I will openly admit that I have been judgy in the past. And probably will be again in the future. But I absolve myself slightly because it is human nature to judge what we don't understand. And there's a lot of being a parent that you just don't understand until you've been there.
Take the idea of regression. I kind of thought it was bull. I thought, how does a kid suddenly go backwards like that? I don't care what happened to that kid, if the parenting was there, how could they start to go in reverse? Doesn't that just mean the kid has no support?
And then...I had Joseph.
Now, I don't mean to sound like my kid is a prodigy. I love him, but he's not going to MIT anytime soon. But the boy is smart. Often a little too smart for my comfort. Since birth, he hit every milestone early. Holding up his head, sitting, eating, standing, walking, all of them. Except one. Potty training.
Potty training had been a struggle for us. I had visions of it being done before he was 2. Then he was 3, and I worked like a demon all spring and summer, knowing that preschool started in the fall. And...it worked. By the time he walked through the classroom door in September, he was potty trained.
Then the accident happened, and I started to watch the clock turn back on my little boy. My independent, run-everywhere preschooler became a clingy 18-month-old toddler. The most obvious regression was in the bathroom. Or rather, everywhere but the bathroom.
Nothing makes you feel like a failure as a parent more than watching your child suffer with so much pain that he wants to just make the last two years go away. To have a 4-year-old essentially say "This is just too hard. It hurts too much. Things were better half my life ago. I want to be a baby again."
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Every night
When I say that Joseph would not sleep after the funeral, I don't mean that as a joke. It's not hyperbole. It's not exaggeration. He was exhausted, but he fought sleep like he was terrified of it, and he was. I'm not sure who exactly was the first person who suggested that "Grandpa is sleeping now," and I know it was well-meaning, but you could see his little mind stringing events together.
He saw Grandpa get hit by the car. He knew that Grandpa "fell asleep" when that happened. He knew that Grandpa spent much of the next six weeks "asleep," either sedated or just unconcious. And then he saw Grandpa in the big silver box, not responding, while everyone said he was asleep, and that was where he stayed. Sleep, in his mind, was very, very bad.
Suddenly, putting Joseph in his bed was like putting a cat in a bathtub...full of schnauzers. The clinging and screaming. Eight o'clock would come and go, and nine and ten and if we were lucky and incredibly determined, by 1 a.m. or so, he would collapse. He was not truly asleep, though. The slightest movement would bring him to a frantic, panicked state, like someone threw cold water on him. He would bolt upright and that would be the end of the night, whether it was 2 a.m. or 6 a.m. His breathing would be rapid and shallow. Within an hour or two, the night terrors would start. Not truly awake or asleep, he would cry inconsolably for hours while clinging to one of us.
It was awful. His doctor prescribed melatonin to try to help. It did. A little. Instead of 1 a.m., he would be asleep by 10:30 or 11 p.m. But every morning, around 2 a.m., the night terrors brought him screaming out of bed.
Please, please, please, never use "sleep" to explain death to a child.
He saw Grandpa get hit by the car. He knew that Grandpa "fell asleep" when that happened. He knew that Grandpa spent much of the next six weeks "asleep," either sedated or just unconcious. And then he saw Grandpa in the big silver box, not responding, while everyone said he was asleep, and that was where he stayed. Sleep, in his mind, was very, very bad.
Suddenly, putting Joseph in his bed was like putting a cat in a bathtub...full of schnauzers. The clinging and screaming. Eight o'clock would come and go, and nine and ten and if we were lucky and incredibly determined, by 1 a.m. or so, he would collapse. He was not truly asleep, though. The slightest movement would bring him to a frantic, panicked state, like someone threw cold water on him. He would bolt upright and that would be the end of the night, whether it was 2 a.m. or 6 a.m. His breathing would be rapid and shallow. Within an hour or two, the night terrors would start. Not truly awake or asleep, he would cry inconsolably for hours while clinging to one of us.
It was awful. His doctor prescribed melatonin to try to help. It did. A little. Instead of 1 a.m., he would be asleep by 10:30 or 11 p.m. But every morning, around 2 a.m., the night terrors brought him screaming out of bed.
Please, please, please, never use "sleep" to explain death to a child.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
A different boy
The Joseph we got back after the funeral was not the same boy we had before the accident, or even before the funeral.
He couldn't be alone. He couldn't let his daddy out of his sight. He wanted to be able to see us at all times, if not be in constant physical contact with us. And worst of all, he would not sleep.
