Not The End!

This is David.  The pan of delectable deliciousness he is holding is called pani popo.  It’s basically Hawaiian sweet rolls swimming in homemade coconut sauce and it is out of this world.  Here is a list of miracles that made this pan of luscious delight possible:

• David drove our van to forage for the coconuts to make the sauce.  He has the coordination to drive safely, the memory to remember where he saw brown coconuts, the directional ability to find his way to them, the visual acuity to spot them, the access to past experience to assess which ones are good and which ones are not.
• He collected and carried the coconuts back to the van, probably while holding T in the baby carrier and keeping an eye on the other two kids (let’s be honest, doing ANYTHING remotely productive while wrangling 3 kids is a feat of epic proportion)
• He husked, cracked, shredded and milked the coconuts, a process that involves a pick axe, a sharp metal shredder, a blender and some cheesecloth, in addition to considerable patience, coordination and upper body strength.
• He used the computer to look up a recipe, wrote the recipe onto a piece of paper and followed it step by step.  There is a whole slew of executive function skills involved in this one seemingly simple thing that would be boring to list here, but trust me, this is miraculous.
• He safely used the stove to cook the sauce, and remembered to turn it off afterwards (to be honest, I forget to turn the stove off more than he does these days)
• He used a *gasp* sharp knife to cut the sweet rolls in half.  Nobody I know cuts the rolls in half when they make pani popo.  He came up with that all on his own to increase the surface area available for the rolls to soak up the coconut sauce.  Again, executive function.  Again, miraculous.

This kind of thing happens every day.  Not the delicious soggy sweet roll thing, but the miracle thing.  As life becomes more and more normal I’ve been worried that in the sheer volume of small miracles the awe and the amazement might start to wear off.  I am pleased to report that it hasn’t.  Each time I see David doing something. . . . normal. . . . I am warmed from the inside with gratitude and love and incredulity at his miraculous recovery.

I have a deep conviction that this life is not the end, and that after this life our bodies will be changed and become perfected.  I am so, so glad that David and I have been given this gift of being able to continue on in this life in a state of, if not perfection, at least normalcy.  That we have not been required to wait until some future time to continue our relationship full of love, joy and daily miracles.

Other noteworthy occurrences since January:

 We attended a recognition ceremony for the two courageous, amazing men who helped administer First Aid to David at the scene of the accident.  It was fantastic to reconnect with them and with the angel who took care of J and Z that day as well.

David baptized our extended family members from the Philippines. 

 We have occasionally made it to church on time.

 David spearfishing for the first time post-accident.

 Helping Z make her birthday cake.

 Almost everyone is looking halfway pleasant and  facing the camera!

 Baby blessing day!

Change

Everything changes.  Some things change slowly, with the gradual trickle of moments into days, weeks, years.  Other things change with shattering speed.  Nothing on this earth is permanently fixed, immune to change.  Even things of eternity: love, family, faith, spiritual stature, are always changing, growing.

I woke up a little before 2 am last Friday morning feeling sharp, crampy pain in my lower belly.  Thinking it was just my full bladder pushing against all my other squashed internal organs I got up and went to the bathroom.  No blood, no signs of labor.  I’d been to the doctor Thursday morning and was at 1 - 2 cm dilated, and 50% effaced.  My cervix was very posterior, indicating labor might be days away still.  The problem with obstetric statistics is. . . . they don’t always mean anything.  

I climbed back into bed and had another crampy wave a few minutes later.  Still not convinced it was labor, my water hadn’t broken like it had with the other two, and this felt different than I remembered.  Thursday afternoon David and I ditched the kids and went walking up our “labor hill.”  The OB’s were all very concerned that I was a week overdue, they were talking about inducing, so we went walking to try to get things going.  The particular hill we climbed put me into labor for Z, and got things going for J as well.  It was worth a shot.  And it was a very nice day, and pleasant to be out in the woods just the two of us.  And it helped me to sink into readiness for baby to come.  I couldn’t stay pregnant forever, right?  But I had been so preoccupied with . . . everything. . . that I hadn’t had the time to enter that “ready” state of mind.

