Catching up on a few things. If you've not used my links to Dino or Heather in a while, they both have new things going on and the links are updated to those, so go and enjoy.
Tonight I went and visited a guy from our fellowship who had an appendectomy among other things. I decided to drop in on the PICU where we had lived, so to speak, to see if any of my boys nurses were there, and, in fact two of the ones who had provided most of his care were both working. There were hugs and good reports to go around. In the room right next to his when we were there a little baby was dying. When we were transfered to St Francis, they estimated the baby had five to seven days left. Even in the midst of our struggles that was a sobering reminder that things could get worse, much worse. One of his nurses, Crystal, came out of that room when she saw me there, and I got caught up visiting with her. I did finally glance toward that room to see who was there, and, shock, it was still that mama and little baby. The mama waved at me and held up her little girl, who was awake and looking around! I was just blown away. His other nurse summed it up best: "miracles still happen". Wow! That baby is getting better every day, just amazing.
The road back to eating well has been slow. It's been a lot of factors, including that it's just more expensive to eat healthily (is that just bass ackward?), and just finding our stride and sense of normalcy after our experience has been a bit slow. I've gained back a small amount, but my resolve feels the same. This weekend we will once again restock with more appropriate foods and reembark on our journey. I will resume reporting and posting pictures.
Well, truly that is a short and sweet version of life in the poet lane, I look forward to a bit more frequent posting.
Oh yeah, a couple of my favorite bands listed to the side have had big events. I'm saddened much like everyone else on the untimely passing of Boston's Brad Delp, he of the pristine vocals that were a hallmark, along with the famous Boston guitar distortion, of the band. I'm also saddened at the rumors and accusations floating around regarding this, and hope that it all settles and we can remember Brad with a sense of peace and soberness at how he left us. (This happened during our hospital stay, and I'm just getting a chance to post). Also, much to my excitement, The Police are reunited and touring, here's still hoping that Chad and I will catch a show. If you'd like to contribute to the "Buy Chad and Lindy Police Tickets" fund, just let me know: )
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
17 Days
"I wish the ring had never come to me." "So do all who live to see such times."
My son acted like he didn't feel well, it was Friday, and he had a little cough. By Saturday, he was good and congested, mostly in his chest, and we started with over the counter meds to clear him up. Wasn't the first time he'd had some congestion, certainly wouldn't be the last. Sunday his breathing seemed a little more difficult, and throughout the day although he continued to play, we knew something wasn't right. We called his doctor and he gave us instructions to do through the night and we were to be at his office by 8 am. By about 11:00 that night we knew there was something really wrong with the way he was breathing, so we went to the ER. We expected to get a couple of breathing treatments and probably a shot and go home. At 2:00 am we were informed we were being admitted into the hospital. We would live and sleep in that and one other other hospital for the next 17 days.
That first night we didn't sleep, our little warrior wouldn't let us put him down, and I don't blame him. His breathing continued to labor and get worse, and I began to have real fear inside of me for his health. After two more breathing treatments, he was struggling even more, and I was feeling angry. Why wasn't God doing something, this is my son! Why is nothing working, where is the doctor, this can't be right! Our respiratory therapist decided to try a different breathing treatment, and, finally, he seemed to make some progress. Still, after a pulmonary specialist had seen him, they decided to admit him to the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit, or PICU, so they could more properly monitor him and give him more frequent breathing treatments. It seemed that Tuesday passed and he continued to improve. Then came Tuesday night. He quite quickly began to struggle to breathe, with even more difficulty than when we checked in. We spent another sleepless night watching his breathing slowly deteriorate. At that point we had slept for six hours in a 72 hour period, and we were filled with anxiety and worry and had the heartbreak of watching our precious, beautiful boy fight for every breath.
