Momnesia

Day 18 Through Day Whatever of Scott's Hospitalization

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