DAY 35: Kinetic Bed
Mom's fight against pneumonia is a long one. Many people have told me that it's common to get pneumonia when on a respirator for as long as Mom has been. True, but there are two reasons for concern. First, her pneumonia is caused by resistant bacteria (see Day 31 post for more info) and, second, she's been fighting it for a long time with little progress.
On Friday, doctors Rosenberg, Hodgin, and Offner discussed Mom's situation at length in her room while I listened:
They decided that she needed a bed that moves, called a kinetic bed. The model that Dr. Offner wanted is called a RotoProne, which looks like something from a NASA training center. You can see a picture of it here. It turns the patient 360 degrees.
Nobody had been able to find out for sure if the bed was available in Colorado, so I got on the internet, found the number, and called KCI myself. When could we have it? The woman told me that somebody would call me back. Then, she asked, "Where's the best place to reach you, Dr. Kelly?" I told her St. Anthony Central SICU. Later, the company called and asked for Dr. Kelly. The staff got a kick out of that.
Turns out, the RotoProne is not available in Colorado until January. What we got instead was the next best thing:
It turns 45 degrees in either direction to move the fluid around Mom's lungs. It's working fairly well. They were able to get her off the bi-level setting on the respirator and move her oxygen down from 100%.
She's been steady in that situation for the past two days.
I have to confess that it's hard to keep visiting somebody who doesn't change day to day, doesn't speak, never reacts to either good or bad reports. I'm eager for interaction with Mom. I felt a twinge of guilt when, one day last week, I thought it didn't matter if I went to her or not. She'd be the same, she wouldn't know the difference, so why bother? I might as well find a bar somewhere and share a bottle of something with somebody.
I didn't do that, of course, although I gather there would be plenty of takers on that half a bottle of something. Instead, I went to Mom, made sure her swollen left eye had a moist gauze on it, told her how Emily had posted guidelines for doing chores inside the front door of the house in Allenspark, told her how cold it's been, and gave her a quick rundown on the state of the stock market.
I like to put my hand on her forehead and stroke her hair when I talk to her. She's become extra soft, like a newborn or a very old woman, frail to the touch, vulnerable to where I test the surface with my fingertips before placing my whole palm down. She's warm, too. That might be partly in comparison to my being so cold all the time here.
I made it home to Estes to get online at Kind Coffee, where Emily works. The mountains were gorgeous and refreshing under a blanket of snow in air as clear as vodka:
Now, there's a downside to living among such peaks, one that I didn't fully appreciate until living at sea level for years: there's no air. I get out of breath walking up a flight of stairs. I ran a foot race through the snow against my brother, Charlie, the other night and paid a price for the narrow victory. He was laughing to no end while I gasped to stay conscious. I've been here for five weeks, but still haven't adjusted. I may get on a respirator myself one of these days.
The upside is that when I finally return to Japan, I'll be a marathon runner without a day's worth of training. I think I could make it from Tokyo to Kyushu and back again with a bottle of water and a stick of gum. One breath of sea level air is worth about ten breaths of Colorado air.
The Yaffe House remains my home during this ordeal, and it's a good one. The other night, Suzanne, one of the caretakers, took a shot of me working by the fire:
I'm lucky to have this place. It's filled with memories of people who've faced similar worries. There's heaviness in the walls, but happiness in the air. It sometimes feels when I slump onto my bed that the house itself nods gently and says, "I know, I know."
This home has seen hope and despair in equal measure. It's been host to families who were losing a loved one. It's been a warm pocket of comfort to those who didn't know which way the fight would go. It's been the scene of celebrations when a body once strapped to a kinetic bed walked through the front door to say thank you.
One risen day, that will be Mom.
On Friday, doctors Rosenberg, Hodgin, and Offner discussed Mom's situation at length in her room while I listened:
They decided that she needed a bed that moves, called a kinetic bed. The model that Dr. Offner wanted is called a RotoProne, which looks like something from a NASA training center. You can see a picture of it here. It turns the patient 360 degrees.
