Momnesia

Me: "Hey, Terri and I are taking the kids to Kackleberry Farm on Saturday. You wanna go with?"
A.C.: "What's Kackleberry Farms?"
Me: "It's like a giant corn maze and a petting zoo and... uh... stuff... Farmer stuff."
A.C.: "No, thanks. We're going to be in North Carolina for Jim's race."
Me: "Too bad. You'll miss all the kackleberries."
A.C.: "Uh, yeah."
Me: "Kackleberry pie... kackleberry jam... kackleberry lemonade..."
A.C.: "Gross!"
Me: "Jealous."

In theory, kackleberry is "an old Southern word for eggs." I've never heard that in my life, and I was born in Georgia and have lived in Georgia for 35 years. All of my family was born in the South and raised in the South. None of them have ever heard it. I think "kackleberry" is a new Southern word that takes advantage of the "quirky old South" oeuvre of marketing. Whatever. It's still a fun word to say. Try it. Kackleberry. See?

Me: "Honey, we have to get you dressed for school."
Emerson: "But I jus wanna pway my dang stupid doggie game on the peeyooter!"

I guess I should be thankful that it's not dang stupid "High School Musical."

From the Oct. 26, 2006 edition of The Metro Spirit
by Stacey Hudson

AUGUSTA, GA. - At midnight in a cemetery in the middle of Nowhere, S.C., the woods are pockmarked with tombstones. It’s so dark I can see galaxies whirling overhead. I trip over graves. A vision of mummified hands reaching out of the ground overwhelms me. Perhaps they shouldn’t have sent the only reporter with a zombie evacuation plan, although, to be honest, the plan involves mostly running and shrieking.

Yet my guide is calm.

“We’re here to debunk this,” declares Ginger Yarbrough, organizer of Georgia Ghost Hunters. “We rule out all the man-made and natural explanations first before we try to say there’s spirits.”

Ginger and seven other members have brought me to a 200-year-old Huguenot graveyard an hour from Augusta, down a one-lane dirt path through a thick forest where trees bend like frightful fingers reaching for prey.

This group doesn’t look for the paranormal. They look for the normal. If lights in a home flicker, they blame the tree branch or a power line. They check for vermin, leaky pipes, gaps in insulation and other earthly explanations for unearthly sensations.

In the graveyard, the ghost hunters set up candles to provide a little light plus video cameras and voice recorders to document the hunt. They calibrate EMF meters to detect the presence of electromagnetic fields, infrared thermometers to spot temperature differentials and tri-field meters to detect magnetic fields, electrical fields and microwave emissions. When man-made and natural causes have been eliminated, Ginger says, it is generally believed that ghosts generate these fields and temperature changes.

“The most common energy form that a ghost uses is simple heat,” Ginger says. “A ghost will absorb heat to help it manifest, which is why people feel cold when a ghost passes them.”

These are true believers. Ginger is completing a certification from the Stratford Career Institute in parapsychology and astrology. She and her mother have seen enough unusual phenomena in their lives to scare legions of schoolchildren. They’ve been hunting ghosts for three years, in public and for private homeowners.

“But we keep all private investigations discrete — their name is kept under lock and key, so to speak. We are completely non-profit and do not charge fees for our service as we are trying to collect all the data we can,” she says.

They hunt to find legitimate hauntings, in small part to convert the unfaithful. She’s looking for the real deal, because she believes she’s experienced it. “I want the evidence to put it up on the table and say, ‘Look. You cannot disprove this.’”

Leon Wilkes, a group member who is in the military, tells a story about a house in Iraq that spooked his entire troop of hardened soldiers. Almost everyone in the group has a story about a supernatural experience. I’m just not so sure. I’d like to believe it’s possible to communicate with the souls of departed loved ones — hi, Grandma! — but I’ve never encountered anything of the kind.

“The paranormal is a touchy subject and most people are afraid to do anything about it because they think they may be humiliated,” Ginger said later.

That doesn’t stop me from nearly wetting myself when the EMF meter in my hand goes off. Everyone in the group turns to stare at me as I freeze. I put the sensor out again and it lights up. I prepare to activate my zombie evacuation plan.

“Is there anyone here who would like to communicate with us?” Ginger asks the forest while I fight the urge to run and shriek. After a disappointing silence and several tests, we determine I had moved the sensor too rapidly, which gave a false positive.

“That’s why it’s important to look at it from a scientific perspective,” Ginger says. “You have to debunk it first.”

