Heart Attack! (Day 2)

DAY 2

 January 28, 2009

Wednesday

12:00 a.m.

It was close to 12:30 in the morning by the time we finally went to bed.  I tried my best to keep things going just like they would be ordinarily—taking the dog outside when necessary, kids brushing teeth and all the other night-time routines.  As for me, I was emotionally and physically exhausted.  This had been the most emotional roller-coaster I had ever been on.  Bad news, good news, bad news, good news….it was very nearly more than I could take.  All I wanted to do was sleep, but I knew that probably would not happen.  I was still trembling.

Same day

4:00 a.m.

I finally gave up sleep and got out of bed at 4 in the morning.  I took my laptop with me out to the living room thinking I would catch up on some emails or do some homework if I could, or do anything to get me sleepy again—not that I wasn’t sleepy—I just couldn’t sleep.  I wasn’t out there for more than a few minutes when my youngest daughter, Ellie, came out and sat beside me—she hadn’t been able to sleep either.  She had just turned 9 years old. I wondered if the other kids were awake as well, but didn’t want to disturb them.  So I put the laptop back, and we watched TV until we felt sleepy, and I knew she might be able to go back to sleep.  It was almost 5:30 in the morning.  I slept from 5:30 to 6:30 in the morning.

Same day

8:00 a.m.

I had hopes that the kids would sleep in, but everybody seemed to be up at their usual times.  Being homeschoolers, I thought we would have school so that we could gain some normalcy in the day, and then go to the hospital, but no one could concentrate long enough to do any school.  Instead, I got ready to go the hospital, but was interrupted numerous times by Ed’s various family members—Ray, Barbara, and so on, as well as concerned members from church.

During my morning visit to the hospital, the nurse told me that during the two hours they were trying to stabilize him, his heart had to be shocked back “something like 15 times” (they previously said 11 times, and we later learned it was actually 12 times).  She said his vital signs are all good at the moment and that it seemed like he was going to pull through physically now the blockage was cleared, but there was concern about his mental status.  She said that each time he “flat-lined” he was without oxygen, and that seemed like a lot of times without oxygen, but it was too soon to know at this point.

I did what I felt I was supposed to do.  I held Ed’s hand, stroked his arm, and talked to him.  I told him about his family calling so often, and of all the well-wishes and prayers coming his way.  I decided to go ahead and bring his belongings home because I knew he wouldn’t want to get changed into his work clothes home (which he had been wearing when his “event” occurred).  If it were me, I would want fresh, clean clothes, and so that is what I planned for him.   I knew Ed would not be conscious at all today— though there was the remote possibility that he might regain consciousness in the evening after they began to bring him out of the induced coma, or paralysis. 

I asked about bringing the kids with me next time— I did not want the kids to see him in his current condition.  The nurse suggested I call ahead to make sure he was cleaned up and we could temporarily cover him.  To me, it was important that the kids see their father, even while unable to respond—but I knew it would also be hard for them.

Same day

11:30 a.m.

Back at the house, the phone wouldn’t stop ringing—both the house phone and my cell phone were literally ringing off the hook.  Every time I had to answer the phone the kids had to hear me re-tell everything, and every time I did, I became very emotional, and I think this was frightening for them.

I decided to get the kids out of the house and take them over to Shelby’s.  She was expecting company that night in her new apartment and so Marie and I built her DVD shelf and Rebekah (14) and Ellie put together her new vacuum, while Anne (11) flattened boxes and gathered trash.  After that, we went to the hospital.

In the meantime, Alex was still valiantly trying to save a job that a big client was considering finding someone else (a $17,000 job, which was supposed to give us a $4000+ down-payment this week)—because they were concerned Ed might not be able to do it.  He was also trying to help get the payments in that were owed to us this week—and get those to the bank when he could.  He was a true soldier and was rallying the best he could, which took a tremendous load off of my shoulders.  I thought of my dad’s blessing on Alex when he was a baby, about how some day he would be a great help to his mother.  This has been extremely stressful and very frightening for all of us, to say the least. 

Same day

4:22 pm

I returned to the hospital at least a couple other times that day— in the late afternoon I brought the kids but made sure Ed would be cleaned up and covered before they saw him.  Earlier in the morning he had still been bleeding in the mouth, and was still pretty messy. 

When I did bring the kids later that day, the nurse told me that she had just finished cleaning him up and changed his bedding and so on.  So she pulled a blanket over him to hide all the wires and tubes, and I brought the kids in from the ICU waiting room.  Little Ellie wasn’t sure if she wanted to see him, but she forced herself and was very brave.  He looked much cleaner, and there was no trace of any bleeding that the kids or I could see, and yet his appearance frightened me.  The night before, and even this morning, he was there—he just looked like he was sleeping.

