influenza a

A year ago tonight, my husband was hooked to a ventilator to try and save his life.

Just over a year ago, my husband had been home sick for a week, thinking it might be the flu. By the weekend, there was crackling in his chest. I kept asking him to let me take him to the hospital, until finally on a Sunday afternoon, he said ok. Wal was so fatigued and weak that he barely made it down our 5 steps into the car. Our son, 12 years old at the time, hovered behind him, willing to help if needed. By the end of that night, we knew Wal had the flu and pneumonia. They checked him into the hospital and the boy and I went home.

The next afternoon, I drove to the hospital and I found my husband on oxygen but still gasping for breath. A respiratory therapist came in to explain what was happening and that without being intubated, he would die. Being the claustrophobic man he is, he refused to be intubated. After the therapist left, I raced to my husband’s bedside with what I’m sure was a scared, shocked and confused look on my face. We discussed the living wills we had just written 3 months before and I reminded him that he had said then that he would be willing to go on a ventilator if he’d be ok and wouldn’t be on it forever. But after watching my brother and parents die so recently, I had to ask: “Do you want to go?” He said no, but said it was getting so hard to breathe and didn’t know how much longer he could hold out. Thankfully, that’s when the doctor came in and we got the process rolling. He didn’t want me to stay and told me to go to our son because he needed me more right then.

It was so hard to leave him that night. I’ve never seen my husband so scared but also so weak and helpless and *needing* help from a procedure that he was afraid of. The next morning I waited to call the hospital from work to see how his night went. I knew they had to put him in a medically-induced coma while on the ventilator, so I’d have to talk to the nurses and doctors. The nurse I spoke to told me he had an extremely rough night and that “his numbers kept crashing” whenever they moved him. She asked if I was coming in but I hadn’t intended to until the next day. I asked if I should come in. Actually…I’m not sure I asked that. I was so afraid they were going to tell me to come in now because he might not make it…I didn’t even want to know.

Isn’t that horrible? I did NOT want to know the truth if the truth was that my husband was going to die—4 months after my mother, 11 months after my father and 2 1/2 years after my brother. No. I didn’t want to know. I don’t remember all of her exact words, but I do remember hanging up after the conversation, laying my head on my desk and crying. I was sitting in the exact same place when the nurse called from my mother’s bedside to tell me my mom was actively dying.

I couldn’t do this. I could NOT go through this right now. What would happen to our son? After all the damn loss we had been through, how was he going to make it to the other side of this?

But…Wal survived that night. And the next. And the next. He was touch and go for that whole week. I wasn’t allowed to see him after the third day because I had the flu and couldn’t come into the ICU. I called each day instead and talked with doctors and nurses, some days they thought his kidneys would fail and we went through one horrific day when they thought he had brain damage and did scans to find out for sure. Then things started to get better. They started to ease up on the medication so he would start to wake up.

Then he didn’t wake up. And didn’t wake up. And didn’t wake up. The day I was allowed to come back and see him, I held his hand for most of the day and read aloud to him and played music for him and just kissed his face when I could find a spot through the tubes and tape and kissed his hand and rubbed his arms. And cried some more.

My dear friend, Tiffany, came to my house one night to bring dinner and she sat with me. We talked while folding laundry and I had a pair of pants that had a long cord to tie in the front. But one side was stuck and I started to lose it because Wally always did it for me. But Tiff took it from me and worked on it and said it was ok. When I said that if he dies, there are so many things I didn’t know how to do in the house, like clean the heat pumps. “Don’t worry,” she said. “You can Google that.” It’s what I needed to hear right then. I’d be ok. No matter what.

And then, on Valentine’s Day, Wal woke up. It was a Friday and I got to talk with him in the afternoon, before the boy and I drove up to see him. Wal was a mess–he actually threw up on me–yet I didn’t care. He was alive. He would have problems, although we didn’t realize that then. His lungs have been irreparably damaged from the infection he ended up getting as well as from the ventilator. We found out this week he may also have had a mild heart attack while in the hospital or there was an anomaly while undergoing the stress test last week. We’re trying to stay positive so we’re going with the anomaly. 😉 But…he’s alive and working and managing. He needs to work on his health more, but I can only bitch at him so much, right?

A high school classmate of mine lost her husband last month. He was 50. They had been married for 25 years, just 2 years more than my husband and I. He was also in a medically-induced coma at the end. I’ve thought of this classmate every day since I heard. I only have an inkling of what she’s going through. I’m living what she had hoped would happen. And she’s living what I feared.

I’m telling you all of this, not only because it’s the anniversary of that horrible time, but also because my husband made me so mad tonight that I went outside and “angry shoveled” for a while. He snapped at me a few times and I was so damn proud for staying calm, so I took all the yelling I would do and put it into thrashing the snow around. I sometimes have to remind myself that I nearly lost the old man last year, and as frustrated he makes me sometimes regarding a wide range of topics, I still don’t want to live without him. Maybe a day or two….but not a lifetime.

Hug the ones you can tonight, talk to the ones you can’t, and remember the ones you wish were still here. ❤

Oh and yes, he did apologize. AFTER I shoveled part of the driveway.

