Monday, January 30, 2012

The cavalry, tears and the "new normal"

Michael's week-long sojourn in the Neurology ICU is remembered in moments. By me, rarely him--he remembers mercifully little. One time only, the nurses gave him oxycontin. I arrived for the afternoon visit to find him restless and speaking in soft, urgent tones: "These cows won't listen to me," he said. "Nurse--(much louder)--can you pull the curtains?" (During this entire time, he was very photophobic and the florescent lights from the nursing station were a constant source of irritation). "No," his nurse replied grimly. "You ripped out all of your leads today, and now we have to watch you." Our friend Mark, popped in to check on us just as Mike went into a rant about how it was completely logical to rip out his leads, how he was pinned to his bed and couldn't move a muscle...it was a manic tirade that would have been amusing had it not been so frightening. I couldn't have written dialogue like that. Mark and I looked at each other, wondering if we dared a smile..or laugh...or cry....? Other moments in the ICU were poignant. Once, after receiving a catheter, a weak and exhausted Mike whispered to me, "Some holes were not meant to have anything put in them." He paused. "Mashed potatoes in your mouth is fine..."

One of the hardest moments had been calling our respective parents to tell them that Mike was gravely ill. Mike's mom, dad and his brother began making flight arrangements immediately--always an expensive prospect at the last minute. I knew his Mom would be afraid that she wouldn't get here in time. His brother, Steve, arrived a few days after his parents arrived. One of his best friends from Indiana, Rich, called and asked if he and "the guys" could come for the weekend. "If we get to see Mike for 5 minutes and do your grocery shopping, that will be enough," he said. "We'll stay at a hotel." I told them to come.
Kevin brought his ukele and played it everywhere, including the elevators in the hospital. Troy made us all laugh. Just the joy of seeing "the boys" together was priceless...for me, for Mike's family, for Mike.

"Why is everyone coming?" Mike asked suspiciously when I told him. "They just want to be with you," I assured him, "and see for themselves that you're okay." Bit by bit he came out of the haze and the incredible pain. He insisted on visiting the washroom himself - "I have to show them I can do this.


His journey to recovery would take months; the ultimate multi-tasker, he would have to learn to be more singular in his focus and plan accordingly. He would have to learn not to skip lunch, to not skimp on sleep and to shut it down when he became tired. He apparently had so much dilantin in his system that, a week or so after he was discharged from the hospital and couldn't walk, his GP called our home at 9pm in the evening and said "The Royal Alex Hospital is expecting you" because she believed that he would need to be admitted, on the basis of his alarming blood test results.

After that, his improvement accelerated...to the point where he decided to proceed with his long-planned theatre tour to Belgium and Kiev. And, while he had difficulty remembering where he parked the bicycle, all of the lines from his play "Bashir Lazhar" were fully there, awaiting recall.

His brain continues to find new paths, new ways of doing things.

I want to be like Mike's brain.