Leon, in a fearless — and, I think, foolish — stab at making this trip worthwhile, begins to taunt the spirits of the dead who lay in these woods.

“I think you’re too chicken to come out,” he calls. “I don’t believe you even exist.”

He walks out of the walled burial ground, continuing his tirade, and Ginger and Lisa Barret stay where he began. Ginger thinks she heard a noise nearby, like change rattling in a pocket. Inexplicably, a vine slaps Lisa in the face, and Ginger’s camera picks up red and white streaks in the forest, something she calls a vortex, a strand of light. She thinks it’s a portal through which ghosts travel, though other ghost hunters say it could be individual spirits moving or an “orb.”

My camera captures a picture of what the group says is a flaming orb, the best they’ve ever seen. It’s a round spot in the darkness, visible only on my digital camera. Some people say it’s energy. Some say it’s a small ghost.

Just then, Leon calls that a shadowy figure peeked at him from among the trees.

“He wants to come out and play, now,” Leon says. I really hope not.

Immune to my protests, the group enthusiastically agrees to go down to the nearby lake. As we descend the hill, the temperature plunges from a chilly 52 to near freezing. I’m shivering in a T-shirt and sweater, more immediately frightened of chiggers and poison ivy than spectral beings, and I see unmistakable beaver activity. We crunch down the hillside toward it, every footstep a beacon for beavers and bears and who knows what all else. Are there bear zombies? Oh, god. I bet there are.

It’s, rather appropriately, a dead lake — a lake that held water in the past but is now merely an overgrown basin, choked with weeds, scrub and fallen trees. Leon continues to harangue those who previously rested in peace as he and Ginger start across the edge of the basin. I see lights twinkling just above the grass near the middle. Right. I’ll just wait here.

Time creeps as I watch my breath rise as a mist in front of me. It’s something Ginger pointed out that they try to avoid when photographing phenomena. Even the clothes of someone who has just smoked a cigarette may contaminate visual evidence.

Then someone in the lake yelps.

“That [expletive] just growled at me,” Leon calls as the trio tromps back through the overgrowth. Leon is shivering violently in his autumn jacket.

“Feel him!” Ginger says. “He’s ice cold!”

He is. While Ginger, clad only in a T-shirt and jeans, is still warm to the touch, Leon feels frozen. They claim to have heard a growl just before the temperature around Leon dropped aggressively.

I look out over the rustling grasses. The lights I had seen are gone. Running and shrieking are high on my priority list right now.

Although none of the equipment registered abnormal readings, the members are convinced of a spiritual presence, in this case, an “intelligent haunting.”

It’s one of the different types of ghosts and hauntings that the Georgia Ghost Hunters categorize.

“No one knows for sure why they are here with us,” Ginger said. “And there is no reason to be afraid of them because usually they have the same emotions and personalities they had when they were alive. They are around us all the time.”

In that case, I have to revise my zombie evacuation plan.

Augusta, GA. -

A.W.: "Hey, Babes in Toyland is playing in Columbia. Do you want to go?"
Me: "Heck, yeah!"
A.W.: "They were about my favorite band back in the day."
Me: "Yeah? Did you listen to 7 Year Bitch, too?"
A.W.: "Oh, yeah. All those angry-girl bands that don't exist anymore."
Me: "No, Sarah McLachlan killed that movement."
A.W.: (laughs)
Me: "When are they playing?"
A.W.: "Dec. 21."
Me: "Oh. Nope. I'll be in Orlando."
A.W.: "Oh, god. Have fun with that."
Me: "I will!"

(Later...)

A.W.: "So I e-mailed Frank at Free-Times and asked him, 'Are Babes in Toyland really coming to Columbia?'" And he said, 'If you mean the Christmas cantata, then yes. If you mean the 90s post-punk riot grrl band, then no. But it's a benefit for the firefighters!'"



FYI: The band Katastrophy Wife features Kat Bjelland, formerly of B.I.T.

H.O.: "Hey, J.C., did you watch 'Heroes' last night?"
J.C.: "Yeah."
H.O.: "My brain hurts."
J.C.: "I think they're just writing that crap as they go. It's like 'Who's Line is it Anyway' crossed with 'X-Men. It's like anything can happen. Like someone will get decapitated in one scene, and in the next scene they'll walk in all, 'Who killed my twin?'"