By 7:00 am Wednesday morning the specialist prepared us for the fact that he may have to be intubated and put on a ventilator so he could rest and his lungs and throat get clear of the croup and pneumonia. At a little after 10:00 we walked out of the room knowing it would be 3 to 5 days before he would be awake again and we could hold him. I felt empty, exhausted, angry, afraid, and deeply saddened. Good thing we didn't know it would be 12 days before he was carefully lifted off of his bed and placed in his mommy's arms.
He finally began to rest with the breathing tube, and seeing him no longer labor had a degree of relief to it, even though we couldn't hold him. Throughout this process our friends and community wrapped their collective arms around us and refused to let us crumble. That first night we were unsure if we could go get sleep (the hospital had a room for us) and leave him alone in the PICU, so Kyle came and stayed up with him all night, reading and praying over him every thirty minutes (my computer screen is getting blurry from my tears as I type that). What also blew me away was that Kyle's wife Cathy and Steve and his wife Cathy were willing to do the same thing, to take turns taking night watches so we could rest. Dear God, I hope I'm that kind of pastor and friend to those in my life.
The next five days became quite frustrating for us. He just hit this plateau and quit getting better, and no one knew why. Everything they tried didn't work. I stood at my son's bed alone begging God to do something. Look, I know you work through doctors, but dammit! Do something! I felt so impatient and angry! And in the midst of those angry moments, cussing, crying, I would feel this peace begin to creep in, and I felt my trust and faith begin to stretch. You know, I never felt compelled to confess and ask forgiveness of my Heavenly Father, it was like He said, "About time you trusted me enough to be that honest".
At six weeks old my son had a procedure done on his heart, and the doctor at St John's decided it needed to be checked out. After a test and after speaking with the Intensivist at St. Francis, they decided to transport us. Those couple of hours when they believed that maybe it was a problem with his heart felt like someone tore something out of us, my wife put words to what we both felt "I'm afraid we're going to lose him" (blurry screen again). That night, a big group of people showed up at St Francis, our friends, our family, the voice, hands and feet of Jesus. Once they had him hooked up at the new hospital, we went to check on him and visit with the intensivist. He decided to clean him out, an intimidating procedure to watch, but I stayed in there. They squeezed air into his lungs then pumped on his chest to help him cough then sucked out what he was coughing. My teeth were clenched so tight they should have exploded. Then, boom, after they finished, his stats began to change, the first actual positive move in several days. Then the doctor pointed to one of the readings, and said basically "if there's a heart problem that would be different, but I have found a patch of pneumonia that is still really bad. We're going suction him like this every hour, and give the antibiotics time to work." Relief began to flood over me, a sense that we would be okay hit me for the first time in several days.
A little less than 24 hours after that the turn happened. One particular stat they were monitoring, his oxygen saturation, suddenly shot up to the levels they should be at, and they began to ween him off the ventilator. Over the next four days they weened the settings until he was essentially breathing on his own, then, out came the tube, or, in their terms, they extubated him. Shortly after that, they had some oxygen running to his nose and he had several iv's connected, they carefully handed him to my wife. By the next afternoon, which was Sunday and two weeks exactly from our original trip to the ER, he was free of all but one IV.
Three days later, on Wednesday, my wife and I's 10th wedding anniversary, we walked out of St Francis and came home, and our 17 day journey was complete. I had missed 3 weeks of work, my wife would miss two more. We have an appointment one week from today to do what should be our final chest X ray to make sure his lungs are clear, and he will be cleared to go back to church, to go see the fellowship that wrapped him with prayers warmer and softer than any blanket, and to bring to an end this chapter which will have stretched into nearly two months.
I'll do a follow up post to talk more about community and relating to God and each other in a crisis.
"You are bigger than songs, greater than words. And if words escape us now, you will still be God. So hear, hear our souls crying to You, for You, You are good, faithful King.
You are good, You are good. We are free, You are good. You're alive, we're alive and You are good. You are good."