I kept an eye on the clock and timed the cramps, which were becoming warmer and harder.  They were coming about 5 minutes apart and once they got to the point where I couldn’t lie down through them any more I decided it must be time and got out of bed.  I had a moment of panic.  How am I supposed to keep everything in our family functioning with a newborn?  How would I be able to manage to keep everyone on an even keel through this transition, which under the best of circumstances would be hard?  But the panic passed as another wave came and I forced myself to feel it, to welcome it, to relax into it.

I told Z I had a tummy ache and she should go back to sleep.  Of course, she somehow knew something was going on and was wide awake, though she did listen and stayed in bed.  Then I walked outside onto the deck to call my midwife.  I thought I was being stealthy but somehow David sensed there was someone out there and came to investigate.  I told him I thought I was in labor but he should relax, could be a while still before things got interesting.  It was about 230 and at that point my contractions were about 2 minutes apart and just under a minute long, gaining strength all the time.  The midwife got underway and I went back inside and tried to find a comfortable place to labor.  My other two labors I was able to find a comfortable spot to be still and allow the contractions to come and go, entering a magical state of suspended time and being.  This time I was uncomfortable no matter where I was.  I thought it was my psyche still battling all the worries in my mind, and I predicted that that would make things take longer and harder.

I leaned on the kitchen counter, knelt backwards on the couch, stood upright, rested on a stack of pillows on the bed, nothing felt good.  I went to the bathroom and sat on the toilet through a couple of contractions, starting to moan through them.  David came in and I told him he might want to start setting up the birth pool.  He started to blow it up and came back in to tell me Z wouldn’t go back to bed.  I told him to call his mom to come get her, things were starting to get intense.

I moved from the toilet to the shower, where I stood with the water on my back, leaning on the shelf and yelling through contractions.  At the height of one particularly hard one my waters burst under the pressure.  The fluid that came out was clear, a good sign, and I checked to make sure there was no cord prolapse.  No cord, and the presenting part felt like a head, but I thought I could also still feel some cervix around it.  At that point the thought came to me that David needed help. . . it was too much to get the tub filled, get Z out the door, get the camera set up, and get everything else ready.  So I turned the water off and got out, intending to call my doula to come help.

All of the following events happened simultaneously:  David’s mom came to pick up Z, so David was at the door handing her off.  My doula answered her phone at 4:03 am, and I just had time to say “Hey, it’s Jenne, I’m in labor.”  A massive contraction seized my whole body and all I could do was drop the phone and scream through it.  I felt baby’s head move down, too fast.  I expected the contraction to let up and allow the birth to happen gradually but it just kept going.  I was standing next to the bed, one hand on the mattress and the other hand feeling the baby’s head emerging.  I tried to slow it down, to breathe through it, to relax, but there was no rest.  I had no choice but to surrender and scream as her head pushed its way all the way out into my hand.

The contraction ended and, stunned, I called out “David!  Baby’s coming!”  He ran back into the room and supported baby’s head.  I checked for a cord around her neck and felt nothing.  I just had time to crawl onto the bed with David’s help before the next wave overtook me.  On hands and knees I yelled and pushed back gently on baby’s neck.  Her front shoulder popped out, followed by the rest of her warm body, and she landed in a gush of fluid on the bed, David guiding her and making sure she had a soft landing.  She immediately cried out, and after a moment of catching my breath I asked David to pass her through my legs up to where I could see her.  I rubbed her down with a towel to get her to breathe, but she was already fully breathing and crying.  In the dim light I could see she was a girl!

The midwife arrived as I was toweling her off.  Her assistant arrived a few minutes later, followed by my doula.  David cut baby’s cord and the placenta came out after some effort.  She was weighed and checked.  9 pounds, 22 1/2 inches long, 14 inch head.  