For a month, the little boy who would cheerfully go to his bed and lay down suddenly wanted nothing to do with his room. He started slowly destroying his mattress, picking it apart and ripping out the stuffing. He would cling like a koala, screaming that he wasn't tired, until he literally passed out from exhaustion, usually long after 1 or 2 a.m., and waking back up after just a couple hours. And if he woke up, he NEEDED to wake us up, to make sure that we would actually open our eyes.
He talked about Grandpa constantly, like he was just downstairs in his apartment. But he wouldn't go down there. He was clearly aware that Grandpa was gone, but trying to pretend that he wasn't. Grandpa became, for lack of a better term, his new imaginary friend, present in every conversation, but never seen.
Except when something happened that frustrated him in any way. It didn't matter if Dino Dan wasn't on when he wanted to watch it, or he spilled his milk, or I picked out a shirt he didn't want to wear. Anything that went wrong pushed him into inconsolable crying jags, with shuddering, ragged sobs of "I miss my grandpa!"
And I missed my happy, goofy little boy.
I understand how grief and loss can define a child. My father died when I was 15 months old. My mother has pictures of me waiting at the front door when I was 3, still thinking he would come home, just like he always had at exactly that time of day. My mother finally moved so I wouldn't have that door to wait by every day. I don't remember my father at all, but the pain of his loss has been an omnipresent part of my life. I didn't want that for Joseph.
Enter the counselors.
He couldn't be alone. He couldn't let his daddy out of his sight. He wanted to be able to see us at all times, if not be in constant physical contact with us. And worst of all, he would not sleep.
For a month, the little boy who would cheerfully go to his bed and lay down suddenly wanted nothing to do with his room. He started slowly destroying his mattress, picking it apart and ripping out the stuffing. He would cling like a koala, screaming that he wasn't tired, until he literally passed out from exhaustion, usually long after 1 or 2 a.m., and waking back up after just a couple hours. And if he woke up, he NEEDED to wake us up, to make sure that we would actually open our eyes.
He talked about Grandpa constantly, like he was just downstairs in his apartment. But he wouldn't go down there. He was clearly aware that Grandpa was gone, but trying to pretend that he wasn't. Grandpa became, for lack of a better term, his new imaginary friend, present in every conversation, but never seen.
Except when something happened that frustrated him in any way. It didn't matter if Dino Dan wasn't on when he wanted to watch it, or he spilled his milk, or I picked out a shirt he didn't want to wear. Anything that went wrong pushed him into inconsolable crying jags, with shuddering, ragged sobs of "I miss my grandpa!"
And I missed my happy, goofy little boy.
I understand how grief and loss can define a child. My father died when I was 15 months old. My mother has pictures of me waiting at the front door when I was 3, still thinking he would come home, just like he always had at exactly that time of day. My mother finally moved so I wouldn't have that door to wait by every day. I don't remember my father at all, but the pain of his loss has been an omnipresent part of my life. I didn't want that for Joseph.
Enter the counselors.
Monday, June 4, 2012
Rest in peace, Joseph in pieces
Anthony's death came in the early hours of the morning, after three days of us running back and forth to Pittsburgh, sleeping in hospital waiting rooms, and watching him struggle for breath and being lobbied by everyone in a white coat to let him go.
For us, there was closure. We knew what was happening. We knew he was suffering. We knew it was over. And we knew what that meant.
For Joseph, well, he didn't know because we were kind of stumped on what to tell him. For the first day, while we made funeral arrangements and called family members, we avoided telling him anything. We eased into the shallow end, talking about heaven and other people like his Nonna and Grandpa Joe who were already there and loved him but couldn't be with him here. We worked our way slowly toward what we knew was inevitable. The periodic "I miss Grandpa. When is Grandpa coming home?" that punctuated our lives.
When it came, we told him that Grandpa had to go to heaven. That he died, and that meant he didn't hurt anymore, that Grandpa loved him but couldn't be with him anymore.
It didn't work. We could tell he didn't understand. We knew that would come in time, and it would be ugly when it did.
I thought it would be if he saw the body at the funeral home. We did everything we could to avoid it. But active 4-year-old, big room, too many relatives that haven't seen him before, that's a recipe for disaster. Inevitably, it happened. He saw Grandpa...and thought he was asleep. He was drawn back to him again and again to check on him. He wasn't upset. Just curious.
Until the next day at the funeral. That was different. He thought Grandpa's ride in the big bed with the lid to the big car was neat. But at the chapel, when the box wasn't opened, he got restless. As the service went on, he became increasingly agitated. And then it was over. The other mourners left. We got up and walked up the aisle.