This time, he was gone—he wasn’t there—I had seen dead bodies before, and they have the same appearance—as if they are hollow, empty.  But I gritted my teeth and lied to kids and told them “See how good he looks?  He looks much better.”  In my heart, I justified this lie with the thought that at least he wasn’t bleeding, wasn’t being covered by a small towel, and the tubes and wires weren’t visible—see?  He looked better that way…

When I noticed the respirator still going, I asked the nurse how we would know if he was breathing on his own or not if the respirator was still breathing for him.  She said we won’t know until they shut it off.  That wasn’t much comfort to me, because they were talking about how strong his heart was beating and that his vitals were good, and yet a machine was doing the breathing for him—of course everything else was going to look good.  I felt my blood run cold—something didn’t feel right.  But with the kids there, I calmly, as best I could, reassured them that everything was going to be alright.

I left two of his Star Trek books on the window seat, along with his glasses, hoping that if for some reason he awoke, he would have something familiar with him, and perhaps maybe even read if he felt up to it.

Same day

6:00 p.m.

That night, Corinne Massey came over and insisted on staying with us.  She was from the church and was bound and determined to make sure we were okay.  I actually felt much better now, and felt I was past the crying stage for the most part.  I kept telling myself that Ed was in the best possible hands.  The nurses told me that they would begin waking him up at 5 pm tonight by turning off the drips, the paralysis medication, and so on.  I offered to come at that time, but they encouraged me to come a couple hours later, “around 8-ish” because the awakening process could take anywhere from two to ten hours.  After all, one nurse said, “he was on the strongest paralysis medication possible.”  It would be a while before it wore off enough for him to respond. 

Corinne had arranged a dinner for us, but due to some confusion as to when we would be home (since we originally thought we would be at the hospital around 5 pm), it didn’t arrive.  So she insisted on staying while we prepared something that we had in the fridge to eat.  I kept telling her that I was fine, and that she could go home to her family.  There really wasn’t any need for someone just to sit there and “wait” around.  I even mentioned that I was thinking of taking a nap— to which she said she’d wait with the kids. 

I wanted to tell her that Marie is almost 18 and the girls can take care of themselves, but she seemed very insistent.  I ended up not getting to take a nap, and left at about 7:30 to meet Alex at the hospital.  But Corinne wouldn’t let me drive—she kept insisting that she drive me there, and so on.  She was worried that my one hour of sleep was going to have adverse effects.  I told her to go home, I was fine.  Instead, she followed me to the hospital, walked me in, and then waited in the ICU waiting room while Alex and I went in to see Ed.

Same day

8:00 pm

At this visit, Ed looked much better even though anyone else might say there was no physical change.  He was still intubated, but this time he didn’t look hollow.  Besides all of the medical equipment, he looked like he was simply sleeping.  It was a huge relief for me.  I knew Alex must have felt better, because he actually smiled for the first time since this all began.  He seemed noticeably happier and somewhat relieved.  We stayed only for a few minutes—they were still warming him up gradually, and adding warm blankets.  I stroked his arm, squeezed his hand, and told him all about the emails I had been receiving from his old high school buddies, and the phone calls from family members and how concerned everyone was—I even thought maybe it would help if he heard the ole’ battle-ax whining “Ed, wake up!”—I was only kidding—but Alex looked at me and quietly said “Don’t do that!”  but I thought that the whole idea was to wake him up.

We went back into the ICU waiting room where Corinne was still waiting, and told her about our visit and Alex was cheerful and optimistic.  Corinne proceeded to call the public schools (she works at Chief Joseph Middle School) and I excused Anne’s absence.  I couldn’t remember how many days she’d missed, or even what day it was.  I was thinking she had missed two days of school, but today was only Wednesday—she was at band the day Ed had his heart attack.  Had it only been a day?  I kept messing up the dates.  In either case, they must have got the message that I was distraught, because they gave her Medical Excuses for the rest of the week.  Corinne also dialed the high school for me, and I excused Marie and Rebekah as well.  When we left, Corinne followed me all the way to our street, and then went home.  I was glad she had been there, though she didn’t need to be.  It was nice to have some moral support even when I didn’t think I needed it.

Same day

10:00 p.m.

            Not 15 minutes after I got home, the phone rang and it was the ICU nurse.  She said that Ed had opened his eyes.  I couldn’t help but wonder if my interjection to “wake up” had triggered something in his brain.  She said she told him who she was, where he was, and what had happened.  She asked him to do some basic commands, such as “Squeeze my finger” and “Wiggle your toes” which he was able to do.  She sedated him again, she said, because it is often very uncomfortable when people first regain consciousness and there is a tube down their throat. 

