6 Minutes Wrestling with Life

Red Ice at Night

Courage isn't having the strength to go on,
It is going on
When you don't have the strength

October 9th, 2009

Jess finally got a private room.

It took two roommates over three days, but the bottom line is, that people like BettyJane more than they like me.

I am okay with that – especially when it gets the results I want.

Yesterday, the naked old man was transferred out and a seemingly nice but stinky old lady was transferred into Jess's room.

As is the norm, when BettyJane or I spend time at the hospital, we hardly ever leave the room during our stay.

So as the seemingly nice, but stinky old lady was wheeled into the room, on the way out, the nurses taped a yellow infectious warning sign outside the entrance of the room.

I never left the room.

I never knew the warning sign even existed.

When BettyJane arrived, the first thing she saw was the yellow warning sign.

The second thing that hit her was the stink.

After speaking with the nurse, BettyJane was informed that the seemingly nice, but stinky old lady has Cdiff.

CDiff is an infectious condition that spreads to patients in a hospital setting who are on antibiotics.

It causes extreme diarrhea.

Are they crazy?

It took BettyJane all of two seconds and there were plans on moving Jess to her own private room.

Just as I got to the hospital for my night shift on Jess's first night in her private room, BettyJane informs me that Jess is having a reaction to a new antibiotic the doctors are giving her.

BettyJane let's me know that Jess has been turning red and blotchy.

She said the nurses gave her Benadryl and stopped the antibiotic.

She says, "Just keep an eye on her tonight."

I promise her that I will, as I always do.

She says, "No really, something is not right."

I say, "I will watch her closely."

It is now 2:00 a.m.; I am sitting wide-awake in the dark.

Jess's heart monitor is beeping a red alert and has a 165 beats per minute reading.

That is not good.

It is not a spike reading as the reading is now increasing to 178 and staying there.

I turn on the lights and I am aghast at what I see.

Jessica is BRIGHT candy apple RED, she is burning up – I'm guessing 104 to 106 degrees, easily.

Jess's eyes are just staring, straight up towards the ceiling, hollow without any life.

I run to get help, and by the time I get back her heart rate is at 215 bpm.

Oh, I can go into detail on how every second feels at this moment, but to summarize, it is the worst I have felt since this ordeal began.

The top of my head is tingling.

My brain is racing, trying to keep everything together.

My eyes are fighting back a dam of tears; my mouth and bottom lip can't stop quivering. My heart literally aches; my stomach feels like I have swallowed a whole bottle of vitamins on an empty stomach.

I say to myself, "No time for feeling any of this, stay poised, stay poised. You need to take care of someone who is feeling 100x worse than you are right now."

Using Tylenol suppositories and an ice bed as their main arsenal, the nurse's work on Jess for what feels like hours.

Jess's heart rate slowly starts to come down, 115, 110.

Jess is in pain. She is freezing. She is sitting naked in an ice bath.

She is screaming sounds through her trach that are absolutely heart wrenching.

She is shivering cold on the ice bed looking at me – begging me for help.

She wants off the ice bed.

I know leaving her in the ice will help her more than taking her out.

I do nothing, which is actually something.

I am numb.

I want to help her, so bad.

My stomach is churning; I can taste the vile as it comes up my throat.

I keep thinking about a lesson I have learned while playing sports,

"You are closer to victory than you know, when you feel you just can't go on any longer. It is what makes champions who they are, the ability to muster up a little bit more when everyone else would give in. It is at that moment a tipping point usually occurs."

I say to myself, "Victory must be just around the corner."