DAY 14: Kid Gloves
Mom has recovered nicely since Friday, and I'm in a much better mood.
They drained the abscess in her abdomen, put another drain in her gall bladder, increased her oxygen to 60% and the PEEP on her ventilator to 15. They also put you on new antibiotics, for a total of five at the moment.
Her white blood cell count dropped, a good sign. They were able to reduce her oxygen level to 50% and her PEEP to 10 with her holding steady at a 92-100 SCO2 level. That's where they want the SCO2, so that's good. The goal is to get her down to 40% oxygen and a PEEP of 5.
This morning, they had to bump her oxygen back up to 60% because of blood lab results. There's no emergency, though, like there was a few days ago. Thank goodness for that.
When I stayed at the house the other day, I noticed that the downstairs bathroom used by Karen was filthy. The toilet looked like a public restroom in Juarez. I cleaned it, but made a note to talk with her. Then she came home late, after Emily had been worried. The next day, when I was down at the hospital, Colleen showed up and the first thing she said was, "Karen dropped off the face of the Earth."
"I thought she was working today," I said.
"Yeah, she worked but then she just disappeared. Nobody knows where she went."
I called Emily. She said she'd found Karen. She'd been at the public library in Estes, researching a paper for school. I asked her to put Karen on the phone.
I could tell by Karen's voice that she expected me to lecture her, maybe even yell at her. I didn't. I began our conversation by updating her on Mom's latest, which was grim at that time. I told her that she needed to appreciate the severity of Mom's situation, and she said that she did.
"Good, then do me a favor. Give an extra 10% effort to the family. Team Kelly needs you now. Keep the bathroom clean. Feed the boys. Look for things to do. Don't drop off the radar screen. Get home by 11:00 every night. OK? I know you weren't doing anything wrong. You were getting your homework done. That's fine, nobody's angry. Just from now on, think carefully about how you can avoid creating anything more for us to worry about. I don't want to hear from anybody that you dropped off the face of the Earth. I don't want to wonder when you're going to be home. OK?"
She said OK and we talked a bit longer. Everything's been fine since.
Dr. Fujita, the infectious disease physician, just stopped by. He said that Mom's stable, but there's still a lot to watch. I like him. He's gentle in his manner and his voice. I also like that he's Japanese and he likes that I speak Japanese. He was born in Niigata, but moved to the states when he was 8, so he doesn't remember much Japanese. I surprised him when I called him "Fujita Sensei," which means Doctor Fujita. That kicked off a nice conversation and rappor between us.
In general, I've used honey more than vinegar around here. It seems often that Emily's on edge, ready to attack somebody who appears to be slacking in their duties. I know what she's feeling -- I feel it, too -- but talking with the staff and creating a relationship works a million times better than complaining and getting angry.
Last night, for instance, a nurse named told everybody at about 8:00 that we'd have to leave. "Visiting hours finish at 8:00," she said. That's the first time anybody has ever told me that, and I usually stay until 11:30 p.m. Emily started to say something, but I caught her eye and shook my head a little to signal that she should just let it go. We all stood quietly while the nurse went on about the importance of leaving patients alone and taking care of ourselves, stuff we'd heard before but frankly don't give a damn about. We know we want to be with Mom, we know how to take care of ourselves, we know we're not disturbing anybody, so go to hell.
But one doesn't say that.
After she left, I told everybody that it wouldn't matter. Just keep visiting and it will be fine. It was.
Kevin and I stayed until about 11:00. We spoke with the nurse, learned she's from Boulder, found out about her new house, her dog, her hobbies. We told her about us. We built a relationship, and by the time we walked out of here, she said goodnight in a friendly way.
I had a similar experience with a respiratory therapist who seemed to just be doing his job and not caring when he cleaned Mom's tube and made her gag. They all have to do that, but some say, "Hon, I have to do this. I know it's uncomfortable," and then do the procedure. I like that. It adds some compassion to the equation. This guy just shoved the tube down Mom's throat and stood silently while she gagged, barely noticing. I fumed the first time I saw it.
Later, I spoke with him at length and learned that his wife passed away a year ago in the same week that her mother passed away, how hard it was on his family, how he and his kids drew closer together, and why he believes the Religious Science church is the right way to go. Now, when he comes into Mom's room, he's smiling and friendly.
One of the best phone calls we had came last night. Friends in Japan often call the ICU at night. The nurses know and don't mind, thanks to the relationship-building campaign I've got going. One in particular, LouAnne, is very friendly. I must look like her son or something, because she takes extra special care of me. I like her, too. She's a cute, plump, always pleasant busybody type that knows every detail of this place and can make things happen. She's a good ally.
Anyway, last night, a group of my students from Japan called. They'd assembled to fold one thousand paper cranes for Mom's room. They took turns speaking to me, and both two of them spoke with Emily as well. My friend, Tatsuya, even wanted to speak with Mom, so I put the phone to her ear and he said "ganbatte kudasai," which means do your best or good luck. Then, back on the phone with me, he worried that she wouldn't have understood because it was in Japanese. He asked me what to say in English, so I told him "get well soon," which he then said to Mom when I held the receiver to her ear a second time. At the end, all of the students said loudly and together, "Ganbatte kudasai!" and Emily, Kevin, Chris, and I all heard it together. It was a nice moment. Just think, people around the world are pulling for Mom!