She said he was awake only briefly, closed his eyes again, and went back to sleep.  It isn’t likely he will remember any of that, but it’s a good sign as I see it.  This was a big relief for me, and another hurdle that I felt we had successfully jumped.  Many, many blessings seemed to be sitting one on top of the other—they were all falling in to place, and they were in the right places.  

Heart Attack! (Day 1)

DAY 1

January 27, 2009
Tuesday

The day started out pretty good for my husband, Ed.  The weather was mild, and the sky was sunny and clear.  He felt fine; it was just another day at work.  He had been a painting contractor for 25 years and knew all the ins and outs of the business. His usual workday included dropping our adult son, Alex, off at one job site while he attended to another.  But today, he decided they would work together.  He had some doors he would be spraying in a newly built home, and Alex would work downstairs in another room.

            Spraying was not usually the best part of the job.  It required creating a working space enclosed within large sheets of plastic to prevent overspray coming into contact with anything else.  It also required special coveralls and a respirator, and performing maintenance on the sprayer.  This day, Ed was having trouble getting the sprayer to work properly.  Frustrated, he went downstairs to check on Alex, and helped himself to a handful of mixed nuts.  Seeing that Alex’s work was going along just fine, he headed back upstairs and got the sprayer working.  He put on his respirator and proceeded to spray both sides of 11 doors, neatly arranged for maximum paint coverage.  It was at this time, that he began to feel that he swallowed something too large—something that had perhaps stuck halfway down.

            Thinking that it was heartburn, he went ahead and put his sprayer away for the day, while Alex came upstairs to work in another room.  “I think I have really bad heartburn,” he told Alex, “so I’m going to sit this one out.”  He sat on the edge of a bath tub for a minute, but seemed to be getting more and more uncomfortable, instead.  He got up and tried to walk it off, and happened to see the home owner, Indy Corson. 

            “My chest is hurting.” He told Indy. 

Being on the local Search & Rescue team for Bridger Bowl Ski Resort, Indy knew a thing or two about First Aid.  “Where does it hurt?” he asked.  “Does your arm or shoulder hurt?  Does your jaw hurt?”

            “No,” Ed replied to everything.  “My arm doesn’t hurt,” Ed told him, “and my chest doesn’t really hurt.”  In fact, his chest didn’t hurt so much anymore, but seemed to be squeezing, getting tighter and tighter.  He sat down again, and rested for a few minutes.  As he stood, he realized there was no change in the tightness whether he was standing or sitting—it was time to get this checked out.  He walked over to Alex and said, “Put down everything right now.  You’re taking me to the clinic.”  The cost of the Emergency Room was not an option, and out of the question.

            Wasting no time, Alex put down his equipment and said, “Let’s go.” 

They immediately left the Corson’s home and were in the truck on the way to the clinic.  Ed figured they were about 10 minutes away from the hospital, and decided to call me.  He remembered telling me that his fingers were tingling, as if both his hands were falling asleep.  He remembered feeling so much discomfort that he handed the phone to Alex.  He felt as though his chest was caving in on itself.  “Maybe we should go to the hospital” he told Alex.

Same day

3:00 p.m.

I was typing away at my laptop, working on transcribing information to be submitted onto the Ehlenberger Family History website, when my 17-year-old daughter, Marie, walked into the room with the downstairs phone.  “It’s Daddy,” she said, but when she handed the phone to me, it was Alex.

            “He says he’s having really bad heartburn,” Alex said. 

It was about ten minutes past three p.m.  “You should probably take him to the hospital.” I said.  But apparently Ed objected and Alex handed the phone to him.  He could barely talk. 

“I’m going to the clinic,” he said.  “The hospital is too expensive.” 

            “No,” I said.  “They are not equipped with the proper equipment to see you.  When Stephanie fainted at work they wouldn’t even see her because she had a heart condition.  And besides...”  I was about to say time would be wasted if it was something worse, but Ed said “My fingers are tingling.” 

            “Give the phone back to Alex, please.” I said. 

“Yeah?” said Alex. 

“Take your father to the Emergency Room and let me know what is going on.”  “OK” he said.  “Be sure you call me.” I said.   In my head, I was thinking about the schedule for the day and who would need rides at what time—I was thinking that the kids probably shouldn’t go to dance classes, something they did almost every day.

