When Hugh Estlinbaum’s son Tony contracted the H1N1 virus, Hugh and his wife thought it would be a serious but relatively slight blip on the radar screen of their otherwise contented life.
Excerpt
Introduction
When we find a soul mate to spend the rest of our days with, problems in life become easier to cope with and the good times are even more enjoyable because we have someone to share them with. That special person becomes our primary support system.
But what happens when catastrophe strikes and you’re world falls apart? How much can we prepare? Sure, we can save money for downturns and missed work. We can buy that overpriced extended warranty to ease our minds. And we can spend quality time with our spouse and children in order to stay in the loop. But, where is the book telling us how to cope with our dying child?
When we first heard of the H1N1 it was something that happened to people in Mexico. By the time it made its way to the U.S., it was an underlying problem in a sea of hysteria. Being an avid watcher and reader of the media can have its down side. Drama sells. So in order to try keeping on the bright side of things, the news gets shut off, hoping a blind eye and ignorance will cure the problem.
Trying to find a balance between family, friends, work and the world is a daunting task. And then putting GOD into the mix seems to throw everything out of whack. Looking at the world we live in, with all the horrendous things happening, where is He?
He’s waiting.
CHAPTER 6
Lizzy rode in the ambulance with Tony, and I followed in my truck. On the trip to the hospital Tony was still having a hard time staying awake due to his blood oxygen level, but he said he remembered seeing my truck following. Once we arrived at OU medical center Tony, Lizzy and the paramedics waited for me to park the truck and catch up to them before they headed to his room.
On the way up the elevator the paramedic pushed the button for the PICU (Pediatric Intensive Care Unit). Feeling aggravated, I was thinking this guy doesn’t know where the hell he’s going. We don’t need the PICU! We just need a room to monitor Tony for a little while, maybe overnight. Surely that doesn’t require the PICU! That’s for the really sick kids, not our Tony! Right? It finally dawned on me that the regular rooms were probably on the same floor as the PICU. After breathing a sigh of relief, born of ignorance, we arrived on our floor. Walking down the hall I saw the path to the PICU. We won’t be going that way! We’ll just keep walking to the “just staying a little while” rooms. But wait, we’re turning down the PICU hallway!? NO!.NO!.NO! This can’t be right!
While holding my breath in disbelief, Tony was transferred from the gurney to the bed. The room seemed rather large with the south wall being all windows with a glass door looking to the nurses’ station. The west wall had a sink, a door leading to the bathroom and a computer for the nurses. The north wall had one window with a chair that pulled out into a sleeping chair barely big enough for one.
I was still thinking, though, we were in the wrong room of the hospital we’ll only be here a short time, so the single chair will be fine for our short stay. The east wall was where Tony was lying. To the right of him was a single pole to hang medications. To the left was the monitor that would reveal his soon-to-be stats. The nurses wasted no time getting Tony all hooked up to the monitor! While doing so we were rushed off to fill out a little required paperwork. The paperwork could have easily been brought to us and filled out in the room. But, I think they did this so the doctors and nurses could do their thing without us getting in the way.
When we came back from filling out the mandatory paperwork, which took about 15 minutes, Tony was all wired up! He had the wires monitoring his pulse, blood pressure and his oxygen level, which was at 75% thanks to the oxygen he was receiving from the tube hanging on the end of his nose. The doctor was not at all happy with 75%, so he said Tony was going to be put on what’s called a Bi-Pap machine to help get oxygen through his lungs to his bloodstream. Every time Tony would take a breath the machine would push oxygen into his lungs, and from Tony’s response, it was not at all comfortable. For the first 20 minutes he fought the machine, pulling it off every chance he got and crying, saying, “But, Dad, it hurts to breathe this deep!” As any parent knows, what hurts our children hurts us tenfold, and this was breaking our hearts.
Lizzy and I just patiently kept after it, no matter how much it hurt us, saying, “This is what we need to do to get better, Tony.” But in the back of my mind I’m thinking we don’t need this! All we need is just a little oxygen under his nose for a little while and we’ll be fine.