And that's when Joseph broke.
I know my son's crying. He had colic. He cried for weeks on end. I've heard him cry because he was angry or frustrated or sad or hurt or sick or tired. Until a cold day at the end of January, in a stone-quiet cemetery chapel, I never heard him cry like his heart was broken. It was endless and keening and lost.
"No! We have to get Grandpa! He doesn't live here! He doesn't live in that box! He lives in our house! He has to come with us! Grandpa! No! Grandpa! Let him out!"
It was awful. In the end, only his daddy, the only person who missed Grandpa nearly as much as he did, could console him. It took forever to get him settled down enough to get into the car. But on the way home, we realized that it hadn't gone away. Periodically, it bubbled back up. And when Matthew dozed off in the passenger seat, asleep just like Grandpa, it seemed, Joseph went crazy, screaming, crying and kicking.
Anthony was gone, but in many ways that mattered, so was my little boy.
For us, there was closure. We knew what was happening. We knew he was suffering. We knew it was over. And we knew what that meant.
For Joseph, well, he didn't know because we were kind of stumped on what to tell him. For the first day, while we made funeral arrangements and called family members, we avoided telling him anything. We eased into the shallow end, talking about heaven and other people like his Nonna and Grandpa Joe who were already there and loved him but couldn't be with him here. We worked our way slowly toward what we knew was inevitable. The periodic "I miss Grandpa. When is Grandpa coming home?" that punctuated our lives.
When it came, we told him that Grandpa had to go to heaven. That he died, and that meant he didn't hurt anymore, that Grandpa loved him but couldn't be with him anymore.
It didn't work. We could tell he didn't understand. We knew that would come in time, and it would be ugly when it did.
I thought it would be if he saw the body at the funeral home. We did everything we could to avoid it. But active 4-year-old, big room, too many relatives that haven't seen him before, that's a recipe for disaster. Inevitably, it happened. He saw Grandpa...and thought he was asleep. He was drawn back to him again and again to check on him. He wasn't upset. Just curious.
Until the next day at the funeral. That was different. He thought Grandpa's ride in the big bed with the lid to the big car was neat. But at the chapel, when the box wasn't opened, he got restless. As the service went on, he became increasingly agitated. And then it was over. The other mourners left. We got up and walked up the aisle.
And that's when Joseph broke.
I know my son's crying. He had colic. He cried for weeks on end. I've heard him cry because he was angry or frustrated or sad or hurt or sick or tired. Until a cold day at the end of January, in a stone-quiet cemetery chapel, I never heard him cry like his heart was broken. It was endless and keening and lost.
"No! We have to get Grandpa! He doesn't live here! He doesn't live in that box! He lives in our house! He has to come with us! Grandpa! No! Grandpa! Let him out!"
It was awful. In the end, only his daddy, the only person who missed Grandpa nearly as much as he did, could console him. It took forever to get him settled down enough to get into the car. But on the way home, we realized that it hadn't gone away. Periodically, it bubbled back up. And when Matthew dozed off in the passenger seat, asleep just like Grandpa, it seemed, Joseph went crazy, screaming, crying and kicking.
Anthony was gone, but in many ways that mattered, so was my little boy.
Friday, June 1, 2012
Post Traumatic Stress
It would be April before anyone put the label of "post traumatic stress disorder" on what Joseph was experiencing, but that response was almost immediate.
For weeks, we had to change the way we drove to preschool and my mother's house. Our normal routes took us right past the site of the incident, where Joseph would either start talking non-stop about the events of that night, or he would start to cry and ask for Grandpa, or he would panic if he saw someone try to cross the street.
Police cars, ambulances, and helicopters, things Joseph usually looked for eagerly now prompted questions or terror. An ambulance driving past with lights and sirens made him desperate to follow it, positive that Grandpa was in the back.
Toward the end of December, when Anthony rallied enough to be able to talk on the phone, although he was confused and his conversations were endless round-robins of "I got hit. Did I get hit? I got hit," Joseph would get antsy every time the phone rang. He wanted to talk to Grandpa. He wanted to call him. But he would get frustrated when Anthony either didn't recognize him, sometimes calling him Matthew or sometimes talking about Joseph to him without realizing he was talking to Joseph, or when he didn't understand what was being said. A great indicator of the severity of your brain damage? If a 3-year-old child gets upset talking to you because you don't make sense.