My son acted like he didn't feel well, it was Friday, and he had a little cough. By Saturday, he was good and congested, mostly in his chest, and we started with over the counter meds to clear him up. Wasn't the first time he'd had some congestion, certainly wouldn't be the last. Sunday his breathing seemed a little more difficult, and throughout the day although he continued to play, we knew something wasn't right. We called his doctor and he gave us instructions to do through the night and we were to be at his office by 8 am. By about 11:00 that night we knew there was something really wrong with the way he was breathing, so we went to the ER. We expected to get a couple of breathing treatments and probably a shot and go home. At 2:00 am we were informed we were being admitted into the hospital. We would live and sleep in that and one other other hospital for the next 17 days.
That first night we didn't sleep, our little warrior wouldn't let us put him down, and I don't blame him. His breathing continued to labor and get worse, and I began to have real fear inside of me for his health. After two more breathing treatments, he was struggling even more, and I was feeling angry. Why wasn't God doing something, this is my son! Why is nothing working, where is the doctor, this can't be right! Our respiratory therapist decided to try a different breathing treatment, and, finally, he seemed to make some progress. Still, after a pulmonary specialist had seen him, they decided to admit him to the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit, or PICU, so they could more properly monitor him and give him more frequent breathing treatments. It seemed that Tuesday passed and he continued to improve. Then came Tuesday night. He quite quickly began to struggle to breathe, with even more difficulty than when we checked in. We spent another sleepless night watching his breathing slowly deteriorate. At that point we had slept for six hours in a 72 hour period, and we were filled with anxiety and worry and had the heartbreak of watching our precious, beautiful boy fight for every breath.
By 7:00 am Wednesday morning the specialist prepared us for the fact that he may have to be intubated and put on a ventilator so he could rest and his lungs and throat get clear of the croup and pneumonia. At a little after 10:00 we walked out of the room knowing it would be 3 to 5 days before he would be awake again and we could hold him. I felt empty, exhausted, angry, afraid, and deeply saddened. Good thing we didn't know it would be 12 days before he was carefully lifted off of his bed and placed in his mommy's arms.
He finally began to rest with the breathing tube, and seeing him no longer labor had a degree of relief to it, even though we couldn't hold him. Throughout this process our friends and community wrapped their collective arms around us and refused to let us crumble. That first night we were unsure if we could go get sleep (the hospital had a room for us) and leave him alone in the PICU, so Kyle came and stayed up with him all night, reading and praying over him every thirty minutes (my computer screen is getting blurry from my tears as I type that). What also blew me away was that Kyle's wife Cathy and Steve and his wife Cathy were willing to do the same thing, to take turns taking night watches so we could rest. Dear God, I hope I'm that kind of pastor and friend to those in my life.
The next five days became quite frustrating for us. He just hit this plateau and quit getting better, and no one knew why. Everything they tried didn't work. I stood at my son's bed alone begging God to do something. Look, I know you work through doctors, but dammit! Do something! I felt so impatient and angry! And in the midst of those angry moments, cussing, crying, I would feel this peace begin to creep in, and I felt my trust and faith begin to stretch. You know, I never felt compelled to confess and ask forgiveness of my Heavenly Father, it was like He said, "About time you trusted me enough to be that honest".
At six weeks old my son had a procedure done on his heart, and the doctor at St John's decided it needed to be checked out. After a test and after speaking with the Intensivist at St. Francis, they decided to transport us. Those couple of hours when they believed that maybe it was a problem with his heart felt like someone tore something out of us, my wife put words to what we both felt "I'm afraid we're going to lose him" (blurry screen again). That night, a big group of people showed up at St Francis, our friends, our family, the voice, hands and feet of Jesus. Once they had him hooked up at the new hospital, we went to check on him and visit with the intensivist. He decided to clean him out, an intimidating procedure to watch, but I stayed in there. They squeezed air into his lungs then pumped on his chest to help him cough then sucked out what he was coughing. My teeth were clenched so tight they should have exploded. Then, boom, after they finished, his stats began to change, the first actual positive move in several days. Then the doctor pointed to one of the readings, and said basically "if there's a heart problem that would be different, but I have found a patch of pneumonia that is still really bad. We're going suction him like this every hour, and give the antibiotics time to work." Relief began to flood over me, a sense that we would be okay hit me for the first time in several days.
