. Said she had good news, they had just said they had him stabilized, that the doctor would be out to speak with me soon. I hope I thanked her. My brain was not keeping up. She said she needed to go, but would be back, and left. I began texting our children, the ones still in the area first, and working my way out. Our 2nd youngest on the east coast…oldest was in boot camp. How do I tell him when I don’t even know where he is? A registrar wheeled a computer in, said I needed to fill out the forms with her for registration, so we began. Partway through, a doctor walked in, and she said she’d be back shortly.

“He went into cardiac arrest in our hallway, but we were on him, and he is back” he said – at least, I recall that much. “He had a heart attack?” I replied, and at that point got my first bit of education. “No, they are not the same thing. He may well have had a heart attack also, but he went into cardiac arrest in my hallway – his heart stopped. CPR was started immediately. We got him back in 3 minutes, so there should not be brain injury, or very little. He is intubated, we’ve run labs, his ____ is very high, he has been given Propofol to knock him out so he can rest. You’ll be able to go to him shortly.” I know there was more, that is all I retained.

The lady came back and we finished the registration. The nurse came back, and said I could follow her, but be ready – he is not conscious, he has multiple IV’s, he is intubated, and so on. The things that stood out to me most once I was beside him were the IV’s…they were, it appeared, wherever someone had been able to reach to stick him. Other than that, the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, normally. When I called 911, his whole torso was heaving in the attempt to get air and it is a sight I hoped to never see again. His abdomen rolled like waves. I have no other way to describe it. Now, he was resting, peaceful, apart from all of the machines, tubes, cords, & monitors attached to him. His nurse explained what the various things were, and why he needed them, I think in an attempt to calm me. I felt calm on the outside, scientifically interested in the whats and whys, unable to process the weight internally yet. She told me they were working on a transfer as this hospital is for emergencies, but is not set up to treat patients like him. He would go to ____ or ____ most likely, which ever has a bed available. I stated his neurologist and neurosurgeons wishes, she said something like that doesn’t matter right now, we are treating his heart, and I felt confused -his brain was involved in this too, might have started it all. Hindsight being what it is, I began recalling moments that things outwardly looked ok, but didn’t feel right. Had he had another pontine stroke, but the big one this time that had been described to us as would/could happen one day? I went back to texting family. Three of my boys were responding, worried about their stepdad.

Long story shorter, around 3am more paramedics arrived, and informed me we were transferring to Heart Hospital of Austin. I was thankful over the next hour or so for their professionalism but also their willingness to explain to me what they were doing, why. Noting his ribs were broken, and taking measures to move him in ways so as to cause the least pain as possible. For informing me less than 20% of cardiac arrests are revived successfully. So few? Yes, so few. One mumbled “more like 3-5% are revived.” That floored me. More education on what we were beginning to walk. And for waiting for me to get our truck and follow them. I think we made it to the first transfer hospital about 5am.