B.O.'s annoying us all with Xmas carols and chanting, "Gift Guide! Gift Guide!" We're all groaning and begging him to turn it off. "It's too early!" K.J. protests. S.S. fires back, "Yeah, aren't we supposed to be listening to 'The Monster Mash' or something?"

AUGUSTA, GA. - So as I explained earlier, I'm playing catch-up. So here's the rest of his hospital visit.

Day 18 - Got better. Walked more. I had exhausted my employer's patience, however, so I had to go back to work. Damn comas and all...

Day 19 - Got better. Walked more. Ate solids foods. I tried to balance sales calls with being at the hospital. It didn't work out so well.

Day 20 - More of the same. They moved him from ICU to Telemetry.

Day 21 - Mr. Hospital Expert doesn't like the new nurses. He calls them "The B Team." They do seem rather less attentive, but then Scott's taken up most of the hospital's attention for three weeks, now. What does he want - a parade?

Day 22 - Okay, look: the way it worked out was that I would stop in and check on him in the mornings before work, then go try to sell advertising, fail miserably, return to check on him during my lunch break, go back to failing to sell advertising, and return to see him RIGHT when visiting hours ended. Then I'd pretend that I didn't know I was supposed to be gone for as long as the nurses would let me get away with it.

I'd bring Emmie with me because she missed him terribly, even though she was a little shy about the experience and treated her father tentatively. The tubes, the machinery, the pale, whispery, wasted form that was previously her boisterous and demonstrative daddy were intimidating. At night, she would turn to me from across the table or while lying in bed reading bedtime stories and with an expression serious beyond her years state simply, "My daddy is berry sick." Her face said it all. She hurt. But she persevered. And were it not for the many aunts, uncles and granparents who stepped in to love and distract her during the time, she and I both might have been broken down by the experience. I'll never again scoff at the "It Takes a Village to Raise a Child" expression as being trite or pithy or reeking of bumpersticker politics.

During that time I relied heavily on his brothers and his parents, who did fantastic jobs in helping to meet his everyday needs. He was a horrible patient - great if you needed a litany of complaints; but not so great if, say, you'd just spent two weeks watching him almost dead in a medically-induced coma and were hoping for a joyous reunion. It was like talking to those two old guy puppets who hung out in the balcony of "The Muppet Show" - except without the funny.

But they released him to come home much sooner than anticipated - a ridiculously early release for someone whose nurse, Jennifer (HI, AWESOMENESS! Sorry to blog your name twice!) told us she didn't think would survive his first 12 hours on the ICU floor. In fact, one of his doctors leaned in at his last plasmapheresis treatment and squinted at him as though he couldn't quite believe that he wasn't the subject of an elaborate and sickening practical joke: "You know," he said. "You're not supposed to be here."

We know. He's also not supposed to be able to walk without a walker for 6 months. He's not supposed to be able to talk for a month. He's not supposed to be back at work.

But "supposed to" - for those of you who have heard him report on subjects like the Georgia Golf Hall of Shame, the Augusta Neighborhood Improvement Corporation, and other not-so-happy subjects - has never been a phrase that defined Scott's life. So while I'm overjoyed at his speedy progress, I am not surprised. You've never met anyone with the kind of determination that drives my husband like a mad dog. He gets something in his teeth and he shakes it 'til it's dead.

That means we generally don't talk about politics in the house. But it also means that there is no one on the planet that you could ask to be a better advocate for the wrongly accused or unjustly treated. When he and his attorney brother put their heads together, just start running. They're about to tear up the joint.

So Scott's getting around with a cane for balance. He was home less than three hours before he voiced his first report for WGAC in our home studio (translation: half of our living room). And he's not planning on going anywhere for a long time. He's quit smoking. Whatever couple of beers he might have tossed back at the end of a long day has been reduced to a single glass of red wine. He's added a multivitamin and an aspirin to his daily regimen. And instead of a pot of coffee every morning, he's sipping on various kinds of hot tea (but without the self-important literary references that usually accompany such beverages; if he starts carrying copies of Thomas Pynchon novels in his back pocket, you have my permission to slap the crap out of him).

There are still remaining issues. The chance of relapse, or of developing larger clots. The general exhaustion that plagues him. He rode around in his grandfather's extra electric wheelchair at Boshear's Skyfest today. He has to use a motorized cart at the grocery store, and shoppers have been known to glare at him as though he's just cruisin' for the fun of it. Trust me: he hates it.