He would also get frustrated when the calls would come about Grandpa, but he was too sick to talk. Anthony was shuttled between several different intensive care units at the hospital as one catastrophic problem would eclipse another. For two weeks, he was on a respirator, sedated and unable to respond as he fought pneumonia. It was around that time that Joseph stopped asking to talk to Grandpa. He still wanted to see him, wanted him to come home, but he didn't want to talk to him on the phone anymore. (He would later, but that's another story.)
The obsessive need to understand what was happening and convey it to others, and the violent sadness would become Joseph's baseline through the end of January. And then it would get so much worse.
For weeks, we had to change the way we drove to preschool and my mother's house. Our normal routes took us right past the site of the incident, where Joseph would either start talking non-stop about the events of that night, or he would start to cry and ask for Grandpa, or he would panic if he saw someone try to cross the street.
Police cars, ambulances, and helicopters, things Joseph usually looked for eagerly now prompted questions or terror. An ambulance driving past with lights and sirens made him desperate to follow it, positive that Grandpa was in the back.
Toward the end of December, when Anthony rallied enough to be able to talk on the phone, although he was confused and his conversations were endless round-robins of "I got hit. Did I get hit? I got hit," Joseph would get antsy every time the phone rang. He wanted to talk to Grandpa. He wanted to call him. But he would get frustrated when Anthony either didn't recognize him, sometimes calling him Matthew or sometimes talking about Joseph to him without realizing he was talking to Joseph, or when he didn't understand what was being said. A great indicator of the severity of your brain damage? If a 3-year-old child gets upset talking to you because you don't make sense.
He would also get frustrated when the calls would come about Grandpa, but he was too sick to talk. Anthony was shuttled between several different intensive care units at the hospital as one catastrophic problem would eclipse another. For two weeks, he was on a respirator, sedated and unable to respond as he fought pneumonia. It was around that time that Joseph stopped asking to talk to Grandpa. He still wanted to see him, wanted him to come home, but he didn't want to talk to him on the phone anymore. (He would later, but that's another story.)
The obsessive need to understand what was happening and convey it to others, and the violent sadness would become Joseph's baseline through the end of January. And then it would get so much worse.
Monday, May 21, 2012
Limbo
It seems wrong to suggest that things would have been better if Anthony had died the night of the accident. Of course, so much would have been worse. As it was, Joseph saw his grandfather get hurt. He didn't see him killed. As we deal with the hurt, I can't fathom how much worse it would be if he had seen him die that night.
And then there's Matthew. He had time to say goodbye, to make his peace with the loss in the best way he could. He doesn't deal well with change himself, so wading into the shallow end was probably for the best.
But there is something to be said for clean breaks.
After Matthew was released from the hospital, we went home. Joseph was still our immediate concern. With my father-in-law in a trauma ICU, there was nothing we could do three hours away in a waiting room. We couldn't bring Joseph. We couldn't leave Joseph. We ended up in constant contact with his doctors, speaking to them every time they rounded. Talking to nurses at every shift change, and with every change in his status. Calls when he changed treatments. When he needed surgery. When he needed blood, or anesthesia, or when we just needed to know what was going on. We planned our days based on cell phone towers, and since we live in a dead zone, we would call the nurse's station every time we left the house, and every time we got back, so they knew what phone number to call if they needed us.
We did that for a week. And then we had to go down to Pittsburgh to have meetings with the doctors. It would be the first time they suggested he might be dying, and that we might want to let it happen. That was not a conversation to have with Joseph around, so we took him to my sister's house and let him have three cousins, three dogs and a turtle to keep him company and distract him. It worked, a little. He was fine while he was with Aunt Becky, although she had to call us frequently to let him talk to us. Two days later when we picked him up? He burst into tears in the car, latched onto us like a barnacle and cried for days that "I missed you when I was at Aunt Becky's!" Six months later, he still says it every time we go for a drive.
For weeks, Anthony would get better, we would make plans for his rehabilitation, and Joseph would even get to talk to him on the phone now and then. And then it would all fall apart, usually the day before he was scheduled to be transferred to a nursing home closer to us. We stopped telling Joseph that Grandpa was coming home because it was just too upsetting for him when the timeline would change. We would get a call that told us he would probably be dead in hours, throw ourselves in the car, and by the time we got to Pittsburgh, confused nurses would wonder why anyone told us that.
No one knew what was happening for six weeks. Day to day, hour to hour, our lives revolved around whether Anthony would live or die. Joseph's revolved around one sentence. "I miss my Grandpa."