They drained the abscess in her abdomen, put another drain in her gall bladder, increased her oxygen to 60% and the PEEP on her ventilator to 15. They also put you on new antibiotics, for a total of five at the moment.
Her white blood cell count dropped, a good sign. They were able to reduce her oxygen level to 50% and her PEEP to 10 with her holding steady at a 92-100 SCO2 level. That's where they want the SCO2, so that's good. The goal is to get her down to 40% oxygen and a PEEP of 5.
This morning, they had to bump her oxygen back up to 60% because of blood lab results. There's no emergency, though, like there was a few days ago. Thank goodness for that.
When I stayed at the house the other day, I noticed that the downstairs bathroom used by Karen was filthy. The toilet looked like a public restroom in Juarez. I cleaned it, but made a note to talk with her. Then she came home late, after Emily had been worried. The next day, when I was down at the hospital, Colleen showed up and the first thing she said was, "Karen dropped off the face of the Earth."
"I thought she was working today," I said.
"Yeah, she worked but then she just disappeared. Nobody knows where she went."
I called Emily. She said she'd found Karen. She'd been at the public library in Estes, researching a paper for school. I asked her to put Karen on the phone.
I could tell by Karen's voice that she expected me to lecture her, maybe even yell at her. I didn't. I began our conversation by updating her on Mom's latest, which was grim at that time. I told her that she needed to appreciate the severity of Mom's situation, and she said that she did.
"Good, then do me a favor. Give an extra 10% effort to the family. Team Kelly needs you now. Keep the bathroom clean. Feed the boys. Look for things to do. Don't drop off the radar screen. Get home by 11:00 every night. OK? I know you weren't doing anything wrong. You were getting your homework done. That's fine, nobody's angry. Just from now on, think carefully about how you can avoid creating anything more for us to worry about. I don't want to hear from anybody that you dropped off the face of the Earth. I don't want to wonder when you're going to be home. OK?"
She said OK and we talked a bit longer. Everything's been fine since.
Dr. Fujita, the infectious disease physician, just stopped by. He said that Mom's stable, but there's still a lot to watch. I like him. He's gentle in his manner and his voice. I also like that he's Japanese and he likes that I speak Japanese. He was born in Niigata, but moved to the states when he was 8, so he doesn't remember much Japanese. I surprised him when I called him "Fujita Sensei," which means Doctor Fujita. That kicked off a nice conversation and rappor between us.
In general, I've used honey more than vinegar around here. It seems often that Emily's on edge, ready to attack somebody who appears to be slacking in their duties. I know what she's feeling -- I feel it, too -- but talking with the staff and creating a relationship works a million times better than complaining and getting angry.
Last night, for instance, a nurse named told everybody at about 8:00 that we'd have to leave. "Visiting hours finish at 8:00," she said. That's the first time anybody has ever told me that, and I usually stay until 11:30 p.m. Emily started to say something, but I caught her eye and shook my head a little to signal that she should just let it go. We all stood quietly while the nurse went on about the importance of leaving patients alone and taking care of ourselves, stuff we'd heard before but frankly don't give a damn about. We know we want to be with Mom, we know how to take care of ourselves, we know we're not disturbing anybody, so go to hell.
But one doesn't say that.
After she left, I told everybody that it wouldn't matter. Just keep visiting and it will be fine. It was.
Kevin and I stayed until about 11:00. We spoke with the nurse, learned she's from Boulder, found out about her new house, her dog, her hobbies. We told her about us. We built a relationship, and by the time we walked out of here, she said goodnight in a friendly way.
I had a similar experience with a respiratory therapist who seemed to just be doing his job and not caring when he cleaned Mom's tube and made her gag. They all have to do that, but some say, "Hon, I have to do this. I know it's uncomfortable," and then do the procedure. I like that. It adds some compassion to the equation. This guy just shoved the tube down Mom's throat and stood silently while she gagged, barely noticing. I fumed the first time I saw it.
Later, I spoke with him at length and learned that his wife passed away a year ago in the same week that her mother passed away, how hard it was on his family, how he and his kids drew closer together, and why he believes the Religious Science church is the right way to go. Now, when he comes into Mom's room, he's smiling and friendly.
One of the best phone calls we had came last night. Friends in Japan often call the ICU at night. The nurses know and don't mind, thanks to the relationship-building campaign I've got going. One in particular, LouAnne, is very friendly. I must look like her son or something, because she takes extra special care of me. I like her, too. She's a cute, plump, always pleasant busybody type that knows every detail of this place and can make things happen. She's a good ally.
Anyway, last night, a group of my students from Japan called. They'd assembled to fold one thousand paper cranes for Mom's room. They took turns speaking to me, and both two of them spoke with Emily as well. My friend, Tatsuya, even wanted to speak with Mom, so I put the phone to her ear and he said "ganbatte kudasai," which means do your best or good luck. Then, back on the phone with me, he worried that she wouldn't have understood because it was in Japanese. He asked me what to say in English, so I told him "get well soon," which he then said to Mom when I held the receiver to her ear a second time. At the end, all of the students said loudly and together, "Ganbatte kudasai!" and Emily, Kevin, Chris, and I all heard it together. It was a nice moment. Just think, people around the world are pulling for Mom!
Posted by Jason Kelly | 11:29 AM
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