January 16, 2008

The surgeon strides into the room. I am pleased to see that he looks kind. Not that kindness should matter at this time, but he has handled my son and I want my son to be handled with kindness. The surgeon speaks in medical terms that sink in with leaden heaviness: hematoma, bone flap, intra-cranial pressure, coma.  This surgeon has operated on my son and knows intimately his cranial fissures, his possible damage and the potential that my son as I know him will not return.

I am slow to understand the severity of my son’s injury.  My mind protects me from reality, the result being slow processing and incomprehension. Riding a bike without a helmet, BoyChild was hit by a mini-van and thrown 60 feet.  He landed on his head. 

This injury is life-threatening. My BoyChild will be in an induced coma for up to a week to help his brain heal and to prevent the swelling in his brain from killing him. A piece of his skull (oh fuck!! his skull??) has been removed so that there will be room for the brain to swell without further endangering his life.  We will be allowed to see BoyChild once he is settled into the ICU. We must wait until then, here in this cold room provided for our privacy.  We shake with fear and with cold.  (How can I not believe in God now? Is this where I come to Jesus? Oh please, please not now, don’t make me think about this now. But what if, what if, what if my giving in means he lives?)

My knees buckle under me as I move to sit next to my daughter.

The surgeon cites briefly research that indicates people in comas can hear what is going on around them despite their unconsciousness. He tells us that, once in the ICU, we can talk to BoyChild in low voices even though he is unconscious.  He then warns us to not make loud voices or play music, and, especially, not to shake BoyChild.  He makes eye contact with each one of us as he speaks in his own low voice. 

After he leaves, I turn to my daughter, does he really think we are going to go in there and shake him?  We dissolve into laughter tinged with hysteria.  We pantomime shaking him and raise our voices, Hey, BoyChild, are you sleeping? We laugh without humor and sink back into quietness. I am anxious, scared and eager to see my son. I need to see him with my own eyes, I need to know how he looks, I need to hold him, to scoop him up into my arms and tell him it will be okay. But, wait, I cannot move him. (How can I not grab him, pull him into my body and hold him there? How can I not react to his distress without offering all that I have, which at this moment is only me?)  Only my voice will carry across to him in this unconscious state that I am having trouble understanding.

BoyChild looks…normal.  Horrible.  Not as bad as I imagined.  Worse than I feared. I scan his body looking for the damage but see none other than the bandages on his head. None? How can that be? Maybe this is not as bad as I feared. (Okay, maybe I can breathe.)  Maybe I have just been Worry Mom. But, as I get closer to the bed, the noises and machines, the IV lines and tubes and hoses and bandages suddenly converge into and onto and around my son who is lying lifeless.  He is so completely covered with medical things that there is barely any of him that I can touch.  It is hard to stand still, hard because standing still lets my mind begin to absorb the horribleness of it all.  (Oh please let me wake up now. Let the alarm go off and let me grumble about getting up. Let me out of here. WAKE UPPPPP)

We each find a place to be near him, his sister, his dad, my partner and me. BoyChild’s head is covered on the top and left side by a huge bandage. His hair, which he wears long and wavy, has been shaved only on the left side so his curls spring out on the right side. Standing on his left side, I see there is blood crusted on his ear and I want desperately to wipe it away. (If I can wipe away the blood it will mean his injury is not so severe. He will live. He will be okay.)  He has been intubated and so there is a blue ‘balloon’ hanging taped below his mouth. He has tubes running out from under the head bandage, he has tubes from his mouth and his mouth is bandaged around his nose and mouth to hold the breathing tubes in place and to remove his stomach fluids. 

His skin is cold to the touch and it is this perhaps more than anything else that un-nerves me. He feels dead. (oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck) And, although he is not dead, there is a machine breathing for him and there is no way to know at this time how much brain damage he has suffered. I move to find his hand under the blanket (I will hold you, I will carry you); tears engulf me as I find that a restraint is around his wrist.

BoyChild, we’re here, we’re here. We announce our arrival in low tones. We tell him who is in the room and that we are looking out for him. We are each touching the small parts of him that seem accessible.  We walk around the bed as though he is a painting that we want to survey from different vantage points. It looks like his nose is broken. Yeah, it does. No, wait, I think it’s from where the tape is pulling it.  We discuss in solemn tones this possibility of a broken nose and we then move on to the remarkableness of his lack of other injuries.  

The nurse enters his ICU room and begins to tell us in a gentle voice the procedure of an induced-coma. (Don't use that word! People do not always awaken from comas!) She describes how the medication regimen acts to paralyze BoyChild. The lack of movement is helpful so that his entire being can be focused on helping his brain not only to heal but also to prevent as much swelling as possible. His stillness will help him to heal because all of his body’s resources will be re-directed to his brain.  (All of me will be directed to you. All of me. I am here.)

to be continued