And then there's Matthew. He had time to say goodbye, to make his peace with the loss in the best way he could. He doesn't deal well with change himself, so wading into the shallow end was probably for the best.
But there is something to be said for clean breaks.
After Matthew was released from the hospital, we went home. Joseph was still our immediate concern. With my father-in-law in a trauma ICU, there was nothing we could do three hours away in a waiting room. We couldn't bring Joseph. We couldn't leave Joseph. We ended up in constant contact with his doctors, speaking to them every time they rounded. Talking to nurses at every shift change, and with every change in his status. Calls when he changed treatments. When he needed surgery. When he needed blood, or anesthesia, or when we just needed to know what was going on. We planned our days based on cell phone towers, and since we live in a dead zone, we would call the nurse's station every time we left the house, and every time we got back, so they knew what phone number to call if they needed us.
We did that for a week. And then we had to go down to Pittsburgh to have meetings with the doctors. It would be the first time they suggested he might be dying, and that we might want to let it happen. That was not a conversation to have with Joseph around, so we took him to my sister's house and let him have three cousins, three dogs and a turtle to keep him company and distract him. It worked, a little. He was fine while he was with Aunt Becky, although she had to call us frequently to let him talk to us. Two days later when we picked him up? He burst into tears in the car, latched onto us like a barnacle and cried for days that "I missed you when I was at Aunt Becky's!" Six months later, he still says it every time we go for a drive.
For weeks, Anthony would get better, we would make plans for his rehabilitation, and Joseph would even get to talk to him on the phone now and then. And then it would all fall apart, usually the day before he was scheduled to be transferred to a nursing home closer to us. We stopped telling Joseph that Grandpa was coming home because it was just too upsetting for him when the timeline would change. We would get a call that told us he would probably be dead in hours, throw ourselves in the car, and by the time we got to Pittsburgh, confused nurses would wonder why anyone told us that.
No one knew what was happening for six weeks. Day to day, hour to hour, our lives revolved around whether Anthony would live or die. Joseph's revolved around one sentence. "I miss my Grandpa."
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Home again
First, let me tell you that carrying a 40-some pound 3-year-old who smells like vomit and is hanging like dead weight into the house in December up some slippery porch steps, and then up a double flight of stairs is not fun. Whenever I think about doing strength training, I realize I could just lift my son instead of buying weights, and then I do it once and decide I like my untoned flab just the way it is. But I did it. We got home, we got in the house and we got upstairs. Since I had already changed him into his pajamas at the hospital, I just took him into my room and tucked him in. Joseph already wakes up in the wee hours, crying and disoriented if he is alone. This was not the night to push the "everyone sleeps in his own bed" rule.
By the time we got home, it was pushing 2 a.m. I checked the phone to make sure we hadn't missed anything from either hospital. Matthew called when he was moved up to the cardiac floor to let me know his room and phone number. I headed for a hot, hot bath to relax muscles that felt like sailor's knots. I was barely in the water when Joseph started to scream.
He settled down again as soon as I got into bed. Joseph had colic when he was a baby, and even when we grew out of it, he evolved a habit of napping only if he was curled up with Matthew or me. When he moved out of his crib into his bed, he often wanted to lay with us on our bed to have his stories and lullabye before moving to his own room. He never had a security blanket or a lovey or even a pacifier. He only wanted us.
All night long, he slept in fits and starts, waking up hysterical, making sure I was still there, and then passing out again. It was when he woke up in the morning that he realized his Daddy wasn't there. Only talking to Matthew on the phone made him calm down enough to be functional. That, however, made him want to talk to Grandpa. And Grandpa was not talking to anyone.
Anthony was in the neurotrauma intensive care unit. He had bleeding in his brain that was much more serious than anyone realized the night before. Suddenly the broken legs were unimportant. The compound fracture of his shoulder would never be fixed. We began the first conversations with the hospital, and without Matthew there, I was making the decisions and doing all the talking. And without Matthew, I was alone with Joseph, so those conversations were all taking place with him clinging to me, hearing my side of discussions about bleeding, breaks, resuscitation and words that are scary to people a lot older than 3. And then I would call Matthew and relay the other side of the conversation to him. I wish I knew what it sounded like to Joseph, what he understood, and if he didn't understand, how he filled in the pieces.
Matthew didn't come home that day. I spent it in bed, or on the couch, the phone in my hand, holding a terrified little boy who just wanted his Daddy and Grandpa back where they belonged.