And so our family of 4 changed to 5.  And the slow clock of growing up began ticking for another of our babies.  I do my very best to drink in all the moments, to appreciate every good thing as it is, as it will never be again, because everything changes.  It’s difficult and glorious at the same time, and I’m learning that it is the way God intended it to be.

A Conversation With My Former Self

If I could reach back in time and have a conversation with my struggling self in the Neuro-ICU almost 2 months ago I would tell her that miracles happen.  That God has seen fit to return David to our life.  That he can accomplish all of his activities of daily living with essentially full independence.  He feeds, dresses, toilets and bathes himself.  Brushes his own teeth, walks up and down stairs, cooks meals, buys things at the store, speaks understandably, plays games, reads stories to our kids, attends church, cracks jokes, helps clean the house, keeps decent track of time (most of the time), has clear opinions about things, can balance on one foot, follows and participates in conversations, feels a full range of emotions, remembers things that even I forget.  He knows who I am and . . . he loves me.  He has an understanding of what it is that happened those two months ago, and sympathizes deeply with all that I and our kids have gone through during the excruciating time when his life, our lives, hung in uncertainty.  He worries about us, about our safety and well-being and happiness.  His desires to contribute, to provide, to protect and to participate in leading our family are intact.  He smiles, he laughs, he catches crabs on the beach, he plays with our kids.  I would tell my Neuro-ICU self that there are things about him that are different, that are hard.  But I think my former self would be too overwhelmed by ecstatic gratitude to pay much attention to those things.  She would probably laugh at me for even bringing them up.

The problem lies in the fact that if I had been able to speak to my former self and put her mind at ease, to remove the pain of unknowing, I would have also removed the need to exercise faith, and thereby would have deprived myself of precious gems of truth that I now possess.  I am still discovering many facets of my character, my understanding and my testimony that have been changed, strengthened and clarified by the acute phase of this ordeal.  

If I could communicate now with my future self and be rescued from the uncertainty that still clouds my view of our future, would I choose to have that conversation?  Probably.  But one small piece of what I have learned is that “faith in God includes faith in His timing” (Neal A. Maxwell).  And I don’t doubt that the pain and the struggle and the patience and the faith that are required of me at this time will result in the acquisition of more precious truths and more changes and more growth that our Father desires to give me and my little family.

Forward Into 2016

On this New Year’s Eve I am feeling peaceful.  Like the tides, our ups and downs roll in and out.  I grit my teeth (and cry) and bear the hard days as best I can, and on the good days I try to soak the happiness into every cell and fiber and store it up for the next low.  

Christmas was magical.  I tucked everyone in and then stuffed present after present underneath our tree.  Not a single gift was purchased, wrapped or even thought about by me.  And the tears flowed as I sat on the couch munching on Santa’s cookies and surveying the pile of generosity on my living room floor.  It was such a metaphor for how my whole life has been since David’s accident.  Me, hanging on by the skin of my teeth, doing what I can to hold the fraying corners of our life together, and begging God to help us through this.  And Him answering, filling in the gaps, pouring goodness into all the holes I can’t fill.  But He doesn’t do it personally.  He sends friends, family, acquaintances and complete strangers to do His work.  To be His hands, His voice, His succor in our time of need.  And to stuff presents into the empty space under our Christmas tree so that we could see the magic of Christmas morning on the faces of our babies.

I am trying to keep some sort of track of the good that people have done for us, but I know there is no possible way for me to remember everyone and everything.  There is just too much, and too many.  But to all of you who have answered the prompting to reach out to us in love in any way, please know that my humility and gratitude towards you reaches to depths I never knew possible.  Our life is hard, but without you it would be unbearable.

