Thursday, October 09, 2008

No, Dad. You can't buy the Respiratory Therapist

Pleased to announce that Biodad's condition is now improving so rapidly that he may be home in a couple days. He's currently in the ward, removed from the respiratory apparatus and from various other devices which were plugged into every available natural orifice and a few new ones created by doctors. I'll leave the particular details alone. How's that?

The turning point began about ten days ago when he came out of his tortuous delirium - or rather, for the most part - and communication of a rough sort began. He was still impeded by a full-size tracheotomy and thus voiceless and some remaining drug effects still lingered in his brain.

He mouthed words we couldn't grasp. He signaled for the clip board and pencil and wrote, with terrible effort and shakiness, his muscles and thought processes both impeded, POLPE.

"People?"

He shakes his head.

"Pope?"

He shakes his head.

"Pole?"

He nods, and slowly points toward the other patient in the "semi-private" ICU ward. There is a pole between them and it bears the electronic devices which administer drugs to his roommate.
'My pole.' he silently mouths.

"Your pole? I don't think so, dude. Your pole is over there."

He shakes his head and slowly points again. 'My pole.'

"That pole is hooked into that lady. That's her pole. She needs it. It's giving her the drugs she needs. Your pole is on the other side of your bed. Over there. See?"

He shakes his head, takes up the clip board and begins the arduous task of writing, $100.00 bill.

"One hundred dollar bill? You'll give me a hundred bucks to steal that pole?" I quickly calculate that a hundred dollars is not enough to go killing a person for. I do have principles.

He shakes his head and we spend the next ten minutes or so establishing his claim that there is a hundred dollar bill on top of the pole and he wants it. I spend the following ten minutes assuring that there is no such bill on top of the pole and we should all just relax. Finally he winces and puts his hand to his forehead. He seems to realize he's been a little off the mark. We laugh and tell him it's okay.

Later he asks if he can purchase the pretty young respiratory therapist and take her home. This is no delusion. This is how we know he's his old self again.

Welcome back.

6 comments:

Claudia said...

Something has changed with your relationship with bio dad... It's interesting. No. Thats the wrong word, it's just a change.

I see that no matter how much of a dunce he was way back when, you can say "But this is today."

Very cool, best wishes for this growth.

Crushed said...

:)

Glad things are looking up!

Dave said...

Gotta love the side-effects of the meds. I'll never forget my brother asking for his shotgun to shoot the giant rabbit in his hospital room.
Even though both his arms were crushed, he thought he could handle a gun. Oh, and he thought there was a giant rabbit in the room.
Good times.

Anonymous said...

I've seen that $100 many times - ah cheers to the wonderful souls such as yourself who brave the waters beside our sickbeds. It's all good.
Lotsa love tati.

Fantasy Writer Guy said...

Supermom -- you're very insightful and I know your wishes are sincere. Thank you.

And you too, Crushed.

Dave -- I definitely have to stop visiting hospitals in my Cadbury rabbit suit.

T-A -- I know how that bill is the tip of an iceburg. Your words are selflessly understated. Bless you.

-eve- said...

Enjoyed this post - a good story to go to sleep on... (ah, i see, it was the meds.... lol! :-))