Dad left ICU tonight (Friday) & moved to the fifth floor.
Adios.
This is great news. I'm not unaware of that. And I'm not ungrateful that in the span of 36 hours, Dad went from nearly bleeding to death to being on the intermediate care floor.
And this morning, when I leaned over him and asked "Do you know who I am?" he said "Sawahwahhhh."
Which is good enough for me.
* * *
Describing Dad's cognitive state is ... difficult. Right now, we're dealing with a large person who has a child's temperament & a well-read, fairly well-mannered sailor's (slurred) vocabulary.
He has a lot of trouble articulating what he needs or wants, or what is wrong. He moans and groans. Loudly. A lot. Sometimes he laughs. Sometimes he hums or sings. Loudly. We haven't figured out the tune yet. Maybe it's his own song.
But when we rub his legs or scratch an itch for him (his arms are still tied down to his bed) and ask if that feels good, he says things like "wonderful" and "magnificent."
Big words for someone who is feared to have brain damage. It gives me hope in the midst of the yes-no answers and the sometimes fitful, childish behavior.
* * *
I cried today when Dad looked at Mom, his face lit up with a big ol' grin, and he said "Hi, Sweetheart," and puckered up for a kiss.
It was their first kiss in more than a week.
A few minutes later, I caught him coyly raising his eyebrows at her while she was talking to someone else.
"Daddy, are you flirting with Mom?" I asked.
With a deadpan, wide-eyed, honest look on his face, he nodded and said: "Yeeeeessssshh ..."
Well. We know that survived, at least. He's had a crush on Mom for 41 years.
Earlier today, when I was heading to the cafeteria to meet Don, Gary & Mom, I leaned over Dad. To that point, he hadn't been able to string more than two words together coherently.
"Daddy, do you know who I am?"
A long, hard look. A smile.
"Noooooo ..."
OK.
"That's all right. It sure is good to hear you talking. Do you remember what I said last night? About who's coming to visit you?"
"Noooooo ..."
"Fred. Fred is coming to visit you!"
"Reeeeaallllyyy?"
"And Dottie is here! From Minnesota."
"Woooooowwwww."
"And Matthew came home from Virginia!"
"Ooooohhhhhhh!"
"OK, Daddy. I'm going downstairs for a little bit. You have to be nice to the nurses."
A long pause. I thought he'd gone back to sleep. I turned to go.
"Do I have to be nice to the nurses?"
I laughed. A lot.
"Yes, Daddy. You have to be nice to the nurses. They're here to help you."
"Ohhhhh-kaaaayyyy."
I considered that progress.
* * *
There are some extended periods when Dad stares at the ceiling, apparently unable to hear us or acknowledge us, or simply unwilling to do so.
There is only so much (gentle) shaking you can do to a 60-year-old, 6-foot-2, 270-plus-pound man to get his attention.
Usually, he's just completely zoned out. There's nothing to do for that. He spent days in a coma. He's still - in many ways - deep inside his own head, trying to find a way out.
We catch glimpses of his old personality through gaps in that tangled forest of possible brain damage. It's up to him to find a path out. We'll help him as much as we can.
Sometimes, he knows who we are. Usually, he says he knows who we are, but he just can't quite get his memory, brain and mouth to get it all out.
Do you know who I am? Yes. Do you know my name? Yes. Can you say my name? Yes. What is it? ... (No answer)
* * *
After he was moved to the fifth floor, Mom and I used a wet washcloth to help moisten Dad's mouth. He doesn't have a proper swallow-gag reflex, so he can't eat or drink yet. Maybe tomorrow ("Ohhhh, boooyyyy ...").
So Mom and I used the washcloth.
He bit both of us.
He thinks it's hilarious.
Mom let gim get away with it; she just finished & laughed.
I didn't.
"Daddy, you don’t bite me."
He did it again. Harder.
"Daddy, that hurts, and it's not funny."
"Aaawwwwwww." (pout)
"Look at me." He did. "You don’t bite me; you don’t bite Mom. It's mean, and it's rude. Those. Are. The. Rules. Do you understand?"
(Another pout)
"Yeeesshh, ma'aaaammmm."
So I got that across.
* * *
Dad's new floor has a spectacular view of Casper, a couple coffee pots and a secluded, tucked-away bench down the hall from Dad's room. A girl can drink tea, watch the sunset, charge her phone and finally cry on her mom's shoulder.
"Daddy has such a beautiful mind, Mom. He's so smart and funny. I can't stand the thought that it might just be gone. I can't."
Mom is optimistic. She believes his recovery is gaining momentum, that this is just beginning.
* * *
I'm sitting in the dark, next to Dad's bed. He's sound asleep, partly thanks to Jackie's "whiff" of a painkiller. He needed it.
I don’t know what tomorrow will bring.
I'm pretty confident he'll recover a lot. My faith that he'll recover completely needs a boost.
* * *
After dinner tonight, he gave me a what'd-you-expect eyebrow raise when I laughed at his answer to one of Dottie's questions.
"You're kind of a smart-ass, Dad," I said.
"Thaaaank yooouuu."
So his manners are still there. And his smart-ass sense of humor.
Tonight, after I'd told him to be nice to his leg because he only has two (he laughed at that) and after I'd told him that he couldn't pull at his catheter or scratch at his wound vac with his foot, I asked him if I'm a mean daughter.
"Boooyyyy, I tell yooouuu whaaaat ... you are meeean."
As long as he doesn't bite me again, I'm OK with that.
