We took my youngest sister, who has lived with a chronic lung disease for 14 years, to the emergency room on Wednesday, December 16 with a very bad cold. So she thought. After a slew of tests and breathing support, they recommended intubation and told her and us--me and another one of her sisters--that with her disease, she "probably would not come out of it." Ruth immediately declared that she wasn't ready to die yet and was willing to live with constant oxygen support if she needed that in the future. I was to treasure those fighting words for many days to come.
They transferred her to the Intensive Care Unit, inserted the breathing tube, and connected her to a ventilator Wednesday evening. At that point the bubbling and feisty personality of my little sister vanished, and her body was transformed into a large lump of flesh splayed out in a hospital bed, connected with wires and tubing from every point imaginable to machines that dispensed life-sustaining substances, and monitors that reported on their efficacy or lack of it. Her face was unrecognizable: her eyes remained closed and her nose and mouth were occupied territory. Other connections came from her arms and legs, holding her poised like one of those sprawling cardboard doll puppets that I remember from childhood and have seen in old European toy collections. Still other connectors were covered by her hospital gown and a blanket. I did not dare to look.
The week before Christmas passed with early-morning visits to the hospital to check with the night nurses, the doctors on their rounds, and the day nurses. I cannot remember the last time that I was ever out of my house so early in the morning consistently for so many days; even way back in my going-outside-to-work days I took weekends off! Not now. After the hospital routine I emailed regular reports to Ruth's many friends, fielded phone calls, conferred with my two other sisters on trivial and important practical matters, spawned by the imagining of dozens of "what-if?" scenarios, and planned our small family Christmas dinner, which was to be at our house this year and now, we soon realized, would consist of eight instead of nine family members.
Prayers, positive thoughts, and skilled and caring healthcare professionals worked their many small miracles, and after a week, Ruth was ready to be extubated, i.e., to have the breathing tube that trailed down her throat removed. The aftermath of this procedure is not always as safe and certain as I would have thought, and definitely not as safe and certain as one would wish. More family conferences with "what-if?" scenarios. More "if-then" decisions. More hoping against hope.
The tube was removed Christmas Eve afternoon and the outcome is positive. There are fewer connectors stringing out from body parts now; Ruth's mouth is free again to open and close, though she cannot produce many sounds yet, and no words. The outer part of her nose is still occupied territory, but with smaller equipment, and the eyes are open. Ruth looks around curiously with her beautiful big brown eyes and seems to be trying to fathom where she is and what has happened. I imagine she must wonder how much time has gone by, and I can only guess what memories or dreams she may have from her ten days of deep sleep. Each daily visit starts with new hopes and goals and is tempered with small achievements. It is going to be a very long process for Ruth to gain enough strength to live her life in what will undoubtedly be a new normal. But she is back with us, and that is the greatest gift we could have.
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