finding hope in the ICU

The tracheostomy has allowed for some improvements, but it cannot erase the fears. There is sheer terror is being unable to breathe. It is beyond the cognitive realm. James' anxiety is not within his control. There are no words to describe the pain of a loved one in distress. The feelings of helplessness are intense beyond expression. It is a deep sensation within the body, or rather, an constant ache and nausea. I grieve to the point of exhaustion. I feel weak in my efforts to calm and comfort.

I bare the weight of all these emotions with gratitude for the ability to feel. I hurt, but I am alive. My husband is alive. I find the strength to fight by my husband's side. We never have to be alone in the presence of one another. We hold hands. We hold each other. We are together.

James and I must also hold onto hope for transplant. There is always something to feel hopeful about. We can hope for a quality of life. We can hope for shared moments of peace and quiet. We can hope for a few hours of sleep. We feel the same about gratitude. We are so very grateful for every single day to share together. We can look upon each. We can communicate. We can share affections. These are all reasons for gratitude.

James appears to be on the mends. The progress is slow, but James' fevers have subsided for now. There is still a long way to go. James is still septic. James still has pneumonia. His carbon dioxide levels are also still high enough to be a cause for concern. His tachycardia (high heart rate) and hypertension (high blood pressure) are within the normal range at rest, but it can take hours to recover from even slight exertion.

We can no longer function one day at a time. Our lives are from one moment to the next. We have seen everything change in a moment. There is no rest. We are always aware.