One of the hardest things to do that night was to let go of the reins and allow the doctors and nurses to do their jobs. For Tony’s entire life, since childbirth, Lizzy and I have supplied all of his needs! Now we’re just supposed to stand back and watch? Surely there’s something we can do! We did help out wherever we could, but Tony’s well being was no longer in our hands. It was in the hands of strangers wearing scrubs and lab coats, their badge proclaiming, “I belong here and I know what I’m doing.” I wasn’t convinced. Sure, their movements were direct and purposeful, and they talked like they had done this a million times, but this wasn’t just any kid here. This is part of me lying on the table before you. One of the four reasons I enjoy coming home every night. This is my son, my buddy. The one I like to hang out with, to play games with, to go riding four wheelers with, and sometimes to do nothing more than cruise around in the truck with the tunes turned up and chat about whatever comes to mind. This is my pal. Please, oh please be right in your decisions, because I don’t have a badge.
Most of the night, we struggled with the idea of hurting Tony in order to help him. When he was finally able to tolerate it enough, he fell asleep. Lizzy and I were able to close our eyes for short periods but never really getting any rest. We would hold our breath with every beep from a monitor and look at each other in disbelief of our circumstance. I would try to assure Lizzy that this was still just a temporary problem and we would probably be out of here in the next few hours. Earlier in the night when I told her this, we both believed it. Instead, my heart started to sink when telling her this again while the feeling of uncertainty started to intrude our room.
While Lizzy and I were chatting and wondering if we would get any real sleep that night, we looked out the window and saw the beautiful rays of the early Oklahoma sunrise. This was our last giggle for weeks. We looked at each other and said, “Well, guess not!”
To end our peacefulness with Tony sleeping and Lizzy and I sharing a little time, a man pushing a mobile x-ray machine entered the room. He said, “This will only take a second, you may leave now.”
Leave? I don’t think so! The thought of leaving Tony’s bedside made me feel sick. The man saw our determination and said, “Fine, but you need to put these vests on to protect yourselves from the x-ray.”
No problem! The x-ray did only take a short time and the sliding doors were glass but I just wasn’t in the position to be parted from my son.
For the next three hours Tony fell in and out of sleep and his blood oxygen level jumped and dived at the same tempo. It would drop to 70% then climb to 90%. This was all while still on the Bi-Pap machine pushing 100% oxygen. It was concerning me but I had no choice other than to allow my ignorance to blanket and comfort me, for sanities sake.
The nurses were like eagles, if not coming into our room, they were sitting at their desk facing the glass doors able to see Tony’s every move and would note his stats coming from the monitor. This was comforting, but we were starting to feel like we were a distressing exhibit in a zoo.
While hovering over Tony, two Lab Coats entered the room. Both Lizzy and I jumped up in anticipation of a hopeful diagnosis. They started the conversation with a timid smile that slowly and painfully dissolved into a look that almost put me to my knees and with good reason. They said that Tony needed to go on a ventilator to better his oxygen level and to give his lungs a break to heal. “We will be putting him to sleep while on this vent. It will be a tube going down his throat to the point where his lungs separate.”
The thought of Tony getting some much-needed, restful sleep drew a smile from me, which was quickly painted over with a much darker color when the Lab Coats continued their assault. “Tony has a collapsed lung and will need a chest tube to drain the built-up fluid and air pushing against his chest cavity.”
We were now feeling much weaker than before, but they still didn’t stop with their brutal attack. They also said there is a strong possibility Tony may need the ECMO (extracorporeal membrane oxygenation) machine. Puzzled and allowing a little anger to cover my sorrow, I hastily asked about the machine. “It’s a device used when one’s lungs are failing. We would put a catheter into the artery in his thigh. This would be attached to a hose that would draw the blood out of Tony’s body. His blood would run through the ECMO, and the ECMO would oxygenate the blood and then be put back into his body with another catheter entering in through the artery in his neck. Your son’s lungs are starting to fail, but the implication of the ECMO is only a possibility for now.”
They brought consent forms for us to sign and handed us three papers explaining ECMO.
All I could do was sit back down and hold onto Lizzy in hopes that our support system would stay strong between us. I was stripped of the comforting thought on our overnight stay. Our world was starting to crumble around us. To sidestep the pain, I quickly jumped up and said, “Babe, it’s time to call in the troops.”
We both whipped out our cell phones and started searching for the numbers of our loved ones, letting them know of the situation and pleading for their appearance and prayers.
Read more about A Line That Was Drawn and Hugh Estlinbaum HERE.
Copyright 2010 Hugh Estlinbaum. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
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