A little less than 24 hours after that the turn happened. One particular stat they were monitoring, his oxygen saturation, suddenly shot up to the levels they should be at, and they began to ween him off the ventilator. Over the next four days they weened the settings until he was essentially breathing on his own, then, out came the tube, or, in their terms, they extubated him. Shortly after that, they had some oxygen running to his nose and he had several iv's connected, they carefully handed him to my wife. By the next afternoon, which was Sunday and two weeks exactly from our original trip to the ER, he was free of all but one IV.
Three days later, on Wednesday, my wife and I's 10th wedding anniversary, we walked out of St Francis and came home, and our 17 day journey was complete. I had missed 3 weeks of work, my wife would miss two more. We have an appointment one week from today to do what should be our final chest X ray to make sure his lungs are clear, and he will be cleared to go back to church, to go see the fellowship that wrapped him with prayers warmer and softer than any blanket, and to bring to an end this chapter which will have stretched into nearly two months.
I'll do a follow up post to talk more about community and relating to God and each other in a crisis.
"You are bigger than songs, greater than words. And if words escape us now, you will still be God. So hear, hear our souls crying to You, for You, You are good, faithful King.
You are good, You are good. We are free, You are good. You're alive, we're alive and You are good. You are good."
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Tribute
Behind me on our bed sleep peacefully my beloved, beautiful, strong wife of 10 years (today!) and my courageous, strong, and yeah, beautiful, son. You want to know what beautiful music sounds like? Slow, peaceful, easy breathing, that's what it sounds like. On Sunday, March 4th, we took our son to the ER as he was working extremely hard to breathe, and today, 17 days later, we sleep in our little duplex together again. I promise to blog shortly on the initial impact of those 17 days, but tonight I have a real struggle, trying to say thanks in a way that captures what our heart feels.
How do you say thanks to a community that has been life and breath, the very words, hands, and feet of Jesus? "Community" has become, unfortunately, just a buzz word to many, but for us, it became peace and truth in a time of upheaval emotionally, physically, and spiritually.
How do we thank my dad and mom and my mother in law? All three endured every moment with us; faithfully, strongly, gently, and consistently. They called their life off to be by our side all day long, and even all night when we changed hospitals. My dad was strength and calm and reinforcement for me moment by moment. What words fit here?
How do I thank my sister who could not spend every moment at the hospital, she has a six month old precious girl, but who endured every moment on the phone, who's questions helped me ask the right questions of the doctors and nurses, and who was most importantly, my sister? And to my brother in law for coming and offering encouragement and strength when events from his past made that extremely difficult emotionally and psychologically.
What can I say to my sister in laws, Terri and Tina, who brought food, love, and laughter? Terri even brought up blankets and pillows for some folks at the St Francis waiting room who had none.
How do we thank my dear, dear friends and pastors, Kyle and Steve? What my wife and mother and mother in law needed from me was strength, courage, calm, and faith. How do I express what it means to me that when I needed those things, they were there, hands on my shoulders, lifting me physically, emotionally, and spiritually? I just don't have the words, my brothers! Kyle even came and stayed up all night at our son's bedside his first night on the ventilator praying so that we could get some much needed rest.
How do we say what's on our hearts to: Chad, for coming and allowing me to get lost in music for just a few minutes, and for bringing his unique sense of humor where it was so needed; to Cathy M, for keeping an early morning prayer vigil and giving my wife some relief and holding my son so she could sleep; to Kara B for coming and holding his hand and gently speaking encouragement to him, and us; to Heather, for coming and giving a really good hug and encouraging words; to Dave for simply coming and offering great conversation and warmth; to Cathy D for two meals, much needed smiles and hugs; to Laura E for listening to us ramble and for a really fantastic salad; to Angela for the use of her laptop, for dinner, and for just thinking of the little things that were so helpful; to Jerry and Jaime for scrambling up after work and getting dinner and superb brownies to us; to Laura L for being there and bringing pillows and blankets; to Daniel for your reassuring presence and smile; to Athena for the gift card, magazines, and drinks; we are so grateful!
