It is now January 11, 2009, 12 wks post-op, and I am attempting to get this blog up to date by continuing in chronological order. When I sat down and prepared to write about Saturday, October 25, 2008 tears immediately began to fall. There were several times throughout this last year, and documented in this blog, when I feared I might lose my son to this horrible disease. However, none so frightening as this Saturday in late October, four days after his surgery.
I woke up around 7AM to my phone signaling me that I received a text. It was Patrick and a lump immediately lodged in my throat. This would be a good example of what is commonly referred to as Mother's Intuition, because although Patrick always text me early in the morning, in fact usually around 5:30-6:00, I knew before I looked that something was wrong.
I read, "You might want to come over they are all flippin' out about pulses and shit".
"Who is?"
"Nurses?
"Which nurses, Patrick?"
"All of them, Mom. They are all in here now. Just come over".
"Patrick, what's going on?"
"OK, well they are on the phone now with people talking about an EKG or something".
"What is your heart rate?".
"260". 260!!!!! My heart just about burst as I slipped on a sneaker.
"They are taking more blood. Come here!" he said. And then, "They are moving me".
"Moving you where? I am grabbing my keys. Where are they moving you?"
"Upstairs. Mom, are you coming right away?"
"Yes". I don't know that I typed the "s" on the word yes before I sent it as I was running out the front door still hopping on one foot to get my other sneaker on.
I tend to be a lead foot when driving, but never have I driven so fast, while on the phone talking and while sending text messages to my son. I got to the hospital in 6 minutes and it should have taken me twice that amount of time. On the way I called my parents. They were doing as me and throwing on their shoes and heading over to the hospital.
We've all seen those movies where someone jumps from a plane and the chute isn't opening or their car is stuck on the tracks, the car's engine won't turnover and a train is quickly approaching. In both instances, and those life-altering moments like them, the character's lives flash in front of them. My six minute drive was similar, but it wasn't my life that was flashing in front of me. It was Patrick's life. My child's life. And everything any dr. ever told us, every invasive test, the homeopathic remedies, his frail body, his bruised arms so badly battered he could pass for a junkie, his pain, his plight. I just had to get there. Why didn't I sleep there last night? I text Pat, "I am pulling into the parking lot. Where are you now?" He replies, "They are moving me but if you are in the building I'll ask them to wait".
I ran through the parking lot until I got to the lobby, then walked by the elevators only to break into a jog the rest of the way. As I turned the corner and headed to his room the hospitalist, Dr. C, whom Patrick and I had developed an incredible admiration for, saw me coming and headed straight for me. I was torn between needing to hear what he had to tell me and plowing him down to get to my son. He said, "I just left you a VM at home, but I figured you were on your way". He didn't look calm as he said, "Calm down. His heart rate and blood pressure are very high and that's unusual for how low his hemoglobin had dropped and the pain meds he is on. Both should have decreased his rates. I want to be smart about this and move him upstairs as a precaution. There they can hook him up to machines that will continually monitor his heart, blood pressure and other vitals. He will be OK". He didn't sound convinced. I wasn't convinced. I was scared. Not what Patrick needed me to be. I don't remember saying much of anything in reply to what Dr. C had just told me. I may have mumbled thank you as I brushed passed him and headed for Patrick's room. His eyes were big and he was visibly frightened. Wendy, one of his favorite caretakers gave me that smile that you give someone when you sympathize with them. I sensed she felt pity. For this current situation or for Patrick's health overall, I couldn't be sure. I immediaterly went to the closet to grab his belongings and they were gone. Before I could ask, one of the nurses told me that they already taken everything upstairs to his new room. They removed the IV's from the poles and wheeled him out of his room with me following behind them. As we turned the corner to head for the elevators my parents came into view. Oh my God! I never called them back to tell them that they were moving him! They rushed over here because I told them about his heart rate and blood pressure, but the looks on their faces when they saw Patrick being pushed on a gurney through the hospital halls will forever be a sight I would rather forget. Mom went pale and Dad looked confused. I would have tripped the nurses had I tried to get around them and to my parents so there in the hospital hall I yelled, "He is OK. They are moving him upstairs to monitor him". Mom just nodded her head, eyes filled with tears and Dad said, "How ya doin' Patrick?" We all boarded the elevator and rode in silence. Too weary to speak. Too worried to pretend otherwise. And shrouded in a fear that had become the devil we knew. Unfortunately we knew him all too well. Another familiar foe we all battled with in our war against Crohn's.