It’s hard to explain specifics about what makes this stage of things so difficult.  And I have mixed feelings about how much detail I should share on the blog, for many reasons.  Some things are not hard to express, like the pressure of how to manage a hundred different doctor/therapy appointments, while trying to make sure our kids are not neglected physically or emotionally, helping them to understand why their Daddy is different, helping David to understand why he is different, trying to find ways to avoid high-pressure situations while still being able to have fun, anticipating and strategizing for breakdowns (his, mine, the kids’), finding and sticking to a routine and sleep schedule that works well for everyone, keeping the rental business functioning, squeezing out enough attention for everyone to feel loved and heard, trying not to allow the uncertainty to sink me into depression, all on top of the normal every-day demands of cleaning, feeding and mommy-ing that I barely managed to accomplish on any given day, even pre-accident.  Oh yeah, and baby is due any time in the next 2-3 weeks.  There are so many things that are falling through the cracks that I can’t even think of what they are.  All I know is we are living on prayers (and on my mom, and on all the good people who step in and take care of us) and little by little learning how to be together again, while celebrating all the small milestones and all the small moments of goodness.

And every day counting my blessings that David is alive, he is home with us, he is progressing and we are not left utterly alone.  We have a new year ahead of us, of struggle and of learning, of patience and change, of humility and hope and failure and triumph.  I can’t say I’m excited or eager, but forward is the only way through and I resolve to keep us moving in that direction, with the guidance of He who sees the end from the beginning.

Full Circle

Yesterday was a huge milestone.  We attended church together as a family for the first time since that shattering Sunday a month ago.  So much has happened in such a (relatively) short time, I feel like we have lived a whole lifetime in these 5 weeks.  It felt really good to be doing something so normal together.  I was worried that David would be overstimulated and need to leave after the first hour, but he was actually excited to be there and wanted to stay the whole time.  He loved it that everyone was happy to see him and wanted to talk to him (he loves to talk these days).  The tears flowed freely and he just kept saying to me how good everyone was and how he had no idea there were that many people who love us.  It’s a recurring theme in our conversations.  Whenever I mention a good deed someone has done for us, some act of service performed, some gift given, he tears up and is so grateful and feels so loved.  I cry along with him and we hold each other on our own little island of gratitude and humility.

Every time I look at him I feel like I’m witnessing a miracle.  The way he stands (and the fact that he stands at all), the way he holds himself, his facial expressions and body language, all of it is so him.  And much of what he says and does and prioritizes are still the same as well.  Even in all his chronic pain and brokenness and confusion he is constantly trying to do things to help me and is always asking me if I’m alright, if the baby is ok, if our kids are fine.  He has not once gotten truly angry with me (though there has been a fair amount of complaining and impatience at times) when I ask him to do his physical therapy exercises or when I correct a word he is saying wrong, or redirect him in a task.

HIs main concern right now is his poor eye.  Everything in his whole world is affected by not being able to use his right eye.  It wears down his ability to cope with all the other things that are happening with him, and hurts his confidence in his ability to perform tasks that he is fully capable of doing.  The last word on it was that there is still every chance it will recover, but it could take months.  And for David even an hour can feel like weeks.

The difficult thing for me continues to be that, while so much of him his still so similar to his pre-accident self, the things that have yet to recover make it feel like I’m living in some strange parallel existence, similar but not the same.  I am doing my best to incorporate activities and tasks and therapies that will help his brain re-make those connections and I truly have faith that he will again be fully my David.  But the truth is, even when he is fully healed, when this is all scarred over and finished, neither of us will ever really be the same as we were.  How could we be?  And, as painful as it is, and as much as I still grieve for what used to be,  I feel the shaping hand of our Father in all of this.  I am learning to trust in that, and to trust that He is creating for us something good in ways that would not have been attainable by any other means.

Home Again!