***************************************************

            Again, Alex did not hesitate, and turned left on Main Street toward the hospital.  They were in the right lane, since they would have to make a right turn farther up the road to get to the hospital, but Ed suggested they pass the people on the right, which was unusual for him because he was usually such a slow and careful driver.  Needless to say, he does not remember much talking along the way.  He remembers feeling a little hunched over during this time, though Alex remembers him reclining.

            They turned right on Highland Boulevard without slowing down at the light, and went up the hill to the hospital, looking for the proper entrance drive to the Emergency Room.  There are several access roads which go to various parts of the hospital, and Alex mistakenly turned into one of the back access roads and Ed told him to go to the next road.  By the time he saw the Emergency Room sign up ahead, everything took on a surreal quality—he felt coherent, but not quite solid.  Everything seemed foggy, and unreal.

            Once they were near the Emergency Room entrance, Ed told Alex to park the truck and he would walk in on his own accord.  It had been nearly 20 minutes from the onset of symptoms.  He walked about 20 steps, sat down at the triage desk and looked the nurse in the eyes.  “Hi,” he said.  “I’m Ed Johnston and I think I’m having a heart attack.” 

The nurse immediately sprang into action and rushed him into a treatment room.  “Take off all your clothes and put them in the corner,” she told him, and helped him into a hospital gown.

            Within seconds, helping hands were all over him, pushing him down on to the table.  “Shave him now,” he remembers someone saying. By the time Alex came in from parking the truck, the doctors were reading the graphs hooked up to him.  Still in a desperate haze, he saw Alex sitting on a chair in the room with him.  He focused his eyes on Alex, and while everything else in the room became dark, he concentrated on Alex’s face.  He watched as his seemingly detached arm reach out toward Alex, and heard his own voice say “That’s my son.”  This moment froze in time.  All he wanted to do was touch Alex—a connection to familiarity and reality.  He felt as though he were reaching with all his might, but he could not touch. 

One of the doctors said “Edward, it appears you’re having a heart attack.”  Though he does not remember, a nurse later told him “You told your son to call your wife.”  He also does not remember quietly telling them that he was allergic to aspirin and that he had a right bundle branch block.  About this time, Alex saw the heart monitors go crazy and saw a pulse rate of 208 beats per minute and climbing.  Ed heard muffled voices and felt hands working on him, but they faded into darkness.  Everything seemed to fade except for Alex, and soon, even Alex’s face disappeared as he lost consciousness.  When the defibrillator was activated, Alex began to back out of the room. 

***************************************************

            I started to close out of the program I was writing, and thought to myself—I better get to the hospital.  I closed my laptop without a second thought and started to get my coat and boots when Alex called again.  “He’s having a heart attack,” he said, as if he was fighting tears and trying to sound brave.  “I’m on my way.” I said and called Marie from downstairs.

            “Your dad’s having a heart attack” I said. “—I don’t know anything more, I’m on my way to the hospital and I’ll call you.”  She nodded and I saw the immediate buzz of the announcement downstairs among the kids.

            Before I could get to Main Street, I called Alex again to find out what was going on.  He could barely talk.  “It looks pretty bad,” he choked, “They’ve had to shock him...”   Now my heart was really racing.  Could this really be happening?  I didn’t question it-- I just waited at the red light while my own heart palpitated in its place.  Finally the light turned green and I turned onto Main Street— and as I did, I could see every light all the way down Main Street turn red, one by one—I ended up getting every single red light there was—all the way to the hospital.  About halfway down Main Street I called Marie and asked her to call Pet Smart, where my oldest daughter, Stephanie was working.  I wanted her to know what was going on and to see if she could come home and be with the four younger girls. 

            I ran into the emergency room barely breathing, and saw Alex sitting down with a doctor talking to him.  His eyes were red and watery, his left elbow was leaning on the arm rest and he had a tissue in his hand near his face.  They said something to each other—something about who I was.  I moved Alex’s coat from a chair and sat down and waited to find out what was going on.

Same day

3:30 p.m.

I wanted to shout “Is he alive??” but the doctor instead began methodically going over everything that had happened.  I was only picking up bits and pieces of it because all I could think of was “Is he alive??”  The manner in which doctor was speaking, and the grim and ashen look on his face told me to fear the worst.  He almost seemed to be avoiding having to tell me telling me the worst kind of bad news.  Alex seemed quite traumatized and I was beginning to suspect the worst—but at the same time, I couldn’t accept that. 

            The doctor was telling me something about not being able to get a pulse because he was in arrest…..which caused his heart to lose the electrical impulses needed…..went into fibrillation….had to shock him……number of times…..unable to get it going…..several minutes….shock……taking him to the ICU.  That’s about all I heard.  Within seconds of telling me this, a nurse came in with a couple of bags and said “These are his belongings.  Would you like to take these?”  She must have read the shock in my face and my hands wildly gesturing her to stop, because she quickly said “Or I can put them in the ICU with him.” To which I nodded consent.