To J.D. and Shannon, and Matt and Adrienne, for your deep friendship and support (and for the Bueno, J.D., diet be damned!)
To so many whose prayers weaved amazing support and strength, it was something that we could tangibly feel.
To all those who came to the hospital, to those who couldn't come but prayed fervently, to those who I've undoubtedly forgot to name, you have all been Jesus to us. We feel both incredibly humbled and incredibly loved, and we love you.
How do you say thanks to a community that has been life and breath, the very words, hands, and feet of Jesus? "Community" has become, unfortunately, just a buzz word to many, but for us, it became peace and truth in a time of upheaval emotionally, physically, and spiritually.
How do we thank my dad and mom and my mother in law? All three endured every moment with us; faithfully, strongly, gently, and consistently. They called their life off to be by our side all day long, and even all night when we changed hospitals. My dad was strength and calm and reinforcement for me moment by moment. What words fit here?
How do I thank my sister who could not spend every moment at the hospital, she has a six month old precious girl, but who endured every moment on the phone, who's questions helped me ask the right questions of the doctors and nurses, and who was most importantly, my sister? And to my brother in law for coming and offering encouragement and strength when events from his past made that extremely difficult emotionally and psychologically.
What can I say to my sister in laws, Terri and Tina, who brought food, love, and laughter? Terri even brought up blankets and pillows for some folks at the St Francis waiting room who had none.
How do we thank my dear, dear friends and pastors, Kyle and Steve? What my wife and mother and mother in law needed from me was strength, courage, calm, and faith. How do I express what it means to me that when I needed those things, they were there, hands on my shoulders, lifting me physically, emotionally, and spiritually? I just don't have the words, my brothers! Kyle even came and stayed up all night at our son's bedside his first night on the ventilator praying so that we could get some much needed rest.
How do we say what's on our hearts to: Chad, for coming and allowing me to get lost in music for just a few minutes, and for bringing his unique sense of humor where it was so needed; to Cathy M, for keeping an early morning prayer vigil and giving my wife some relief and holding my son so she could sleep; to Kara B for coming and holding his hand and gently speaking encouragement to him, and us; to Heather, for coming and giving a really good hug and encouraging words; to Dave for simply coming and offering great conversation and warmth; to Cathy D for two meals, much needed smiles and hugs; to Laura E for listening to us ramble and for a really fantastic salad; to Angela for the use of her laptop, for dinner, and for just thinking of the little things that were so helpful; to Jerry and Jaime for scrambling up after work and getting dinner and superb brownies to us; to Laura L for being there and bringing pillows and blankets; to Daniel for your reassuring presence and smile; to Athena for the gift card, magazines, and drinks; we are so grateful!
To J.D. and Shannon, and Matt and Adrienne, for your deep friendship and support (and for the Bueno, J.D., diet be damned!)
To so many whose prayers weaved amazing support and strength, it was something that we could tangibly feel.
To all those who came to the hospital, to those who couldn't come but prayed fervently, to those who I've undoubtedly forgot to name, you have all been Jesus to us. We feel both incredibly humbled and incredibly loved, and we love you.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
First Returns Are In
Well, here it is. I'm actually a little shocked that I can see a difference. Very helpful for the old psyche, and well, emotionally, physically, everything.
Here are the specifics. First a little correction. Matt, J.D, and I weighed New Years Eve after piling down pizza and the like and I weighed 325, as I previously reported. On the morning of January 2nd, when I actually started eating differently and changing my habits, I weighed 320. This morning, just slightly over six weeks from January 2nd, I weighed 287, a weight loss of 33 pounds.
