What a difference a week makes...
It's hard to believe that one week ago tonight, I was sitting in a waiting room with my mother, brother, and husband, eating BBQ sandwiches and carrying on conversation while my dad was receiving a double lung transplant. These last 7 days have been a crazy whirling blur. Last Sunday, my brother and I were talking on the phone when my dad called in to tell me that they had just gotten a call from the hospital, saying that they thought they had a set of lungs for him. Immediately, I felt numb. We had been told to be cautious about this, because it could be a "dry run" and there were a million reasons why the transplant might not proceed. My dad told us that they would call us when they knew more, so Mike and I went ahead to get our hair cut as we had planned. I don't really remember much of that afternoon because I know I spent a lot of time wandering aimlessly around the house, feeling like I should be doing something, but not having anything to do. Finally, around 3, I knew I wanted to go ahead to the hospital. I wanted to see my dad before surgery. My brother, Mike, and I all headed down to the hospital and hung out in my dad's room until they came to get him for surgery. We watched golf and chatted about different topics. I've been thinking about those hours a lot the last couple of days. I know my dad must have been so scared. I know I was, and I can only imagine what was going through his head. But the whole time, he was making jokes with the nurses, thanking them for taking such good care of him, and exhibiting confidence in their abilities. As the doctors came in to talk about different aspects of the surgery, he made a personal connection with them, asking about their families or where they were from, telling them a bit about himself, and offering them gratitude for their time and attention. Those hours were so special for us as a family. Before they took him down to the operating room, we gathered together for a family prayer over his bed, and it was one of the most powerful moments I have ever experienced.
For the next 6 hours, the rest of us waited in the deserted waiting room, jumping every time the phone rang with a status update from the operating room. Looking back, that night feels almost surreal. Normally, when we gather as a family, there's an undercurrent of time pressure. We're always so busy going our own separate ways. This was one of the first times when we were all there, and no one was going anywhere anytime soon. We all knew were there for the long haul... however long it took... whatever happened. We talked about all kinds of things - college, childhood stories, it didn't matter. I was go grateful that were were all there together.
Everything with the surgery went as smoothly as we could hope. There was a huge storm that came through Sunday night, and we felt so blessed that the helicopter containing Dad's new lungs was able to land before the storm hit. Another surgery had to be canceled that night due to the weather. The lungs were a great match. Every time the phone rang, our breaths would catch, but we were so relieved to hear things like "left lung is in and looking good, we're moving on to the right". Each call helped us feel a little more at ease. When they finished up and began to close, I know we were all relieved that the surgery seemed to go smoothly. We waited for Dad to get up into the CVICU and went up to see him. They had prepared us for the first "viewing" after surgery, telling us that he would have a lot of tubes, and that it could be difficult to see. Walking up to those double doors to see Dad for the first time was nerve-wracking. I had to hold my mom's hand because I wasn't sure what to expect. Surprisingly, Dad looked pretty good. His color was so much better than I expected, and his hands and feet had made it through the surgery with no problems (there had been some concern about his Raynaud's and possible limb loss due to poor circulation). Aside from the tubes, he just looked like he was sleeping. We all said good night, told him we loved him, and went home for some sleep.
Over the next few days, we've all been making trips down to see him. Sometimes I've scrubbed in and gone into his room to hold his hand. He's had a few minor complications - a little pneumonia and a small fever - so they've kept him in CVICU on a ventilator a little longer than expected. Even though he's been sedated all week and hasn't had any idea what's been going on around him, the smallest signs of life have made my heart skip - him squeezing or holding my hand, fluttering his eyelids, nodding his head - all signs that my Daddy is still there. I didn't realize how weird it would feel to not talk to him for a full week, though, not hearing his voice or being able to call to say hi to him. I miss him and am ready for him to wake up, though I know they need to keep him sedated until his complications subside.
I'm still processing everything that has happened this last week, but there are a few things that I have been thinking about. First, I'm inspired by our family. I always knew that when the road got tough, we'd be there for each other, but up until this point, that's been pretty hypothetical. This is the first really major event we've had to deal with as a family in this way, and I'm so inspired by how we've been there to support each other, opening lines of communication and working together. Second, I'm so impressed by the strength of my mother. Truly, remarkable, indescrible strength. She's always been an inspiration to me, but seeing her work through this, asking for help when she needs it, taking time to rest when she's tired, and maintaining open communication with each of us leaves me speechless. Third, I'm inspired by the power of medicine. To think that 1 week ago, a family that was mourning the loss of their own loved one made a sacrifice that allowed my father to receive this blessing - this gift of life - and then to have that gift nurtured by such caring physicians - inspires me. Looking at my dad, seeing his chest rise and fall with each inhalation, reassures me in a sense. Dealing with my own medical drama, I know there are times when you feel discouraged and lose hope. And then you see something like this... the medical marvel of being able to transplant organs, and it makes you realize that there's hope. While we still have a long road of recovery ahead, the fact that this first hurdle has been jumped is huge.