By the time we got home, it was pushing 2 a.m. I checked the phone to make sure we hadn't missed anything from either hospital. Matthew called when he was moved up to the cardiac floor to let me know his room and phone number. I headed for a hot, hot bath to relax muscles that felt like sailor's knots. I was barely in the water when Joseph started to scream.
He settled down again as soon as I got into bed. Joseph had colic when he was a baby, and even when we grew out of it, he evolved a habit of napping only if he was curled up with Matthew or me. When he moved out of his crib into his bed, he often wanted to lay with us on our bed to have his stories and lullabye before moving to his own room. He never had a security blanket or a lovey or even a pacifier. He only wanted us.
All night long, he slept in fits and starts, waking up hysterical, making sure I was still there, and then passing out again. It was when he woke up in the morning that he realized his Daddy wasn't there. Only talking to Matthew on the phone made him calm down enough to be functional. That, however, made him want to talk to Grandpa. And Grandpa was not talking to anyone.
Anthony was in the neurotrauma intensive care unit. He had bleeding in his brain that was much more serious than anyone realized the night before. Suddenly the broken legs were unimportant. The compound fracture of his shoulder would never be fixed. We began the first conversations with the hospital, and without Matthew there, I was making the decisions and doing all the talking. And without Matthew, I was alone with Joseph, so those conversations were all taking place with him clinging to me, hearing my side of discussions about bleeding, breaks, resuscitation and words that are scary to people a lot older than 3. And then I would call Matthew and relay the other side of the conversation to him. I wish I knew what it sounded like to Joseph, what he understood, and if he didn't understand, how he filled in the pieces.
Matthew didn't come home that day. I spent it in bed, or on the couch, the phone in my hand, holding a terrified little boy who just wanted his Daddy and Grandpa back where they belonged.
Friday, May 11, 2012
Bad to worse...for me
So, what's worse than having a family member hit by a car and lifeflighted to a hospital?
When he's not the only one that ends up in the hospital.
As my husband Matthew, son Joseph and I sat in a private family waiting room just off the trauma ER, with my father-in-law about to be flown to a bigger, more specialized trauma hospital about a hundred miles away, it seemed like the night couldn't get much worse. Well, just wait.
Matthew has heart problems. In fact, just five days before this all happened, he was in the same hospital, having two stents placed in two days. He's also diabetic. Did I mention the bad back, neuropathy, and anxiety? Yeah...not the picture of health. Well, as we were passing midnight, four hours or so into the worst night ever, Matthew was four hours or so without his medications. No insulin, no Xanax, no aspirin, no nothing. Most importantly, no nitroglycerin, which he normally carried but had gotten lost in the confusion.
Cue the chest pains. No nitro, but hey, it's an ER, at a hospital that has all of his medical records, so that probably won't be a big deal, right? They could help him out, right? Sure they could. But they want to check him in through the ER first. Sigh. Okay, fine. Now it's just me and Joseph in the waiting room, with the chaplain lady relaying information for me between my father-in-law's doctors and my husband's.
Then I have to go back to Matthew's room, so the chaplain volunteers to stay with Joseph, who has just fallen asleep on the couch. I run back to my husband and find out they aren't going to release him. He has to stay until his cardiologist releases him, which won't be until Monday at least. Great. I head back to the waiting room.
That's when I find my little boy crying hysterically. He has thrown up everywhere, and woke up gagging and screaming for me at the one minute that I wasn't with him.
What I didn't know at the time was that Joseph had the start of an ear infection that would be with him for the next two months. Luckily, I had Joseph's backpack in the car, with pajamas in it from his last trip to my sister's house. Cleaning him up didn't take long, but he was restless, hot, and inconsolable.
Within an hour, the helicopter was back. My father-in-law was on his way to Pittsburgh. And I was making decisions. What to do now? Matthew in the hospital, Joseph sick. I had to make the one person who was still my responsibility my priority. I couldn't do anything for my father-in-law or my husband. Joseph...him I could help. I made sure that the hospitals both had all of my phone numbers, and took my baby home.
When he's not the only one that ends up in the hospital.
As my husband Matthew, son Joseph and I sat in a private family waiting room just off the trauma ER, with my father-in-law about to be flown to a bigger, more specialized trauma hospital about a hundred miles away, it seemed like the night couldn't get much worse. Well, just wait.