Nobody had been able to find out for sure if the bed was available in Colorado, so I got on the internet, found the number, and called KCI myself. When could we have it? The woman told me that somebody would call me back. Then, she asked, "Where's the best place to reach you, Dr. Kelly?" I told her St. Anthony Central SICU. Later, the company called and asked for Dr. Kelly. The staff got a kick out of that.
Turns out, the RotoProne is not available in Colorado until January. What we got instead was the next best thing:
It turns 45 degrees in either direction to move the fluid around Mom's lungs. It's working fairly well. They were able to get her off the bi-level setting on the respirator and move her oxygen down from 100%.
She's been steady in that situation for the past two days.
I have to confess that it's hard to keep visiting somebody who doesn't change day to day, doesn't speak, never reacts to either good or bad reports. I'm eager for interaction with Mom. I felt a twinge of guilt when, one day last week, I thought it didn't matter if I went to her or not. She'd be the same, she wouldn't know the difference, so why bother? I might as well find a bar somewhere and share a bottle of something with somebody.
I didn't do that, of course, although I gather there would be plenty of takers on that half a bottle of something. Instead, I went to Mom, made sure her swollen left eye had a moist gauze on it, told her how Emily had posted guidelines for doing chores inside the front door of the house in Allenspark, told her how cold it's been, and gave her a quick rundown on the state of the stock market.
I like to put my hand on her forehead and stroke her hair when I talk to her. She's become extra soft, like a newborn or a very old woman, frail to the touch, vulnerable to where I test the surface with my fingertips before placing my whole palm down. She's warm, too. That might be partly in comparison to my being so cold all the time here.
I made it home to Estes to get online at Kind Coffee, where Emily works. The mountains were gorgeous and refreshing under a blanket of snow in air as clear as vodka:
Now, there's a downside to living among such peaks, one that I didn't fully appreciate until living at sea level for years: there's no air. I get out of breath walking up a flight of stairs. I ran a foot race through the snow against my brother, Charlie, the other night and paid a price for the narrow victory. He was laughing to no end while I gasped to stay conscious. I've been here for five weeks, but still haven't adjusted. I may get on a respirator myself one of these days.
The upside is that when I finally return to Japan, I'll be a marathon runner without a day's worth of training. I think I could make it from Tokyo to Kyushu and back again with a bottle of water and a stick of gum. One breath of sea level air is worth about ten breaths of Colorado air.
The Yaffe House remains my home during this ordeal, and it's a good one. The other night, Suzanne, one of the caretakers, took a shot of me working by the fire:
I'm lucky to have this place. It's filled with memories of people who've faced similar worries. There's heaviness in the walls, but happiness in the air. It sometimes feels when I slump onto my bed that the house itself nods gently and says, "I know, I know."
This home has seen hope and despair in equal measure. It's been host to families who were losing a loved one. It's been a warm pocket of comfort to those who didn't know which way the fight would go. It's been the scene of celebrations when a body once strapped to a kinetic bed walked through the front door to say thank you.
One risen day, that will be Mom.
Posted by Jason Kelly | 1:36 PM
1 Comments:
Hello Jason....I am a friend of Laurie Melena in Idaho and I just read your blog today. What a blessing it was to walk with you through this suffering. I know you are doing the work that Jesus did with those who suffered around Him. May He strengthen you as you minister to your mom. Even though her body is frail, her spirit is alive and well and I know you can connect with her on that level. Her spirit is what makes her who she is and I pray that she will receive all the encouragement and love that you are giving to her. Do not be discouraged. The Bible tells us to be anxious for nothing, but in everything with prayer and thanksgiving, make our needs known to God, and we will receive the peace that passes all understanding. I know it is a minute by minute walk sometimes, but God is for us 24/7. I am praying for you, your family, and your mom to receive all that you need during this hard time. May God richly bless you...Linda Herbert
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