The support that our family has felt in the last week has blown us all away, and we have truly relied on everyone's love and kindness to get us through it all. We're hoping this next week will be good.... Dad's fever came down a lot this weekend, and we're hoping they start to wake him up a bit this next week. More than anything, I'm ready to hear him tell a silly saucy joke or give us one of those twinkly-eye smiles again.
For the next 6 hours, the rest of us waited in the deserted waiting room, jumping every time the phone rang with a status update from the operating room. Looking back, that night feels almost surreal. Normally, when we gather as a family, there's an undercurrent of time pressure. We're always so busy going our own separate ways. This was one of the first times when we were all there, and no one was going anywhere anytime soon. We all knew were there for the long haul... however long it took... whatever happened. We talked about all kinds of things - college, childhood stories, it didn't matter. I was go grateful that were were all there together.
Everything with the surgery went as smoothly as we could hope. There was a huge storm that came through Sunday night, and we felt so blessed that the helicopter containing Dad's new lungs was able to land before the storm hit. Another surgery had to be canceled that night due to the weather. The lungs were a great match. Every time the phone rang, our breaths would catch, but we were so relieved to hear things like "left lung is in and looking good, we're moving on to the right". Each call helped us feel a little more at ease. When they finished up and began to close, I know we were all relieved that the surgery seemed to go smoothly. We waited for Dad to get up into the CVICU and went up to see him. They had prepared us for the first "viewing" after surgery, telling us that he would have a lot of tubes, and that it could be difficult to see. Walking up to those double doors to see Dad for the first time was nerve-wracking. I had to hold my mom's hand because I wasn't sure what to expect. Surprisingly, Dad looked pretty good. His color was so much better than I expected, and his hands and feet had made it through the surgery with no problems (there had been some concern about his Raynaud's and possible limb loss due to poor circulation). Aside from the tubes, he just looked like he was sleeping. We all said good night, told him we loved him, and went home for some sleep.
Over the next few days, we've all been making trips down to see him. Sometimes I've scrubbed in and gone into his room to hold his hand. He's had a few minor complications - a little pneumonia and a small fever - so they've kept him in CVICU on a ventilator a little longer than expected. Even though he's been sedated all week and hasn't had any idea what's been going on around him, the smallest signs of life have made my heart skip - him squeezing or holding my hand, fluttering his eyelids, nodding his head - all signs that my Daddy is still there. I didn't realize how weird it would feel to not talk to him for a full week, though, not hearing his voice or being able to call to say hi to him. I miss him and am ready for him to wake up, though I know they need to keep him sedated until his complications subside.
I'm still processing everything that has happened this last week, but there are a few things that I have been thinking about. First, I'm inspired by our family. I always knew that when the road got tough, we'd be there for each other, but up until this point, that's been pretty hypothetical. This is the first really major event we've had to deal with as a family in this way, and I'm so inspired by how we've been there to support each other, opening lines of communication and working together. Second, I'm so impressed by the strength of my mother. Truly, remarkable, indescrible strength. She's always been an inspiration to me, but seeing her work through this, asking for help when she needs it, taking time to rest when she's tired, and maintaining open communication with each of us leaves me speechless. Third, I'm inspired by the power of medicine. To think that 1 week ago, a family that was mourning the loss of their own loved one made a sacrifice that allowed my father to receive this blessing - this gift of life - and then to have that gift nurtured by such caring physicians - inspires me. Looking at my dad, seeing his chest rise and fall with each inhalation, reassures me in a sense. Dealing with my own medical drama, I know there are times when you feel discouraged and lose hope. And then you see something like this... the medical marvel of being able to transplant organs, and it makes you realize that there's hope. While we still have a long road of recovery ahead, the fact that this first hurdle has been jumped is huge.
The support that our family has felt in the last week has blown us all away, and we have truly relied on everyone's love and kindness to get us through it all. We're hoping this next week will be good.... Dad's fever came down a lot this weekend, and we're hoping they start to wake him up a bit this next week. More than anything, I'm ready to hear him tell a silly saucy joke or give us one of those twinkly-eye smiles again.
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