(Leaving Rehab)

Tonight is Discharge Eve.  In many ways it’s like Christmas Eve.  The anticipation, the huge buildup, the excitement.  And, I have a feeling that in many ways the day after Discharge will be a lot like the day after Christmas. . . kind of a letdown.  All David can focus on right now is D-Day, and even though all of his therapists have continually reiterated that there are many things that will be different for a while, his mind is so focused on the big day that I fear there will be many a letdown once we are home.  

He has made huge strides of progress here in the Rehab facility.  Physically he can do most everything he could do before the accident, although his strength is greatly diminished from the weeks lying in bed.  I have no doubt his body will recondition itself with ease, though it may take longer than usual since lots of energy is being used to heal his broken parts.

His speech continues to improve.  He recognizes when the words he says don’t sound right, and he will slow down and ask for help to say what he wants to say.  He understands everything people around him are saying, and the words and sentences in his head are intact, but the signals translating the words in his head to the words he speaks are still getting mixed up.  This is going to be hard for him out in the “real world” where people might make assumptions about his intelligence based on his speech.  

His memory and cognition also continue to improve, but more slowly than his speech.  He can find his way back to his room about 50% of the time now.  He knows the day, month and year most of the time.  He knows where we are and why we are here (although he is still incredulous that he could have fallen out of that tree. . . we all still are).  His short-term memory is weak still, but improving.  His right eye still remains closed, although there is more muscle movement of the actual eye than there has been.  The plastic surgeon is still hopeful that his eye may fully recover.

(( The above post was written last night (12/15), below was written tonight (12/16). ))

Well, today was the big day.  We got out of bed early and packed up.  David scarfed his breakfast down and we scooted out of there.  He was so happy.  So was I, but it was mixed with a whole lot of apprehension.

The rest of the day today went great, really.  We got home, got unpacked, shed some happy tears, took naps.  We went to the beach with my sister, who has been here acting as surrogate mom for our kids for the last 10 days.  David is very worried about our kids all the time, that they are safe and not doing things that could get them hurt, to the point where he seems a little paranoid.

The naps are really hard for David.  He needs them, of course, but every time he wakes up from one he is very disoriented and thinks that he has been asleep all night and it’s the morning of a new day.  He also has trouble orienting to the time throughout the day, and usually thinks it’s much later than it is.  His emotions are amplified and his tears come very easily and quickly.  In some ways it’s nice to see his feelings on the surface. . . he usually keeps them pretty deep.  On the other hand, it’s kind of disconcerting to see him become upset and emotional so quickly, and to see his confidence so shaken.  I have hope that’s one of the things that will come back in time.  It’s something that makes him. . . him.

My sister left for the airport tonight.  So we are just us again, for the first time in 4 and a half weeks.  The task of keeping us all together, of being in charge of everything to do with both the kids’ and David’s well-being is daunting and frightening and exhausting.  I don’t know if I can do it.  I have to do it.  I hope I can do it.

(Final Meal at Rehab)

(Coming in the front door)

(At the beach with the kids)

Rehab

These last 4 days have seemed like a lifetime.  David made the move from Queen’s Medical Center to the Rehab Hospital of the Pacific on Wednesday.  It was all he could talk about that morning and the hours went by so slowly while we waited for all his discharge papers to be in order and for his transport vehicle to arrive.  When it was finally time to go David was loaded up in a wheelchair and wheeled out to the van.  He and I climbed in and buckled up, while David’s uncle (who came back for a second visit) drove my van to the Rehab hospital.

We went through the admissions process.  The coordinator would ask David a question, he would respond, and I would translate.  He had David sign most of his own papers, which I thought a little odd since he couldn’t really even understand what he was saying most of the time, and David was astonished to discover it was the year 2015.  He still says the same thing every time he learns what year it is, “Wow, already?  I’m old!” 

David’s speech is still improving but he has trouble with switching some letter sounds around or adding letters to the ends of words.  I have grown accustomed to his new “language” and can usually tell what he is talking about.  And when he is trying to communicate with someone and it’s not working, he will usually end up looking at me in exasperation and asking me to tell them what he’s saying.  I’m glad I can help, but I want to make sure I don’t become a crutch for him.

