Day 11

Day 11? Day 111? It's all relative at this point. The best words I can find to describe this situation are fear and exhaustion! I mean that in a physical and emotional sense. My family has lost loved ones, too many loved ones in my opinion. But in most of the circumstances (save one), the passing was quick and the realization of grief was swift. I have described this situation to others as being dragged behind a truck for two weeks, and that analogy is feeling more and more real everyday.

We came to the hospital this morning anticipating the administration of a medication to reverse the effects of Ativan, only to learn it had too many side effects and they were not comfortable giving it. I walked past my Dad to place my purse on the couch and my Mom said, "Judd! Are you going to open your eyes?!" I ran to the bedside, and sure enough. My Dad was attempting to open his right eye. I kissed his cheek and noticed him blink, a protective reflex when something comes at your face unexpectedly. We cried and called nearly everyone we know. Disclaimer: Don't feel bad if we didn't call you. I'm greatly exaggerating.

We were thrilled at this change, but the doctors and nurses seemed to be less interested, as he is still unresponsive in most every other sense. In rounds, the doctors ordered multiple new tests. A continuous EEG to watch for seizure activity, an EKG to check the quality and function of his heart (as he has had an extremely high heart rate for a few days now and they are concerned the clot in his leg may have worked its way to his lung), and a test to check the connection between his brain and muscles.

The afternoon brought a slightly disheartening meeting with the doctors in which the same old lectures were reiterated, "It's too soon to tell. We don't want to sugar coat things. You need to prepare for the worst. If this test comes back negative there is nothing we can do. But, try to remain hopeful." That sort of feels like someone saying, "I hate every single thing about you. But no offense." They informed us that the EEG and the EKG both came back normal (phew). But that the results of the brain/muscle scan would not be back until evening. They reinforced multiple times that this test is extremely important and would be highly sensitive in anticipating his ultimate prognosis.

We were sick as we awaited the results. We had dinner and then made our way back to the hospital. On our way we stopped in labor and delivery to see if my friends could tell what gender little Baby Fullmer  or "Squishy" as we affectionately refer to it had decided to become. Did I ever mention I am pregnant? Not exactly how I wanted my little one to make its debut. But alas, that's the least of my problems. Gender result? Undecided, but preliminarily a girl (I will certainly not be rushing to Babies R Us any time soon). When we entered the NCCU we were immediately informed that the results of the test would not be available until tomorrow morning.

When I entered my Dad's room this evening, he had both eyes half open. I know what you are thinking, because so did I. Hooray! He is waking up! And while I still feel this way, I was not expecting how hard it would be to see him with his eyes open. Those eyes have smiled with me, cried with me and have filled with compassion, love and concern countless times throughout my life. Tonight, they were glassy, unfocused and sad. And while he has had shaking since the beginning of this ordeal, it is more tortuous when he is attempting to open his eyes because I am afraid that he is struggling and that he is aware of it. I have no idea if this is true, as countless people have recounted that patients rarely remember anything when they survive something like this. But like I said before, fear is a very real emotion in this. And I am constantly afraid for his well being.

Every night when we get in the car we play the "Positive or negative day" game. Today? Positive. Dad is progressing. He is showing us that he is still in there. He wants to come forward. But the realization of what the means is setting in for me and for my family. Waking up will not be painless. He will most likely be scared, worried, confused and in excruciating pain. And it's something he has to do alone. But rest assured, we will be holding his hands and reminding him how strong he is and just how much we love him. Which as it turns out, is a lot.