ICU ramblings

I wish I could describe the heaviness of these emotions. There are no longer days without tears. It is impossible to ignore the realities of our circumstance. James and I are living with the constant knowledge that these could be his last days. We witness the daily reminders all around in the ICU. There are empty beds and mourning families. There are alarming machines followed with a rush of movement around the unit. There are emergency codes over the loud speakers. We feel the changes of mood on the unit. It can become dark and sullen. These incidents remain strongest in our memories. We hold each other closer and whisper words of comfort and reassurance. We make a conscious effort to re-frame our thinking and shift our emotions. We need to cope. We need to survive. We need to focus on being alive.

Yesterday, James had his first "good" day of the week. What does that mean in the ICU? It means minimal pain and discomfort. It means being able to advocate for himself. It means having a voice and feeling heard. James was able to move from bed into a chair, and remain there for a large portion of the day. He was able to do physiotherapy with the pedal bicycle and arm weights. He was able to distract himself from the overwhelming stimulus of the environment, and focus on reading and computer games. He had moments of genuine smiles and laughter. He had moments of independence and autonomy. We were together in calm. We were together in love. We were together.