Matthew has heart problems. In fact, just five days before this all happened, he was in the same hospital, having two stents placed in two days. He's also diabetic. Did I mention the bad back, neuropathy, and anxiety? Yeah...not the picture of health. Well, as we were passing midnight, four hours or so into the worst night ever, Matthew was four hours or so without his medications. No insulin, no Xanax, no aspirin, no nothing. Most importantly, no nitroglycerin, which he normally carried but had gotten lost in the confusion.
Cue the chest pains. No nitro, but hey, it's an ER, at a hospital that has all of his medical records, so that probably won't be a big deal, right? They could help him out, right? Sure they could. But they want to check him in through the ER first. Sigh. Okay, fine. Now it's just me and Joseph in the waiting room, with the chaplain lady relaying information for me between my father-in-law's doctors and my husband's.
Then I have to go back to Matthew's room, so the chaplain volunteers to stay with Joseph, who has just fallen asleep on the couch. I run back to my husband and find out they aren't going to release him. He has to stay until his cardiologist releases him, which won't be until Monday at least. Great. I head back to the waiting room.
That's when I find my little boy crying hysterically. He has thrown up everywhere, and woke up gagging and screaming for me at the one minute that I wasn't with him.
What I didn't know at the time was that Joseph had the start of an ear infection that would be with him for the next two months. Luckily, I had Joseph's backpack in the car, with pajamas in it from his last trip to my sister's house. Cleaning him up didn't take long, but he was restless, hot, and inconsolable.
Within an hour, the helicopter was back. My father-in-law was on his way to Pittsburgh. And I was making decisions. What to do now? Matthew in the hospital, Joseph sick. I had to make the one person who was still my responsibility my priority. I couldn't do anything for my father-in-law or my husband. Joseph...him I could help. I made sure that the hospitals both had all of my phone numbers, and took my baby home.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
A little boy in a scary place
From the scene of the accident, we headed for the hospital. It was about an hour's drive, with a significant part of that through areas without cell service. I don't think we were ever so aware of our cell phone.
Joseph was still in the backseat. Strapped in. And quiet. We didn't necessarily want to take him to the emergency room with us, but our options were limited and we also didn't want to leave him after what had just happened.
Normally, he would have fallen asleep in a car, after dinner, driving that long. He didn't. I should have known then that we were in for problems, but we were busy with insurance cards and calling family and trying to decide what to do before we even knew what was happening.
When we arrived, a chaplain met us. I realize that's meant to be comforting. It's unbelievably scary. There are some times that a chaplain is less a presence of calm and peace than a spectre of doom. A carrion bird waiting to carry something away. She took us down a long hall. The ER was being renovated, and abandoned portions looked like something out of a horror movie where everyone disappears inexplicably and leaves everything behind. Joseph was clinging to me like a koala.
The chaplain took us to a small room just for trauma families. It was next door to the trauma room where my father-in-law was being treated, and it wasn't long before the doctor came to tell us where we stood. Anthony's legs were broken. So was his shoulder, and the orbit of his eye, and his skull. He was awake, and wanted to see Matthew, and was talking about Joseph. He knew Joseph was scared.
On a Saturday night, however, the hospital had no orthopedic surgeon. He would have to go back on a helicopter, and go to Pittsburgh. But he wanted to see us first.
Matthew and I decided to leave Joseph with the chaplain while we went in. We knew that it wasn't going to be good. That was, without a doubt, one of the best decisions we would make over the next six weeks. That was not the image I want in my little boy's head when he thinks of his grandfather.
You would think this was really as bad as things could get on one cold Saturday night. Nope.
Joseph was still in the backseat. Strapped in. And quiet. We didn't necessarily want to take him to the emergency room with us, but our options were limited and we also didn't want to leave him after what had just happened.
Normally, he would have fallen asleep in a car, after dinner, driving that long. He didn't. I should have known then that we were in for problems, but we were busy with insurance cards and calling family and trying to decide what to do before we even knew what was happening.
When we arrived, a chaplain met us. I realize that's meant to be comforting. It's unbelievably scary. There are some times that a chaplain is less a presence of calm and peace than a spectre of doom. A carrion bird waiting to carry something away. She took us down a long hall. The ER was being renovated, and abandoned portions looked like something out of a horror movie where everyone disappears inexplicably and leaves everything behind. Joseph was clinging to me like a koala.
The chaplain took us to a small room just for trauma families. It was next door to the trauma room where my father-in-law was being treated, and it wasn't long before the doctor came to tell us where we stood. Anthony's legs were broken. So was his shoulder, and the orbit of his eye, and his skull. He was awake, and wanted to see Matthew, and was talking about Joseph. He knew Joseph was scared.