I'm excited and motivated again, but not inhuman. I've found myself more tempted in the past few weeks with some of the food choices I used to make. Finding the balance of occasionally enjoying those things, in other words, keeping those times as the exception and not the rule, is a continual battle. I think Dr Phil's book on weight loss (haven't read it) has a chapter title that captures this: "Weight is managed not cured". It won't be "fixed" one day, it will be a lifetime of making the choices.
So, there it is, the first six week update.
By the way, I hope I'm posting often enough for Kyle, who has talked of "weeding" out infrequent posters. Please, don't delete me, please... ; )
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Worth a thousand words...
So coming up soon I'll be posting a new picture of myself. I actually started my new lifestyle on January 2nd, so I've decided to post the first side by side comparison photo approximately six weeks from then. That adds up to about the 16th of February, but that falls on a Friday, and I actually weigh on Tuesdays. In order to give updates on weight lost, I'll be posting the picture on Tuesday, February 20th. I'm pretty nervous, but maybe not for the reasons you would suspect.
Having already crossed the line once, I'm not so nervous about putting a picture out there. What I'm mostly concerned about is if I will actually look any different. I'm actually doing quite well, I won't reveal my current weight loss yet, but I'm getting into an area where I've bailed before. When you have a significant amount of weight to lose, and I believe I need to lose anywhere from 130 to 140 pounds, even significant early losses still leave you very much overweight. In the past, I've lost more than 40 pounds, and then looking in the mirror and seeing virtually no change, I've gotten very discouraged and quit.
Certainly things are different this time, I believe that. However, I know that I'm coming up on one of the mountains I've failed to climb, and it makes me a bit nervous. I guess I'm facing a reality that I've tried to escape in the past. This is a lifestyle change, not a temporary program. I think I used to get so discouraged because I was looking forward to getting my weight off so I could get back to eating whatever I wanted. I think we all want to be able to win our battle, whatever it is, then be done with it and go back to our previous habits. No wonder we are so defeated and discouraged at times, because that is a false hope. To change means exactly that, to change. It's not a diversion, a sabbatical, it's a complete directional shift.
I think that applies to anything in life, and I think in our desire to live without thought and responsibility we sabotage ourselves. We must accept the truth that true freedom from a struggle does not come because you take a temporary route to get it under control, but freedom comes when you take responsibility for the defeat and do something different. Freedom from food abuse does not come when I can eat whatever I want, freedom is when I can eat what's best and turn down what's not.
Having already crossed the line once, I'm not so nervous about putting a picture out there. What I'm mostly concerned about is if I will actually look any different. I'm actually doing quite well, I won't reveal my current weight loss yet, but I'm getting into an area where I've bailed before. When you have a significant amount of weight to lose, and I believe I need to lose anywhere from 130 to 140 pounds, even significant early losses still leave you very much overweight. In the past, I've lost more than 40 pounds, and then looking in the mirror and seeing virtually no change, I've gotten very discouraged and quit.
Certainly things are different this time, I believe that. However, I know that I'm coming up on one of the mountains I've failed to climb, and it makes me a bit nervous. I guess I'm facing a reality that I've tried to escape in the past. This is a lifestyle change, not a temporary program. I think I used to get so discouraged because I was looking forward to getting my weight off so I could get back to eating whatever I wanted. I think we all want to be able to win our battle, whatever it is, then be done with it and go back to our previous habits. No wonder we are so defeated and discouraged at times, because that is a false hope. To change means exactly that, to change. It's not a diversion, a sabbatical, it's a complete directional shift.
I think that applies to anything in life, and I think in our desire to live without thought and responsibility we sabotage ourselves. We must accept the truth that true freedom from a struggle does not come because you take a temporary route to get it under control, but freedom comes when you take responsibility for the defeat and do something different. Freedom from food abuse does not come when I can eat whatever I want, freedom is when I can eat what's best and turn down what's not.
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