DAY 3: Jason's Arrival
I arrived today at 12:30 p.m. at Denver Airport, and Emily's boyfriend Chris picked me up. He was extra friendly, explaining the latest news to me and keeping his voice low with the gravity of the situation. I could tell that he wasn't sure what to expect from me, and was playing it safe until he knew how I'd react. He was more worried about Emily than Mom, which I understood well because I sensed from the first phone call that Emily was a wreck.
We came to St. Anthony hospital and walked quickly to the second floor, Trauma Surgical Intensive Care Unit. I hugged Emily, Kevin, Karen, and Kevin's girlfriend Jody in the waiting room, and then went immediately in to see Mom.
What a numbing discovery. She was so bloated and just dropped on the mattress as if from a hundred feet high. She looked swollen, but flat against the sheet at the same time. Part of the effect, I realized later, was that her face was so wide from the ocean of water inside her that it made her look splatted down, the remains of a giant swatted fly.
Her eyes were dark purple and swollen shut. Her nose and upper lip were taped down tight to hold the tubes in her throat, and their presence pushed her lower lip out. That coupled with its swollen size gave her an awful appearance, the worst combination of cleft lip and dental Novocaine droop-lip I'd ever seen. Emily and Kevin kept saying that she looked so much better than the day before. Hard to believe, I thought. That must have been an act of demon possession, and to see their faces as they told me was enough to confirm that it had been.
Her whole body was taut and yellow. I pressed in several places and the skin barely dented before ballooning right back into place. I stroked her head with my right hand. I could tell by the texture of her hair that it hadn't been washed, and I could smell her on my hand long after I'd left the room. Back in the waiting room, I raised my right hand to my nose to smell her and appreciate that she was still alive.
I think the family didn't understand my lightness. What they couldn't see was my side of the experience. From Japan, I had heard Emily's barely coherent explanation of what had happened. I heard a tremble in Kevin's voice. I heard a 40% chance of living. Something about being told to gather the whole family and meet the chaplain. Not the doctor. The chaplain. I thought I'd be flying to a funeral.
Instead, I flew to my mother. No matter how hellish she looked, she was alive and with a markedly better chance of staying that way. It was major progress from just 48 hours prior, and the reason I was elated.
We came to St. Anthony hospital and walked quickly to the second floor, Trauma Surgical Intensive Care Unit. I hugged Emily, Kevin, Karen, and Kevin's girlfriend Jody in the waiting room, and then went immediately in to see Mom.
What a numbing discovery. She was so bloated and just dropped on the mattress as if from a hundred feet high. She looked swollen, but flat against the sheet at the same time. Part of the effect, I realized later, was that her face was so wide from the ocean of water inside her that it made her look splatted down, the remains of a giant swatted fly.
Her eyes were dark purple and swollen shut. Her nose and upper lip were taped down tight to hold the tubes in her throat, and their presence pushed her lower lip out. That coupled with its swollen size gave her an awful appearance, the worst combination of cleft lip and dental Novocaine droop-lip I'd ever seen. Emily and Kevin kept saying that she looked so much better than the day before. Hard to believe, I thought. That must have been an act of demon possession, and to see their faces as they told me was enough to confirm that it had been.
Her whole body was taut and yellow. I pressed in several places and the skin barely dented before ballooning right back into place. I stroked her head with my right hand. I could tell by the texture of her hair that it hadn't been washed, and I could smell her on my hand long after I'd left the room. Back in the waiting room, I raised my right hand to my nose to smell her and appreciate that she was still alive.
I think the family didn't understand my lightness. What they couldn't see was my side of the experience. From Japan, I had heard Emily's barely coherent explanation of what had happened. I heard a tremble in Kevin's voice. I heard a 40% chance of living. Something about being told to gather the whole family and meet the chaplain. Not the doctor. The chaplain. I thought I'd be flying to a funeral.
Instead, I flew to my mother. No matter how hellish she looked, she was alive and with a markedly better chance of staying that way. It was major progress from just 48 hours prior, and the reason I was elated.
Posted by Jason Kelly | 10:30 PM
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