            My feeling was that you were only given the belongings when the person wasn’t expected to walk out with them.  In my mind, he was going to need those clothes when he came home; how dare she give them to me as if he wouldn’t be coming home?!  I think it was around this time that I had called Marie to let her know that he was okay, and to have her look up the Monson’s phone number.  I pulled out a paper from my pocket and tried to write down the phone number but I couldn’t write.  My hand was too weak—I couldn’t get it to move properly.  I lightly scribbled down the number.

            I had no strength, I was barely breathing, and I was trembling all over.  It didn’t seem to be real—the sounds, the lights, everything around me seemed dulled— the only reality was my little circle which included Alex, the doctor, and me.  The doctor said he would take us to the ICU waiting room, and we got up to follow him.  I could not find my strength.  My knees were trembling and I felt weak and sick.  I grabbed for Alex’s arm thinking he might need some support as well, but he seemed to pull away—as if he was furious at me for some reason.

            I tried to hold Alex’s arm as we walked through the hallway, but he didn’t seem to want anything to do with me and made no attempt to say or do anything.  My thought was that he was in a state of shock, like me.  Oddly, our trip to the ICU waiting room ended at the main lobby waiting room, where there was a crowd of others and a television blaring.  I remember thinking this can’t be the ICU waiting room—but perhaps they weren’t ready for us.  Later, I was to learn this was because Ed wasn’t in the ICU, yet—he would have been going to the Cath Lab.

            At this point I was thinking we really needed to let someone know—things needed to be set in motion.  Wendy Monson was the only person I could think of, someone whom we had stayed in touch with fairly regularly.  We had known the Monsons ever since we first moved into the area 13 years ago, and she knew all the kids, and she just seemed like the right person to call.  I walked around the corner of the hallway to get out of the mainstream of people and the noise of the television.  I dialed her number not knowing whether anybody would be home or not.  Alex stood near me.

            I spoke to Wendy, and explained to her what had happened, but couldn’t get very far because I couldn’t control the tears.   I told her I didn’t know who else to call.  At that time, I saw a gentleman come up to Alex and I, and he spoke to Alex a little while I was on the phone—I saw them shake hands.  Wendy was telling me that her father had had a heart attack here and survived and is doing great, that this was a really good hospital for that.  She assured me that she would take care of things and make sure the girls were okay at home. 

            When my phone conversation ended, the gentleman standing with us introduced himself (Ken? Kent?) as the hospital Chaplain.  I said to myself, ‘this is the guy they send out when they are not expecting good news.’  He asked if we would like to go to a quieter area, and he led us to the other side, closer to the emergency room again—where the vending machines are.  He asked if we would like water—I wanted some but couldn’t see any, so I said no.  Mostly we sat in quiet.

            At some point I spoke to both Marie and Shelby again—Shelby was wondering if she should go to the house and be with the girls or come to the hospital.  I asked her to come to the hospital—it seemed like the right place for her to be.   She arrived within 20 minutes or so.

            There was a big clock on the wall to the right of where I was sitting (I was facing the vending machines).  It seemed to be going very slowly.  I know I looked at the clock a few different times, but did not internalize the time.  There was idle chat…. mostly silence….. I saw Wendy Monson come up and we hugged and the tears started flowing again.  I was so grateful to have her to lean on.  I knew that if anybody understood, she did.  We waited, talked, worried.  Wendy offered a prayer. 

            I kept thinking of the “last time I saw him”—this morning, before he went to work.  He was standing, leaning against the silverware drawer, and I was cooking some eggs for breakfast.  We were talking about whether Alex was ready to move to Seattle or not later this summer—without a place to live, a job, or even a car.  Was he really aware of just how expensive a move like that was going to be? And so on.  I had given him an egg to eat before he left.

Same day

5:00 pm

It must have been another 45 minutes or so before the Chaplain left and came back to tell us that Ed was stabilized and they were working on him to get a stent in to open up the artery.  The Chaplain offered the information that he had been shocked 11 times.  This is when it really hit.  11 times??  He had died 11 times?? (We were later informed that it was actually 12 times.)

            Thoughts that quickly raced through my mind included: it was so bad he should really be dead—how can someone survive 11 times?  Did he not want to come back?  Though these thoughts were fleeting, that is when the reality hit me the hardest.  This wasn’t supposed to be how it happened, but here it was.