The rest of the day Wednesday was filled with initial visits from the doctor and various therapists.  By the end of the day we were both exhausted and went to bed.  David didn’t sleep well and was up and down most of the night.  The next day we spent most of the time doing more in-depth assessments with the therapists and exploring our new surroundings.  David’s enthusiasm at being out of the hospital waned quickly and he had many emotional breakdowns throughout the day wanting to go home.

The nurses were also very wary and strict about following the rules, and hustled around us every time we left the room.  We had to complete toilet and shower training before they would leave us alone to do those things, and then had to train to be able to walk around the hospital floor, and then the courtyard outside.  Many of the patients there don’t have the ability to complete those basic functions without assistance from the nursing staff to be safe.  David is one of the youngest and most physically able patients there and it seems to throw them off.

His physical abilities and improving communication skills are wonderful, but they also mean that his stay at the Rehab hospital will be very short, probably 6 or 7 days at most.  Most of his needs lie in the cognitive area, and there isn’t anyone there who focuses solely on that aspect of rehabilitation.  So, in just a few days we will probably be on our own.  It’s too soon for me and not nearly soon enough for David.  Whenever there is a break in between therapy sessions and he doesn’t have a guest around to talk to he usually slips back into anger and frustration at feeling trapped in the hospital and not being able to go home.  His primary concern is getting back to the kids, and then work and church and scouts.  He begs and bargains and tries everything he can to convince whoever is within earshot that he cannot spend one single minute more in that place.

The problem I’m foreseeing is that he does not realize that going home won’t fix everything.  That just because he leaves the hospital doesn’t mean life will be back to normal.  He still cannot find his way back to his room from just around the corner.  He still does not know what year it is, usually thinks he’s in California, and doesn’t believe he fell out of a tree.  His body will still hurt, his speech will still be different and he will be really limited as to what he is able to do on his own.  I’m trying to gently introduce this idea to him, but his brain still latches onto going home as the panacea for all his problems.

Yesterday he had more therapy sessions, which was helpful in keeping him feeling productive and busy, and we had fewer emotional outbursts about going home.  His physical therapist had him walk down and up two flights of stairs without holding the railing.  David was a little shaky on the way down but went up without a problem, even skipping steps, to the alarm of his therapist.  He also had some visitors before bedtime, which was great and wore him out so he was ready for bed.  Sleeping is still difficult for him and he had another restless night despite his exhaustion.  Many times I would wake up to him begging for someone to “Please, please help me.” I don’t know if he says it in his sleep or if he is praying, or just speaking his misery.

Today was also a good, full day and he is becoming easier to reason with and redirect when he becomes fixated on going home.  The kids visited, and a couple of the scouts, and later on in the day our friend Sean and another friend from church.  Saying goodbye to the kids was rough, as it usually is.  David’s mom came to spend the late afternoon with him and his dad will come spend the night.  I was able to make it home before the kids’ bedtime and spend a little time playing with them.  I feel guilty every time I leave David, and I feel guilty every time I leave the kids.  It’s an impossible situation.

And so round and round we go.  Home for a few hours, back to the hospital, therapy sessions, trying to fill in the down time, riding out the emotional storming, seeing baby steps of progress.  Worrying and praying and hoping.  It’s exhausting and I’m sure I would have buckled by now under the weight of it if not for the buoying up of all the prayers and well wishes and gifts and encouragement.

To tell the truth I’m really excited to have David home in a few days.  But I’m also a terrified.  So much about it is this huge, unpredictable unknown.  I just hope we can find our new normal quickly and safely and with as few tears as possible.

Cruising the courtyard with his babies.

Anticipating daddy's homecoming.

The long-awaited transport van

Posting on Facebook

Doing speech homework.

Painting an elephant during (optional) art therapy.

The finished product.

Another visit from the kiddos.