He pushes himself every day towards a full recovery. He does what work Mary Liz allows him, does a little cleaning around the house and cooks dinner. Honestly, that's about all he can give. He takes a nap - and sometimes two - every day. It will be this way for a while. The only thing that will speed the healing process along is the ability to accelerate time. And that's not really speeding things up because it's doubtful that our perception of time would change, based on the fact that time is really a human concoction in the first place, so... what was I saying? Oh, yeah. He needs time. I'm happy he has a need for time at all. What use could he make of time if he were dead?

But he's using his time to further the forces of good. After a combined effort by Augusta State University (Hi, Leeza! Hi, Dr. van Tuyll!(s)!) and Channel 12 to highlight the desperate need for blood donations at Shepeard Community Blood Centers, donations spiked so high that the center had to start scheduling appointments. Linda Peterson, the center's PR rep, has been overjoyed. She told Scott that he had put a face on the ever-present need for blood donation, and asked him to serve as their spokesperson.

And it took more than 100 plasma donations to save his life. Even while he spiraled down towards death, University Hospital began a course of treatment that, after just the first session, stabilized his body in a noticeable way. He was less jaundiced. He coughed up less blood. His lung X-rays showed marked improvement. While he wasn't out of the woods - they mulled dialysis for his kidneys, worried about the length of time he might have a tube down his throat and prepped me for the possibility of a tracheotomy - he responded. I'm talking within three hours, while the doctors and nurses would have never intentionally given me the kind of positive reinforcement I wanted them to, I saw the subtle change in him. It gave me hope and strength. From then on, he had a treatment every day. And every day he showed signs of improvement - although he certainly had his struggles.

But I have to stress that as crucial as the correct treatment obviously is, it was the combined effort of the incredible nursing staff in the PCPU at University Hospital and his family that gave him such a miraculous recovery.

The first couple of days, I don't think the nurses went 15 minutes without having to respond to some alarm telling them that Scott was losing something he needed. Blood oxygen. Heart rate. Blood pressure. Electrolytes. Potassium. Sodium. Platelets. Whole blood. Morphine. Suctioning of his lungs, throat and mouth. Countless drugs and chemicals that they pumped into his system to give his body the help it needed to keep going until the next treatment.

The other element was the effort of all of his family. Scott was rarely alone. Someone was always there to advocate for him. That meant that we could give his nurses two minutes of warning that he was coughing on something his lungs produced before the alarms even sounded. I'm not saying that saved his life, but it contributed. We took turns talking to him, reading the paper to him, massaging his muscles, working his joints, holding his hand, and teasing him about faking it to get attention.

I credit his mother, father, sister, brothers, extended family members, friends, co-workers and some just random-ass members of the community for the extent of his recovery. I think he has been both touched and a little embarrased by the ferocity of protectiveness that people have shown him.

But I've been proud. I've been proud that people who know my husband see in him the kinds of qualities that drew me to accept his proposal after only three months of dating. I've marveled at the community response to his condition, and the way that Augustans always allow themselves to be inspired to give by a story of someone in need. Let's not forget that we sent $1 million to New York City after 9/11. We're a community of people who see tragedy and reach out for a way to help end it.

I've enjoyed the number of meals, snacks and touching communications that people shared with us. I've appreciated the monetary donations to this site. But I've been more proud of the crush of blood and plasma donors who have responded to the calls for help sounded by Shepeard.

Maybe it was Scott. Maybe it was Travis Barker and DJ AM. Maybe it was the timing, or the three together. Maybe it was the simple fact that Linda and the good folks at Shepeard were poking 'round the bottom of the barrel in order to save the lives of the many good people who wind up in one of our - what seven, now? - area hospitals and need blood products just to make it from one day to the next. And people looked around guiltily and said, "I knew I forgot something..."

Whatever drove you to give blood or plasma... thank you.

Thank you.

Thank you.

Love Always,
Stacey

AUGUSTA, GA. - So I've been remiss in updating, I'm told. I didn't realize that so many people hang upon my every word. I'll have to start grammar checking more stringently! Sorry about any misplaced... uh... okay, I never learnt me a whole lot of grammar.

That's not a joke. My mother, who teaches English at the college level in Atlanta, is constantly horrified at my lack of edumacation. I didn't learn what a direct or indirect object was until I started taking Latin in 10th grade. If you don't learn those little items, you can't conjugate crap in that language. Each word in a sentence is conjugated on its own, depending on part of speech, which one of the five declensions are called for, and... some other stuff that I've long since forgotten. Mi nomen est Stacia. Poeta et agricola sum amicae. Except for legal terms, that's about all I remember.