            From the time I got to the hospital, it must have been about two hours, an hour-and-a-half before they finally got Ed to the point of stabilization.  Dr. Dane Sobek came joined us and told us that Ed had experienced the worst kind of heart attack, the left coronary descending artery had been 100% blocked—the worst possible place to be blocked, and that they got it cleared and a balloon and stent had been inserted.  He told us that they were going to keep him paralyzed for at least 24 hours, and that he would be in a near-hypothermic state to keep the heart doing as little work as possible.  He was on several medications.  We could see him, talk to him, touch him, but he would not respond.  He said that, by all means, we should talk to him because we never know if people can hear us or not—we would have no indications due to his induced paralysis. 

            Before Dr. Sobek left us, another doctor, the Ear, Nose & Throat specialist asked Dr. Sobek a couple of questions, and told him what he had done with Ed.  I noticed that they talked briefly about the femoral puncture and I wondered why an Ear, Nose & Throat doctor would be treating the femoral puncture since that artery was located in the groin.  I knew that the femoral artery would be the preferred place to insert the balloon and stent.

            A female paramedic (EMT/police uniform) also came in to tell us that once they got the clot cleared the blood just went gushing through with great force, and his heart immediately began beating like it should—just as if the floodgates had been opened.  Everything went better after that.  I wondered what her purpose was—did she happen to be in the Emergency Room when he arrested?  Did she offer an extra hand in a time of need?  Whoever she was, she was with him during this time, and I was just grateful for her part in keeping him alive.

Same day

6:00 p.m. 

By the time we were able to go up to the ICU it was well past dark, though it must have only been about 6:30 p.m.  The hallway to the ICU seemed awfully long and dark.  When we got to his room, there was a great deal of blood around his head and on his face.  They had prepared us for this because he had evidently bitten his tongue in several places when he seized.  The bleeding was still going on due to the powerful blood thinners, and they hadn’t had time to do much with it, yet.  They did have an Ear, Nose & Throat doctor examine him to find the bleeding and take care of it.  His mouth was packed with gauze, as well as the throat, to prevent further aspiration of the blood into his lungs.

            The only thing covering is body was a small towel over his groin to keep him decent.  There were tubes and cuffs and wires and patches all over his body.  Monitors and lights indicated his every condition.  The nurse was strapping down his wrists so he would not pull at tubes or anything like that, should he suddenly awake—it would not happen on paralysis medication, but it was a precaution.  Though I saw him there, I couldn’t take in the reality of it.  I wanted to touch him, to make sure he was real, but the room was small, it was cramped with equipment, and in his fragile condition, I was afraid to do much of anything. 

I walked around his bed and stroked his arm, all in a state of shock.  When someone is put into such a situation, there is no choice but to accept the reality.  For me, all I wanted was for him to be okay.  Yet, at that moment, I was the only link between Ed and the rest of the world— and the kids and the rest of the world.  As his “next of kin” and the only remaining parent to care for the children, I had no choice but to accept it for what it was, and take each minute one second at a time.  I had to remind myself to breathe.

            The four of us (Alex, Shelby, Wendy, and me) did not stay very long; the nurse was still inputting his information into a computer and setting everything up.  We went to the ICU waiting room— the actual one this time— just a couple of doors down.  It was small, dimly lit, and very quiet.  We waited there until Dave Johnston and Wendy's husband, Eric, came.  It seemed like a long time before they arrived.  Up to this time I know I talked to Marie a couple of times but don’t remember when or why, other than to let them know of their dad’s condition, what we were doing and things like that.  I know that just before we got to the ICU, I was talking to Marie and she mentioned that someone had come over and the dog nipped at her.

We talked with Dave Johnston and Eric Monson for a while before we went in again to see him—the nurse was supposed to be doing things and getting things cleaned up prior to Ed’s blessing.   Wendy jokingly suggested I take a sleeping pill tonight, to which I told her I can’t take those over-the-counter sleep-aids because I end up with a massive case of Restless Leg Syndrome. 

In the meantime, the nurse didn’t know we were waiting to see Ed, so quite a bit of time went by before we finally went back in.  When we did, we stayed a few more minutes, and said our goodbyes.

  

Same day

9:00 p.m.

By the time I got home, it was about 9:30—about six hours from when I arrived at the hospital.   Once home, I again had no choice but to deal with it.  The kids had saved food out from dinner and encouraged me to eat—I wanted to, but it did nothing for me—there was taste, but there was no pleasure in the taste.  There was no hunger for the nourishment.  Besides, I had phone calls I had to make.