For just a moment, I want to take a break from COVID-19 and tell you what my life has been like since my last blog post. If we’re friends on Facebook, more than likely you know much of this story.

On Groundhog Day, I took my husband to the ER where he was diagnosed with pneumonia and Influenza A. By the next night, Monday night, he could no longer breathe on his own. He didn’t want to have a breathing tube put in and put on a ventilator (he’s severely claustrophobic) but his only other choice was to die. I sat with him, holding his hand, and he said to me, “It’s so hard to breathe. I can’t do this much longer.” As scared as he was, I was afraid he would choose to die. But at only 52, and having me and our 12-year-old boy, there was too much life to live still. So he chose to live.

The next 2 weeks were hell. Once they intubated my husband, they nearly lost him several times that night. As the doctor said, “We gave him all our ‘Hail Marys’ at the beginning.” That was the only way to keep him alive. I spent much of that Wednesday in the hospital, holding his hand and crying. He was in a medically induced coma at this time. My son and I went to get tested that day and surprise! I had the flu, too. (My son got it the next week.) I was no longer allowed to visit my husband in the ICU until the following Tuesday. I was so angry at the universe and I sobbed and I just couldn’t believe all of this was happening.

Then each day his numbers got a little better. By that Saturday, they thought they might be able to take the tubes out and get him breathing on his own. But they couldn’t wake him up. They ended up doing a cat scan of his brain because he was just flailing and eyes rolling and he couldn’t respond in any way at all. Fortunately his brain was fine, he just couldn’t wake up.

The first day I was allowed to visit him, I stayed the entire day and played music to him and read and talked with him, held his hand, massaged his legs. I kissed him and got mad at him and loved him. It was a really long day. The next morning our son woke up crying. He just wanted to sleep and not go to school and not deal with this fucking nightmare anymore. And I completely understood, but explained we both had a job to do that day. He go to school, I go to work, Papa gets better. And you know what? That day my husband did wake up. Only for a moment, but enough to answer the nurse’s questions. (I called my boy’s school and the principal told him in person that his father had finally woken up. I truly love his school.)

Friday, Valentine’s Day, my husband’s breathing tube was removed and he was able to speak for the first time in 11 days. We had never gone more than two days without speaking to each other in nearly 25 years, so this was a pretty special day.

The next week and a half in the hospital was tough–he was really loopy for a few days and didn’t make much sense. But as he slowly started to get better, it was just difficult to see him so fragile and weak. He lost 40 pounds in four weeks, so his body was just ravaged. But then on February 24th, he finally came home. Those first 2 weeks home were a bit rough, too. He needed more help getting around than I realized and seeing my husband use a walker was really hard for all of us to see.

But now, three weeks later, he can walk for at least 3 minutes at a time with no assistance, can walk a flight of stairs, showers and dresses by himself–these are all huge accomplishments compared to last month. So he’s finally coming back to us.

And then COVID-19 happened. I know we’re all dealing with it–people are sick or dying, schools closed, some folks working from home, our area still in flux. My library is still open but that could change this week. My husband had planned to go to the store this week with our brother-in-law but I have told him he will no longer be allowed out except to the doctor’s office. He laughed out loud but then looked at my face. “Ok. I get it.” His immune system has been compromised and after the nightmare we just went through, I’m not losing the big lug now.

Oh, and did I tell you I have pancreatitis? I’m on Day 9 with no real food–water, jello, chicken broth and bullion and the occasional sip of Gatorade. I just need to keep out of the hospital because my husband still can’t drive and I need to be here. But my numbers are slowly getting better (my doctor is aware and I’m having blood drawn every few days to track this). The pound a day weight loss is nice but I am really freakin’ hungry. But if I can’t yet eat by Friday, the 2-week mark, then I may just have to go to the hospital. Here’s hoping I can beat this on my own!

So now for just a minute, I want to talk about COVID-19 and the effect it’s having on myself and my family. Besides being scared and desperately wanting to escape this dystopian novel, are you angry? I have been so, so angry at the whole situation. Not any person in particular–yes there were plenty of fuck-ups along the way but I’m not mad at a person. I am just feeling so battered and bruised and oh jesus what will happen next?!? We already cancelled our cruise with the help of doctor’s notes and a load of paperwork (I am so thankful for travel insurance and will never go without it again) and who the heck knows about our trip to Florida in April–yet I’m ok with that. If we can’t go, we’ll try again later.

I just want there to be a later. Right?

My family out to see Jim Gaffigan a few years ago.

That picture? That event? To be able to go to a large stadium or arena and listen to music or a comedian or see a play—that is what I want again. I am sure that someday we’ll be there, but I’m also sure our lives have changed forever. I know that after my husband’s hospitalization, my family’s life has changed forever. We have really enjoyed our time together since hubby has been home. He can still drive me crazy, but we no longer take each other for granted. And maybe this virus will do something similar. Maybe we’ll appreciate what we have a little bit more.

Or maybe we’ll go back to our old ways and be jerks to each other.

But I hope not. I hope we can get through this together–but 6 feet apart.

Stay healthy, y’all.