What was my point? Oh, yeah. That me not know grammar. Sorry about any misplaced modifiers or malapropisms that I may have inadvertently inserted. I'll do anything you want to apologize - except diagram a sentence. That's another thing I've never learned how to do.

"But don't you write award-winning, cutting edge journalism for a living?"

Yes. Or, I used to. Somehow I seem to have been moved into another department. Hmm... I don't... HEY!!!

I'll deal with that later. Anyway, I managed to digress before I'd even finished my first paragraph. My point is that I seem to have gone from overwhelmTgeng oversharing of intimate family medical drama to complete seclusion.

Except it was totally an accident. I ran out of texts on my cell phone plan (who knew I could even text 400 times in 30 days? That's only 13 texts a day, but still. Too much. Then, to top it off, our stupid Internet service provider - AT&T, I'm talkin' about you! - went out on us again. Since we signed up for their stupid service this past February, they've more than failed to deliver on their promises of service. Most of the time, I'd communicate faster with two tin cans and a string. In fact, I'm in the process of learning Morse Code so that I can maintain some form of communication in the future, when AT&T has redevoured all of the previous Baby Bells and the citizens of this flat earth suffer a catastrophic global communications meltdown at the hands of their incompetent "technical support" staff. Breaking up, as I see it, is not so hard to do. If only there weren't an early cancellation penalty equivalent to the average cost of one month's bill multiplied by the number of months remaining on the contract.

Where was I again? Oh, yes. Crazy texts. Crazy ISP. Massive bills.

But now the new month has rolled over and the stupid stupid AT&T service miraculously began working again, despite tech support's insistence that it had nothing to do with their service and that I needed a new (something) card in my Mac.

So, as you glean from the rambling incoherence demonstrated above, I have me a lot to say, people - and now I have the stepladder that ascends the soapbox of public humiliation. And, as we said in Ms. Kruek's class at Rockdale County High School: Purgamentum init, exit purgamentum. And also: Revera linguam latinam vix cognovi.

Poor Scott. Someone buy him some therapy.

I had put Emmie down for a nap just minutes before she started whining. It was a keening, high-pitched "eeeeeee... mommeeeeeeyyyyyyy...." that turns my inner ears to jelly. You know when Bruce Banner turns into the incredible Hulk? Wait around at my house for that sound to occur if you want to see it happen right before your eyes.

So when she started that crap today, I did what any experienced parent of a toddler does: I ignored it.

It continued. I hummed songs from "Lazy Town" to cover the irritation.

It got louder. So did I.

And then, the sound that every mother dreads: The shriek of pain and fear. If you don't have children, trust me when I say you'll learn the difference between their cries fast enough.

I speed-walked into her bedroom, still not entirely certain there was anything wrong. She's a skilled mimic, after all, and it's sometimes disturbing to see myself reflected in her behavior.

But there she was, with one arm pinned between her footboard and her bookcase. I quickly freed her - she needed only millimeters - and scooped her into my arms. She scrambled into Trauma Position, prone on my stomach with her arms latched tightly around my shoulders. And she cried. Oh, she cried like there was no tomorrow.

"Honey, I don't understand," I said, when she had devolved into mere snuffles. "What were you trying to do."

She looked at me. "You not coming!" she said, gesturing to the door.

"I'm right here!" I protested, guilt flaring like some hidden coals within me.

"But... but... you not coming froo da door!" she accused me soundly with hurt in her eyes.

"I did come!" I said, squirming internally. I intentionally ignored her. I did. I sat and counted and sang the better to accomplish the intent.

"But... you not running!" she said, and scowled at me. "You need go fasser! You need runrunrunrunrun!"

"I didn't come fast enough for you?" I asked, now fully engulfed in mental flagellation (Calm down, Scott. That's not something sexy).

"NO!" she stated. "Nesstime, you running."

"I'm very sorry, Roodle-Doodle," I said, as she continued to elbow and knee me in the soft parts of my body... which, come to think of it, is every part. "I will go faster next time."

"Iss okay," she said, giving me a gentle smooch on the lips. "Less try again."

Emmie's nap runneth over. We've been trying to get her up but she keeps dozing back off.

"Emmie!" Scott snaps, in his new but temporary sucking-helium voice. "Get up!"

"MMmmmMMMMM!" she whines from her bed, where she is curled up with her eyes closed.