I knew it would not be fair to Ed or his family if I did not contact them right away, so the first person I called was his older sister Isabel (Liz).  I knew she was two hours ahead of me and was crossing my fingers that she would answer the phone—which she did.  Once I began talking, however, I had to re-live the past six hours again and I could not do it with a steady voice or without crying.  After Liz, I called my parents (my dad answered, but my mother got on an extension)—I asked each to phone other family members for me and let them know.

10:00 p.m.

Around 10:00 – 10:15, I talked to Alex as we tried to figure out what to do next with regard to the business, work, and calling people.  He was most concerned about the possibility of losing a large job we had just been given the okay to do—we really needed that down-payment to keep it going, and he needed to pay his rent. 

He was having some trouble deciphering his dad’s notebook – most everything was still in Ed’s head, and we needed it on paper to keep it going.  I also retrieved what phone numbers I could so that Alex could take over as smoothly as possible.  Other phone numbers were apparently stored in Ed’s phone, which must have been ringing off the hook in the closet of his ICU room.  I determined to get that phone first thing in the morning so that he wouldn’t hear it ringing and start stressing about the work he was missing.  Also, we needed to get phone numbers out of it, although Alex said it wouldn’t be easy because his dad often just said “Yeah, that looks like the right number” and would call it, hoping it was the right person he was trying to reach. 

To be Continued...

Lockdown!

 From Jan. 7, 2009

It has happened.

Though I have never seen it happen in this town, regardless of what the national economy is doing, it has finally arrived, and arrived with a bang. This town is in a recession. The construction industry, which we rely so heavily on for our livelihood, has nearly come to a grinding halt. Because we are often considered a resort town, we have escaped most of the troubles that fall upon the average American town, but this time it seems nobody is immune.

In 13 years of living here, we have never had work completely stop during the winter. Had I seen it coming, I would have prepared for it. I would have never purchased a new $30K vehicle this summer, nor gone on vacation, or taken that Labor Day weekend trip. Why didn't I see it coming? Because in spite of how bad the rest of country has been doing, there was never any construction slowdown locally... until now.

This is not good... not good at all. Because things have been so tight, I have had to rely on credit cards to make payments on some bills, and they are all nearly full, and I found out this morning one of them went slightly over the limit. This is bad. I have worked so hard to establish credit, and now I am down to the nitty gritty. Why didn't I see it coming? And why did it take so long to get to this town?

In order for us to stay alive, we may have to sell some things: the second car, the treadmill I purchased last year; the 120-gallon fish tank-- anything that will bring in a little extra money. As it is, it will take me two years to pay off my credit cards if I don't put anything else on them. That is my current goal. The problem is: how will we survive if work remains sparse? I am a full-time student, with another year to go before I get my degree.  Every time I mention to my husband that he should consider  work elsewhere (even part-time), he gets very offended and rants and raves about how he won't be able to do that once he gets busy painting again.

So we suffer through the hard times, he may go a week or more without working, but never lifting a finger to find any work elsewhere, because he is just "waiting" for work to come to him. I have a nagging suspicion that this year, work isn't going to fall into his lap like it has in the past. He is going to have to seek it out, or get another job somewhere else.

Voting Dilemma - I Need Help!

From May 25, 2008

(Was not able to save posted comments)

I'm a registered voter and have voted in almost all of the presidential elections since I became old enough. I have always taught my kids that their vote counts.

But my husband refuses to vote because he says his vote won't count anyway. With the electoral college, and Montana a small state (population), he says it won't matter that he doesn't vote, or who he votes for. I pointed out that we also vote for our local leaders, but it doesn't sway him at all.

I have tried these approaches:

• if nobody voted because they didn't think their vote mattered, etc.etc. He still thinks he is the one who's vote won't matter.
• he should set a better example for the kids (he got mad at me).
• if you don't like either candidate, vote for one you know won't win just to offset the votes (he laughed).

On top of that, he tells the kids that he isn't going to vote, and that it doesn't matter, etc. I am worried about the long-term effect this may have on them.

Help!!! How I can persuade him to change his attitude?

Obama vs. Clinton

From May 20, 2008

I have not settled on my vote for the upcoming presidential election yet. I see things I like in every candidate, and I see things I don't like. A couple of the people I really liked dropped out. But I have some concerns still...

 I like Obama as much as the next person. I don't have anything against him and think he is doing a great thing in raising so much interest in this presidential campaign. I can say the same thing for Clinton. But I am confused, and a little frightened by all the mass hysteria that seems to surround Obama and every move he makes! Personally, I find it a bit creepy. This might as well be the sixties with Obama as one of the Fabulous Four hitting America for the first time. I was too young to remember, but I've seen the video footage of the Beatles being mobbed by crowds, girls screaming, crying, and fainting.

