ICU Visit For Closure

We returned to the Intensive Care Unit at Twin Cities in Templeton to Say Thank You! We're Alive and Well - Thanks to Your Care! (The lady on the far left is the caring and resourceful Anna, who'd bagged me my illicit cot, bless her!)
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We knew we had to do it.

It was good manners. It was an act of encouragement for their souls and ours. It was closure.

We knew we had to back to the ICU where Michael had spent 33 fateful days and nights.

Plus, we had a 5-pound box of See's Candy to give the staff, the grateful compliments of Bill and Susan Burgos. (Do you know how many free samples they offer you while they're filling a 5-pounder? Oy! Don't ask!)

We both had a certain amount of trepidation about going back. Although Michael has no memory of that time, he feared what he might see behind the ICU double doors. And as for me - I remembered everything.

None of the doctors who treated Michael were there, but I knew all the shift nurses - and they were completely THRILLED to see us. They had just released several patients and the ward was light - so they could spend time with us and it was less stressful for Michael (no one yelling, no buzzers or bells. It was meaningful to the nurses to see Michael walk in on his own power, a little thin, but obviously doing so well. He thanked and hugged them multiple times.

They hugged me lots and told me how good it was to see me rested. "She was exhausted!" They exclaimed to Mr. B.

They said many complimentary things to him about me. "She wouldn't leave your side, even to go to the bathroom unless someone was with you," remembered one nurse. Michael smiled lovingly and squeezed me. My face trickled the whole time like a leaky boat.

The isolation room with the outer alcove for changing into gown/gloves/mask was empty and wide open, so I took Michael in and showed him where we'd spent most of our time. As we left, I said to the nurses, "Hey, someone left their slippers under a chair in that empty room."

"Oh that's not an empty room," they answered. "They took that patient out to run a test."

Whoa! When we were in that room, you could not have mistaken it for empty. The chair bed in the corner covered with blankets...bags of food...a suitcase...an iPod...cards taped to the wall. I sighed, hoping it meant that the occupant wasn't going to be there long and not that he didn't have someone there for him.

Well, that hadn't been so bad. Closure!

BAD REPLAY.

Then we went downstairs and Gerri, the lovely lady in Admissions, called us over to sign our book. She'd come up to the ICU several weeks in, saying God had put us on her heart and that she'd been praying for us. She brought us a book by Max Lucado about hope, and I'd given her a copy of our book. So many people like Gerri with generous and spiritual hearts held us up during that difficult time.

So now we were standing in her office and she was telling us how she'd known Michael was extremely sick when we'd first come in. She talked on for a while and Michael indicated he needed to sit down. As we both slid into the two chairs on the other side of Gerri's desk, I suddenly had a flashback. It was a physical duplication of how we started the whole nightmarish journey.

I think I almost started to hyperventilate. Gerri had to take a call and I clutched Michael's sleeve. "I need us to leave," I whispered urgently - so we stood up. Gerri got off the phone, grabbed our hands and prayed with us and we all hugged - and finally we left.

All in all, Michael found the whole visit less disturbing than he'd feared - but I was kind of a wreck for two days. I felt overwhelmed, sad and fragile. To relive that moment was So traumatic.

Emotionally, Michael took care of me. He was so sweet and attentive. He's intensely aware that I'm recovering as much as he is and we are definitely taking care of each other. I went into a cocoon mode as much as I could over the next two days, hanging out in our bed, watching my Gilmore Girls DVDs, doing puzzles, reading, eating (my lifelong standby comfort), and cuddling with Michael as he stroked my forehead, and playing "Stuffy Theater" with Michael and our stuffies. In other words, I turned to all my comforts.

Hey, now's definitely the time to walk my talk.

Two days later I awakened feeling more ready to face the world.

It's not lost on me that there's some kind of strange symmetry to us starting and finishing the ICU part of this journey in those two chairs.

I'm just so relieved to be on the finishing end of it.