"Emmie, get up or you won't go night-night later!" he tries.

"Wow, that logic is going to totally escape her," I cackle.

"Emmie, I've got candy..." he calls from the kitchen.

My hair rustles as she hurls herself from the bed and whizzes past me.

"I gettin' up!" she announces, arms raised over her head. Ta-daaaa!

AUGUSTA, GA. - 8:07 a.m. - Scott had almost a full day of lucidity, but is now in & out again.

8:09 a.m. - It's especially frustrating 4 me b/c now i've had 2 go back 2 work.

10:06 a.m. - Just ran by hosp on way to office. Scott too drowsy 2 communicate.

10:09 a.m. - Will start weaning trials today to see if he can come off vent.

10:11 a.m. - Nurses prob not looking forward. He keeps yanking out hoses when awake. They have about taped up his whole face 2 keep them in. He looks like The Mummy. I can't be there most of time b/c visiting hours start just before work & end just after.

10:22 a.m. - OH, MAN! Train! Trrraaaaiiiinnn!

10:23 a.m. - Brraaaaaaiiiiins!

10:24 - Who thinks I should ditch my car, do an Indiana Jones roll under the cars, & just walk 2 the office?

10:26 a.m. - Frickin' "Don't Stop Believing" 5 times a day on WBBQ!

1:39 p.m. - ICU just called. Jen, most awesome nurse on planet, said they tried Scott this morning on the something-something trial & it went great. They're going to cut off the sedation and let him try to breathe on his own, through the ventilator tube, for an hour. Then draw a blood gas. If good, they extubate him (yank the tube out of his throat). Putting it in is one of the things that triggered his crash, so... scary. But good.

1:42 p.m. - I know Scott will be happy to move around a bit more. And talk. But he's still not getting his cell phone back. Not for a long time.

3:55 p.m. - Just leaving his room. Started the weaning trial & Scott had a brochial spasm that ended the trial. They'll try it twice a day from now on. Hopefully he'll be off the vent tomorrow.

3:57 p.m. - Jeebus, how can so many people be so confused by how an elevator works?!

AUGUSTA, GA. - 8:46 a.m. - Sorry 4 all the phone calls i ignored last night. Just needed some quiet family time.

9:17 a.m. - The nurses have Scott on a breathing trial to see if he can take being off the vent. They took a blood gas & sent it off 4 testing. Then they'll call thd doc 2 get his recommendation.

9:48 a.m. - He's doing well so far...

10:30 a.m. - Orders 2 extubate! Scott has a shopping list prepared: vanilla shake. Gatorade. Green tea w/ honey.

10:46 a.m. - Tube is out! They said it was a good extubation. Looked TOTALLY DISGUSTING!! Deep coughing. Yucky stuff. Blech. Not sure he feels better w/ all this crap 2 get out. A lot of blood from the night he got sick. Wish I hadn't eaten breakfast earlier...

10:55 a.m. - Feel weak from emotion & nausea. He's okay for now, but back 2 dreaded ox mask.

11:02 a.m. - No talking 4 now. His voice is only a soft, breathy whisper.

11:49 a.m. - Already with the belligerence. He just wrote LET ME DO IT!

Noon - Ooh...he graduated 2 ice chips, & now water. WILL HE GET JELLO?! Tune in 2 find out!!

12:01 p.m. - Kidding. He's @ a hospital. Jello is a given.

12:03 p.m. - But he's so weak. Can't hardly lift his arms to drink his water.

1:31 p.m. - Just got my first smooch in 2 weeks!

1:31 p.m. - Going home 2 relieve my mom of her childcare duties.

3:57 p.m. - Very quickly, Scott has progressed 2 milkshakes. Two of them, in fact: 1 vanilla & 1 chocolate.

3:59 p.m. - He's resting now. He's using muscles that haven't moved in 2 weeks.

4:43 p.m. - Amazing progress! Scott has already gotten out of bed 4 a short walk across his room! Of course, he can't do it w/o help. But what a step forward! See what I just did there? "a step...?" oh, nevermind.

AUGUSTA, GA. - 8:07 a.m. - Scott had almost a full day of lucidity, but is now in & out again.

8:09 a.m. - It's especially frustrating 4 me b/c now i've had 2 go back 2 work.

10:06 a.m. - Just ran by hosp on way to office. Scott too drowsy 2 communicate.

