The over all theme, while
obvious, can get lost in the details of each day spent trying to live. You
might say I had a team overseeing my care, but when it came to the ventilator
in my lungs and how to proceed, there seemed to be three refs with different
plays in mind. The only agreement was that the fluid in my lunges had to come
out! With this detail so prevalent in my day to day, such as whenever I rolled
to one side or the other or even was laid back in a straight position, I felt
fluid move and often had to cough it up. A few times it came down to a critical
point wherein I had to have something called a bronchoscopy. Fun fun. It was
most affectionately referred to as a "Bronc", by some. I did not
necessarily look forward to this "procedure" as it involved going
directly into my lungs via my trache with the suction device and a tiny camera.
Of course the good news for me was that I was put under and I quite look
forward to the countdown to temporary oblivion and then waking up a couple
hours later with no memory of the procedure and just a nice mellow glow in my
head.
It was not really in the
grand plan to have to wean me off the ventilator. It was doing a fine job but I
certainly didn't want to be tethered to a breathing machine. The pulmonary team
I had did their best but each of the three had their own specific way of doing
the weaning. It was very uncomfortable for me to have my orders changed each
time one of them was on duty. This became more and more difficult and it seemed
like I had many days of struggling. In truth I don't know how long it went on
before I finally made the firm demand that I liked one Doctor's method and it
was my decision as the patient to stick with that one method. How I was able to
make demands will be described later… But there is a very pivotal moment
between my brother and I during all of this. He had come into the hospital
feeling very frustrated and wanting to be angry at me for resisting, as he
thought, getting off the vent. At the time he arrived it just so happened that
my breathing had become very labored and I had asked for a respiratory
therapist but it had been nearly 45 min. that I lay there on my side very
scared because I could not breathe. As my brother rounded the corner to my room
I began to cry, seeing him. I knew finally I might be able to get some help.
When he saw my tears, of course his grand plan to inspire me with anger, just
melted away. I told him what had happened and his anger turned toward the staff
so off he went looking for quick help. I don't recall how long it took but I
know he stayed with me and realized that I was actually suffering. But there
was no mistake I wanted to breathe on my own eventually. It was not an easy
process.
