My son in the ICU: We are Going In.

August 31, 2013

I wrote Cory a text saying I would come a little later tonight to spend the night with him in the hospital because I was going to watch a movie with the family first. (I would spend the nights on the weekends with Cory in the hospital. It was Saturday. I was trying desperately to juggle all that all needed from me…Impossible was another word for that.)  I was, on the inside, excited that it was a three day weekend….I could spend three nights with him, my recovering child/man.  He was doing as expected since his transplant, considering.  I was always trying to balance not “mother henning” him with “being there” for him. He was 25 after all, not 15. I WANTED to smother. But I think I did a rather good job of self-control to respect his Love of Solitude vs. my Love for Him.

I was literally getting in my car to leave when I got the call.

“Mrs. Powell (which Im not, but I answer to both, because I know they mean motherofyourson) …you should come right away.”….”Im on my way…whats happening?”….”Cory is in Septic Shock, he started a fever 30 minutes ago, and now….”…..  “WHAT? WHAT’s THAT?”…..”I cant give you any more information until you are here…..hurry.”…….”HURRY????”….I was on I-75.   I sped to 90 miles an hour saying “Please God, keep him alive” over and over and over and over and over.  I imagined a police car behind me trying to stop me for speeding….I decided ahead of time that I would keep going. He could ticket me in Cory’s hospital room.

I dont remember getting to his room other than I ran and ran and ran. I couldnt be fast enough. I ran into his room filled with 15 medical personel. I squeezed between people like in the VIP section of a concert…..he looked at me with a “help me” look that is burned into my brain. I grabbed his hand and said, “Im here.” He was sick…he was suddenly, inexplicably, really, really sick.

I was just was here last night. We played bananagrams, he won.  We played Palace (which was really called Shithead, but I insisted on finding the real name for the game so Miss Sheyna wouldnt have to say Shit….). I love that he humored me/respected me and called it “Palace” for me…now, I could care less what it’s called. We kept score on the whiteboard of the many, many games of Palace/Shithead we played during his hospitalization. In the end, he won, I lost. How appropriate. cory keeping score

He was sick and helpless and sunken in his face and labored breathing and ohmygodhe’sdying. I never lost eye contact with him…I was telling him everything would be okay when it wasnt, when I didnt know. They were talking and sticking and covering and pumping and watching numbers and pushing meds…. Then they pushed me. They moved me and threw an oxygen mask on his face and I saw his eyes roll back in his head. And they unlocked the locks on his bed and rolled. Fast. Out of his room and down the halls….15 people rolling my son and his “friend”, his pole, with all of the medications attatched that were flowing into his arm. And I went too. We were One Being. Cory and the medical personnel and his “friend” and Me. Rolling…..I can still hear the sound of the wheels on the linoleoum. Pshhh, Pshhh, Pshhh, Pshhh…….

emergency-workers

We were in. New doctors, new nurses…lots of them. One beautiful black woman talking to Cory, so close to his face, comforting him. “We’re going to help you.” “Its ok, sweetie, we are taking good care of you.” She must’ve seen the panic in his eyes. ICU nurses are saints. Saints. Saints I tell you….. I was in the back. I kept trying to get to him, but trying to respect their work, the work of those who went to college 1001 years to SAVE MY SON,….I didnt want to interrupt their saving my sons life. I. Just. Wanted. Them. To. Save. My. Sons. Life. , But I would reach in every now and then…for his hand… to touch his face…his leg. I wanted him to know I was there. “Can you stand back here, Mom?”said someone smarter than me….”Yes.”

“Excuse me, can I ask a question?”, I say to someone I think is a doctor, while they are pumping and pushing and prodding. “Yes?”, she says. “Should I call his Dad to fly in? He lives in Arizona.” …

“Yes.” she says, “I would.”  I did.

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