Everyone keeps telling me to vote for Obama, look at how great he is, how he is changing politics, how he will change the country. Everyone keeps telling me this as if they are under some kind of spell. Can someone please tell me HOW he intends to do all these great things?

I have been to every presidential candidate's website, and so far, I see very little that sets Obama apart from Clinton. They may approach politics differently (although I see him as more of a talker an less of a do-er), but I have yet to see Obama actually tell us what exactly he will do. Everything seems so vague.

My vote is still up for grabs. I do not vote Democrat or Republican. I vote American. I don't care if the candidate is a donkey or an elephant, black or white, male or female. I vote the issues. I like Obama, I like Clinton, I like McCain-- all want to do good things for our country. I know where McCain stands, I know where Clinton stands, but I still can't figure out where Obama stands.

Autism in Adults

From May 15, 2008

While watching Dr. Joe Piven, MD, in his lecture regarding major susceptibility genes in autism, I found the following points very interesting, particularly with regards to my husband:

• Aloof (distant) {Personal examples: no real connection to family members or others.}
• Rigid (don't like changes) {Personal examples: an addition to the daily schedule of a small variation results in temper flares and added "hours" to scheduled day.}
• Untactful (have no tact) {Personal examples: spreading out paint supplies and large paint tarp on small front yard, on a busy neighborhood street with heavy sidewalk traffic, to paint a child's costume, rather than using a large, fenced back yard that is completely private, available, and unused.}
• Hypersensitive (in emotions) {Personal examples: continually assuming the worst intentions whenever anyone has the slightest thing to say, and instantly reacting.}

Adult autistics have a terrible time with judging trustworthiness. Be nice to them and they will trust you with their children's lives. They are the last to see that they are being taken advantage of. Complex social judgments are difficult. {Personal examples: being overly trusting toward co-workers and employees without realizing they are manipulating and even mocking him; cannot ascertain intentions.}

They have difficulty focusing on the eyes but can force themselves to, though their gaze shifts to other areas of the face, more notably, the mouth area. {Personal examples: failure to look at speakers in a meeting, or to others for any extended conversations.}

Difficulties in social tact, and in language, particularly figurative speech. Depending on the level of autism, it may be completely lacking. {Personal examples: inability to describe objects; uses wrong words to identify objects; easily frustrated in language "whatever", "I don't know", "you know what I mean"; cannot draw up the proper wording when appropriate; cannot verbally express himself; particularly difficult to describe feelings.}

Maybe there is more to his "swimming pools" of which I have referenced in previous posts here and here.  But I don't know that I will ever have the answers I seek.

Being the Object of Anger

From May 14, 2008

For 25 years, I have been the object of all my husband's anger and frustration, because he is unable to deal with it. He is not capable of learning from it or analyzing its causes. He can only get rid of it by throwing it all on me. This way he can deal with the outside world a little better.

Unfortunately, this does nothing to help me. I will feel like I am being treated like dirt-- anyone in this kind of relationship would feel that way. I am going to blamed for 90% of his misery and unhappiness, even if I have absolutely nothing to do with it. If he trips on a rock and stubs his toe while he is at work and I am at home, it will be because he is having a bad day because he "doesn't like the way things are" (whether I have anything to do with it "the things" or not) and yet he will not take an active part in changing whatever it is that he is not happy with. He has had so much help all throughout his life, he has never had to take an active part in improving his relationships with anybody. Remember, all he can see is what's in it for him. If there isn't anything in it for him, he isn't interested.

Sadly, this even goes for the children. All he does is pay for them. He has no active interest, no vested interest at all. I do everything for them when it comes to raising them. I would, in fact, say that outside of working outside the home, I have raised them 98%-99%, with their father and other "outside supporters" the remaining percentage. I have had to fight for them on numerous occasions. When they need something (even when their dad is home), they come to me. When they are hurt, they come to me. When they are worried, need advice, or just want to talk, they come to me. I have had to fight their dad for them, and I have had to deal with other adults on their behalf.

Now, I am not saying I am the perfect parent, because I am far from that. My point is that my husband acts like the children are just a fact of life. He brags incessantly about them to others, but in our daily home life, he couldn't care less about what they do or don't do. He does not support them emotionally, he does not talk to them, he takes no active support in any of their interests, hobbies, or goals. It is me, all the way.

In front of others, he seems the perfect father. He is kind and gentle and loving. Some times the kids turn away and roll their eyes, as if to say "Oh brother!" 

Question: How can he live with himself? 

Answer: He doesn't live in this world.

I live in this world, and I am teaching my kids how to live in this world. I don't care if I never have any credit for how wonderful my children are. But if something ever happens to me, I sadly have grave concerns for their welfare.