Wrong.
Something was most definitely wrong Thursday morning.
We walked into Dad's room, expecting to see a bandage where the "some bleeding" had been on our now-extubated father's leg.
We instead found Dad re-intubated, sedated out of his mind, blood splattered all over his hands & blood-pressure cuff, and a frenzied-looking Jon pumping ... pumping plasma from an IV bag into one of Dad's pic line ports.
Four pints of plasma. And a pint of blood.
"Some bleeding" had actually been a ruptured artery wall that had bled out sometime between 6 & 6:15 a.m.; had turned Dad's bed into a pool of blood.
"Some bleeding," had Dad been moved out of ICU the night before, would have killed him, because he wouldn't have been found until a half-hour after he'd bled to death, tied down to his bed to prevent him scratching at his pacemaker.
It fortunately happened after he'd been taken off intravenous heparin, or he would have bled out faster - fatally faster. If it had happened the day before, Dad's un-paced heart would have given out during the surgery to clamp the artery. The surgeon who originally did Dad's aneurysm surgery in July was two doors down the hall - he only is here Tuesdays and Thursdays.
A ruptured artery in the ICU with no heparin drip, a surgeon down the hall and a day's worth of nurses on hand because it was shift change. If it's going to go wrong, you want those circumstances to make sure it gets fixed right.
And I have a different level of "I love you" for the nurse I'd been so irritated with the night before. She saved Dad's life. I owe her that much.
They extubated Dad again Thursday afternoon, and when he was asked, he could say his name, his wife's name and his son's name. He was breathing calmly & sleeping peacefully.
* * *
The nurse was bathing Dad when we came back, so we waited in the consultation room. Turns out, when she brushed his teeth, he discovered there was no longer a hose or a bite guard in his way, so he bit down on the toothbrush ... and wouldn't let go.
Guess he doesn't like strange women messing with his mouth.
We came in after that, and he was a little bit awake. And moaning. And talking.
* * *
I had wondered how I would react if Dad didn't recognize me.
Part of me thought I'd burst into tears, fall backward or just numbly walk out of the room.
Part of me thought I'd smile big & bright and say that's OK; it sure is good to hear your voice; I sure do love you.
* * *
"Daddy, do you know who I am?"
A very confused, pondering look.
A slow, drawling "Noooo ..."
A sting in my heart.
... "That's OK. It sure is good to see you talking! Do you know who this is?" Dottie stepped in.
The rest of the conversation wasn't really conversation. Dad moaned a lot (painfully) but wasn't able to tell the nurse whether or where he hurt.
Dottie suggested we pray before we left, and I started:
"Jesus, thank you for my Daddy. Thank you for bringing him - for bringing all of us - through this horrible, horrible week. Please give him rest and healing tonight. Please keep him calm and out of pain. Please reassure him that no one is trying to choke him with a toothbrush--"
A laugh. A laugh!! A deep, Daddy belly-laugh! In the middle of our teary, prayery circle, eyes popped open, and we all (except Dad) began laughing hysterically.
Tell me God doesn't have a sense of humor.
"Dad, Fred is coming to see you tomorrow."
"Oh, Gawwwd."
We finished praying - joyfully, laughingly.
