February 2024

I never talked about Adri’s hospitalization last year here, mainly because I was terrified and too busy in the moment when it was happening, and after there didn’t seem to be a point. But I’m going to talk about it now, as it was a preamble of what was to come, a warning sign that wasn’t ignored but yet wasn’t enough, either. 

February of 2024 while helping Wesley with his homework at the dining table after dinner, Adri fell out of the chair, unconscious onto the floor. Wesley at first tried to wake her up, but then quickly found his dad in the other room and they called 911. 

When I was talking on the phone with them that night the EMT paramedics were still working on her with CPR and defrib equipment to revive and stabilize her. They’d been at it for over 10 minutes with no luck. I didn’t want to be “in the way” so I got off the phone and waited, for what was the second time in the history of my daughter, for a return phone call that would either tell me that she had survived or that she hadn’t. This is as bad as you can imagine, the wait for the phone to ring that will potentially bring life-changing information for everyone.

Stephen called back about 10 minutes later. They had revived her after 20 minutes of working. She wasn’t out of the woods, though, and they transported her to the ER at the hospital. I got in my car and drove there as soon as I hung up.

It was now around 9pm or so, and the boys and Stephen were exhausted and there was really nothing to be one but wait in the ER waiting room, so they went home so they could go to bed and get ready for school the next day.

I waited in the ER while they continued to work on her. Finally, at around 1am and after being in the ER for almost 5 hours they were ready to transport her to ICU. I don’t know if it took that long to stabilize her or if they were waiting for an available ICU room. I didn’t ask, my brain was a mess.

I went upstairs to ICU, at which point I had to wait in the waiting room up there another two hours until almost 3am before they’d let me go into her room and see her.

She was alive, but unconscious, intubated and on a breathing machine, with what seemed like a thousand wires and cables attached to her and terminating at their respective monitoring machines. There were at least half a dozen or more monitors for things like heart rate, respiratory rate, potassium levels, blood pressure, O2 levels, and others that I didn’t understand at all, along with several different IV drips. 

But she was alive. I was relieved. At this point I really didn’t understand the severity of her situation, and no one was really telling me much since it was 3am. I didn’t even realize she was still listed as in critical condition. I was overwhelmed. 

I told the staff I was going home to sleep for a couple hours and shower and be back around 8 or 9. They acted a bit oddly, and I know now that it was because they didn’t expect her to survive the night, but they had never told me. So I went home.

I got back early that same morning with supplies (crossword puzzle books, tea bags, phone chargers, Kindle, etc) and was told that I didn’t have to wait in the waiting room, that I could stay in her room. I camped out. She was still unconscious, and I’d watch the monitors to make sure the 02 levels stayed high, that her heart rate stayed stable, her blood pressure didn’t fall below 50 or 60, to look for any signs she was okay.

I asked if I could talk to her, if that would bother her recovery or not, and they said I could. So I’d hold her hand and talk to her, softly, like I used to when she was a little girl and had fallen asleep. Telling her I loved her, that her mom was calling, and that her boys wanted to see her soon. She didn’t move.

They told me the next day that they were going to turn off the breathing machine and see if she could breathe on her own. They had no idea if she could. If she couldn’t, they’d turn it back on and we’d know. So I had to wait for that, for a flip of the coin to see what the rest of her life would be like.

But when they stopped the machine, she could breathe on her own! I was so happy and relieved, and only then let myself think of what could have been the alternative reality.

She was still unconscious, and they still didn’t know if there was any brain damage, or the extent of that
damage if it existed. So we had to wait some more.  

At one point when I was holding her hand her eyes suddenly opened for the first time, and she looked terrified and tried to sit up a bit. She calmed down, finally, and then stared right into my eyes. She still was still intubated, however. Her eyes looked incredibly sad, and I noticed tears forming and slowly rolling down her cheeks. I squeezed her hand tightly, and she closed her eyes and her vitals went back to what was her baseline.

The next morning when I got to the room she was sitting up, no longer intubated, and with a lot less wires and connections. She was tired, but could talk, and she seemed okay. She asked me what had happened, she asked if the boys were okay, she asked how long she’d been there. Her brain, miraculously, was fine. 

The cardiologist had examined her, and her ejection fraction was 25%. This number refers to how efficient the heart is, the amount of blood pumped out of the lower chambers with each contraction. Normal range for a female is 55 – 75% or so. There are several ranges, but the last is called “severely abnormal” and that is anything under 30%. She was at 25.

I realize now (and did a bit then as well, but tried not to think about it) that the techs and nurses there assumed she wouldn’t make it. There were many signs: how they looked at me when they thought I wasn’t noticing, all extremely sad and despondent. When I asked if the boys could see her, the main nurse suggested against it saying “I think it’s better for children to remember their parents as strong and healthy,” that “the last image of their mother should be a good one,” etc. Stuff like that, but worded carefully. 

I knew she would be okay, somehow. It wasn’t even a worry for me, once she could breathe on her own and there was no brain damage. I didn’t really understand ejection fractions, though I could tell from my father’s wife response to the number that it wasn’t good (she had been an ICU nurse over the course of her career).  Still, she kept improving. 

Her blood pressure recovered, as did her heart rate and other vitals. The ejection factor was in the high-30s when they started physical therapy, and after a couple of days she could walk the length of the corridor by herself. I could tell the staff was a bit surprised at the speed of her recovery, but she was always strong physically for such a small person.

She got to leave ICU finally and spent another day in a regular hospital room, and then she was discharged. She’d been in the hospital just under a week.

She had appointments set with a cardiologist, I bought her one of those blood pressure measuring machines, and her insurance (Medicare) promised that she was allowed a home visit from a nurse three days a week for a month and then weekly for a few months after that.

The nurse never came, I learned later.

But she improved, her numbers getting better, the first cardiologist appointment I took her to a month later had good results. She seemed more normal. Her texts to me and posts to Facebook seemed more normal, not scattered, with attention to clarity. It was like my old daughter. She seemed happier. 

I made sure she kept her appointments, made sure she filled the first round of prescriptions that the hospital provided, and drove her to the cardiologist so I could also answer and ask questions. The doctor seemed pleased with her progress. 

During the whole week or so I had been terrified. Terrified that the paramedics couldn’t revive her. Terrified that she would never breathe on her own. Terrified that she’d be brain damaged. Terrified of a life without her, terrified for her boys and how they would respond to the loss of their mother. I’d cry when no one was around and then be mad at myself for not being more positive. 

But then there was that reprieve.

I’d imagined all these horrible outcomes and scenarios for nothing. 

She was a survivor.