Read Online Fallen: A Trauma, a Marriage, and the Transformative Power of Music by Kara Stanley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kara Stanley
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exhale—both inhale and exhale too loud, too short, and too symmetrical, reminding me with every breath of this basic fact:
Simon can’t breathe on his own.
The noise of the machine would remind him of Darth Vader. I smile a little. Simon recently heard a comedy skit on the radio, a comedian from Newfoundland who translated memorable movie scenes into his hometown dialect. The
Star Wars
scene cracked Simon up, and for weeks he reenacted it every chance he got.
“I’s your daw, Luke,” I whisper to Simon, breathing audibly with the ventilator, a mock Vader voice. “I’s your daw.” The machine keeps up its robotic breath, and Simon doesn’t turn his head and smile at me, the way I keep half-expecting him to, but still I am comforted by this shared joke.
To the right of Simon’s bed is a large computerized panel that flashes a series of numbers, which I watch compulsively for clues to Simon’s internal world, trying to discover a pattern similar to the one I witnessed the night Eli was born. Does Simon’s heart rate speed up when I speak to him? Does his pulse quicken when someone enters the room? But there are no patterns here; the mini strobe lights of numbers fluctuate erratically. The most important number represents the amount of pressure inside Simon’s head, and every time this number significantly changes I am compelled to share it with the night nurse. She is gentle and considerate with me, but after the third or fourth time I call her into the room, she offers some advice.
“It can be really easy to get distracted by all the machines and the numbers, but you don’t have to watch those. That’s what I’m here for,” she says, bringing me a blanket that has been magically warmed and wrapping it around my shoulders. “You just need to be here with your husband.”
When I am able to distance myself from all the life-sustaining tubes and pumps and monitors and just be with Simon, I find this time, the late night bleeding into early morning, peaceful. It is quiet and I am alone with him. I have heard that people are more likely to die during the long hours of the night, although I don’t know if statistically this is true. It doesn’t matter. This is when I need to be with him. Here, I breathe with Simon and the ventilator, lending my respiratory support. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.
It is also easier, when I stop number-watching, to observe the intricacies of the neuro-intensive care Simon receives. The nurse carefully charts every aspect of his bodily functions: heart rate, blood flow, oxygen and glucose levels, body temperature. The pressure inside his brain, the intracranial pressure, or ICP . All of it, more than I am capable of being aware of, is closely monitored or altered by her ministrations. Every whisper of Simon’s body is dependent on her care. He is a patient: a nameless, broken man with little chance of recovery, absolutely, utterly dependent on the nurses for his survival. Anonymity, I think, must help doctors and nurses do their jobs, but I recall the words of my friend Rachel Rose. She told me recently of a project she had embarked on, writing biographies for the elders at the Louis Brier Home and Hospital so that even though they may have lost their mobility or their speech, their continence or their cognition, the doctors and nurses and caregivers would be reminded of the things these people had accomplished during their lifetimes: becoming a physicist, surviving the Holocaust, bearing eight children. And so I compose an introduction to Simon and our family to tack up beside the note reading
zero Left Side bone flap
that is posted over Simon’s bed.
My name is Kara and I’d like to introduce you to my husband, Simon. I met Simon when I was 15 in grade 10 history class. We married when Si was 21, and our son Eli was born a year later. Si celebrated his 38th birthday last month with sushi, pecan pie,
good
Scotch, and a game of poker. His pet name for me is
Simon can’t breathe on his own.
The noise of the machine would remind him of Darth Vader. I smile a little. Simon recently heard a comedy skit on the radio, a comedian from Newfoundland who translated memorable movie scenes into his hometown dialect. The
Star Wars
scene cracked Simon up, and for weeks he reenacted it every chance he got.
“I’s your daw, Luke,” I whisper to Simon, breathing audibly with the ventilator, a mock Vader voice. “I’s your daw.” The machine keeps up its robotic breath, and Simon doesn’t turn his head and smile at me, the way I keep half-expecting him to, but still I am comforted by this shared joke.
To the right of Simon’s bed is a large computerized panel that flashes a series of numbers, which I watch compulsively for clues to Simon’s internal world, trying to discover a pattern similar to the one I witnessed the night Eli was born. Does Simon’s heart rate speed up when I speak to him? Does his pulse quicken when someone enters the room? But there are no patterns here; the mini strobe lights of numbers fluctuate erratically. The most important number represents the amount of pressure inside Simon’s head, and every time this number significantly changes I am compelled to share it with the night nurse. She is gentle and considerate with me, but after the third or fourth time I call her into the room, she offers some advice.
“It can be really easy to get distracted by all the machines and the numbers, but you don’t have to watch those. That’s what I’m here for,” she says, bringing me a blanket that has been magically warmed and wrapping it around my shoulders. “You just need to be here with your husband.”
When I am able to distance myself from all the life-sustaining tubes and pumps and monitors and just be with Simon, I find this time, the late night bleeding into early morning, peaceful. It is quiet and I am alone with him. I have heard that people are more likely to die during the long hours of the night, although I don’t know if statistically this is true. It doesn’t matter. This is when I need to be with him. Here, I breathe with Simon and the ventilator, lending my respiratory support. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.
It is also easier, when I stop number-watching, to observe the intricacies of the neuro-intensive care Simon receives. The nurse carefully charts every aspect of his bodily functions: heart rate, blood flow, oxygen and glucose levels, body temperature. The pressure inside his brain, the intracranial pressure, or ICP . All of it, more than I am capable of being aware of, is closely monitored or altered by her ministrations. Every whisper of Simon’s body is dependent on her care. He is a patient: a nameless, broken man with little chance of recovery, absolutely, utterly dependent on the nurses for his survival. Anonymity, I think, must help doctors and nurses do their jobs, but I recall the words of my friend Rachel Rose. She told me recently of a project she had embarked on, writing biographies for the elders at the Louis Brier Home and Hospital so that even though they may have lost their mobility or their speech, their continence or their cognition, the doctors and nurses and caregivers would be reminded of the things these people had accomplished during their lifetimes: becoming a physicist, surviving the Holocaust, bearing eight children. And so I compose an introduction to Simon and our family to tack up beside the note reading
zero Left Side bone flap
that is posted over Simon’s bed.
My name is Kara and I’d like to introduce you to my husband, Simon. I met Simon when I was 15 in grade 10 history class. We married when Si was 21, and our son Eli was born a year later. Si celebrated his 38th birthday last month with sushi, pecan pie,
good
Scotch, and a game of poker. His pet name for me is
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