10:09 - Will start weaning trials today to see if he can come off vent. Nurses prob not looking forward. He keeps yanking out hoses when awake. They have about taped up his whole face 2 keep them in. He looks like The Mummy.

10:16 a.m. - I can't be there most of time b/c visiting hours start just before work & end just after.

10:22 a.m. - MAN! Train! Trrraaaaiiiinnns!

10:23 a.m. - Brrraaaaaaaiiiiiinsss!

10:24 a.m. - Who thinks I should ditch my car, do an Indiana Jones roll under the cars, & just walk 2 the office?

10:26 a.m. - Frickin' "Don't Stop Believing" 5 times a day on WBBQ!

1:39 p.m. - ICU just called. Jen, most awesome nurse on planet, said they tried Scott this morning on the something-something trial & it went great. They're going to cut off the sedation and let him try to breathe on his own, through the ventilator tube, for an hour. Then draw a blood gas. If good, they extubate him (yank the tube out of his throat). Putting it in is one of the things that triggered his crash, so... scary. But good.

1:42 p.m. - I know Scott will be happy to move around a bit more. And talk. But he's still not getting his cell phone back. Not for a long time.

3:55 p.m. - Just leaving his room. Started the weaning trial & Scott had a brochial spasm that ended the trial. They'll try it twice a day from now on. Hopefully he'll be off the vent tomorrow.

3:57 p.m. - Jeebus, how can so many people be so confused by how an elevator works?!

4:01 p.m. - I put the Reece's cups in the freezer. I hope that horrible family doesn't eat them all.

4:06 p.m. - Leaving the hospital. Can't take anymore people. Try 2 have fun w/o me. :-P

4:08 p.m. - Just want my Mommy and my Baby for a while. Sorry, First Friday.

4:15 p.m. - Crap. Forgot 2 go 2 the grocery store... since September 10. Off 2 Earth Fare...

AUGUSTA, GA. - 8:46 a.m. - Overheard on Boortz: "It may be the death nail in our coffin." 08:46 AM October 02, 2008 from txt

10:07 a.m. - Great people @ Victory Christian School in North Augusta!

10:14 a.m. - Gah! Train! A mile of empty brown boxcars. Like a stream of poo.

11:37 a.m. - Went to visit Scott at the hospital and he's unconscious again. Damn... The nurses said he was unable to breathe on his own for very long yesterday, and they had to sedate him again. He's back on a morphine drip. This is really stressing me out. I wonder if I can go on a morphine drip, too...?

1:00 p.m. - Wouldn't know what 2 do w/o my family right now...blood relatives, of course, but also those @ Beasley, Metro Spirit, ASU, Hill & First Baptist... Shanhil Sweets, Victory Baptist, art community, MCG, & so many more!

AUGUSTA, GA. - 1:20 p.m. - He's awake. Happy reunion time! Does he remember me? ... YES! Wait. Is that a good thing? He asked me: ''How many others?'' I told him: ''Just you, Mr. Special!'' Oh. He thought it was some kind of outbreak or national emergency. Oh good christ he was looking for a story. INside the OUTbreak w/ Scott Hudson & WGAC!

1:58 p.m. - Have to go back to work. Hate leaving him.

5:30 p.m. - Back to the hospital. Sneaking in during no-visiting hours. Hee!

6:48 p.m. - Ahh! Fire alarms going off @ University Hospital!

6:51 p.m. - Now they're announcing some kind of code over the intercom...

6:55 p.m. - Nurses tell us 2 stay n waiting room. But... what about Scott? He's laying there next to a tube that's spewing 100% FLAMMABLE oxygen! I begin to run in frantic panic circles, unable to leave but unable to not do something.

6:58 p.m. - Aha! I have formulated a plan: carry Scott out on my back. Michael follow close w/ ventilator.

7:20 p.m. - "Only a small fire. Now contained." Are NO small fires where 100% oxygen is concerned.

7:22 p.m. - Fire trucks & police outside. Deputy GrumpyPants seems 2 B in charge.
Passing me, he barks, "Were u the 1 who pulled the fire alarm?" Do I look like a teenager? Not really. That's just all my hotness. Yowzah! 7:27 PM Oct 1st from txt

8:51 p.m. - I miss Scott the most @ night - especially as I enjoy our brand new mattqess w/o him!

8:53 p.m. - Get your minds out of the gutter.

8:55 p.m. - ASU 2 host a blood drive in Scott's honor. Call the professional writing dept. for info.