On a Saturday night, however, the hospital had no orthopedic surgeon. He would have to go back on a helicopter, and go to Pittsburgh. But he wanted to see us first.
Matthew and I decided to leave Joseph with the chaplain while we went in. We knew that it wasn't going to be good. That was, without a doubt, one of the best decisions we would make over the next six weeks. That was not the image I want in my little boy's head when he thinks of his grandfather.
You would think this was really as bad as things could get on one cold Saturday night. Nope.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
What happened next
We didn't realize immediately how much Joseph saw. Obviously, Anthony's needs were most important. Matthew ran to his father. Since we were parked right in front of my brother's apartment, I called him to come out and be with Joseph so I could go with him.
At first, it didn't seem that bad. My father-in-law was moaning. We took that as a good sign. Of course he was moaning. He just got hit by a car! But moaning meant alive, and that seemed positive.
There was a blur of EMTs that just happened to be passing by and quickly called their ambulance. A district judge was nearby and summoned a state police trooper before 911 could even dispatch him, despite several phone calls coming in almost immediately. I've been a newspaper reporter since I was 16 years old. I've been on the scene of lots of accidents. It was still amazing to me how things progressed.
Paramedics determined that Anthony's legs were broken. So was his shoulder. He was confused, not knowing what happened, and no one wanted to tell him. He wondered if he had fallen. We let him believe that to keep him calm. Slowly, though, it started to dawn on him. "Did I get hit by a car?" Shhh. Just be quiet.
While Matthew stayed with his dad, I talked to the police. Talking to the police is pretty much my job, but I was a lot more worried about how I was going to explain what happened to my little boy than going through it with the trooper.
It seemed like forever before they decided to LifeFlight my father-in-law to Altoona, loading him into the ambulance to take him to the flat helicopter landing pad at the site of our closed local hospital. They closed the doors, and that was the last time Joseph saw his grandfather awake and somewhat lucid.
That was more than four months ago. Joseph has been reliving those events daily ever since.
At first, it didn't seem that bad. My father-in-law was moaning. We took that as a good sign. Of course he was moaning. He just got hit by a car! But moaning meant alive, and that seemed positive.
There was a blur of EMTs that just happened to be passing by and quickly called their ambulance. A district judge was nearby and summoned a state police trooper before 911 could even dispatch him, despite several phone calls coming in almost immediately. I've been a newspaper reporter since I was 16 years old. I've been on the scene of lots of accidents. It was still amazing to me how things progressed.
Paramedics determined that Anthony's legs were broken. So was his shoulder. He was confused, not knowing what happened, and no one wanted to tell him. He wondered if he had fallen. We let him believe that to keep him calm. Slowly, though, it started to dawn on him. "Did I get hit by a car?" Shhh. Just be quiet.
While Matthew stayed with his dad, I talked to the police. Talking to the police is pretty much my job, but I was a lot more worried about how I was going to explain what happened to my little boy than going through it with the trooper.
It seemed like forever before they decided to LifeFlight my father-in-law to Altoona, loading him into the ambulance to take him to the flat helicopter landing pad at the site of our closed local hospital. They closed the doors, and that was the last time Joseph saw his grandfather awake and somewhat lucid.
That was more than four months ago. Joseph has been reliving those events daily ever since.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
The very beginning
It started on December 10, 2011.
That was the day that my husband, my mother and I went to a breafast with Santa with my almost four-year-old son, Joseph. We ate pancakes and bacon and took pictures of a happy little boy sitting on Santa's lap. We have pictures of him smiling as he snuggled with his Nanny and gave her hugs and kisses.
Later, we met my sister at our beautiful old town theatre to watch Disney's A Christmas Carol with her kids. Christmas was everywhere. So was the popcorn.
When we were done, we drove home. "What would you like for dinner?" "I don't know, what do you want to do?"
We felt bad that we had spent the day with my family, and left my father-in-law at home. We should go out to dinner, we decided, and take him someplace. The new restaurant! The one in the old hotel downtown!
We told him when we got home. He was excited and happy. He got dressed to go, found his hat, made sure he brought his cane.
Joseph ordered his own grilled cheese. Matthew and I ordered salads. My father-in-law, as usual, got cheese ravioli. We had a great meal. Lingered. We thought about dessert, but talked my father-in-law out of his pie so we could go home and get Joseph to bed. It was almost 8 p.m.
We should have had the pie.
I took Joseph outside and crossed the street to the car to buckle him in. Matthew brought the leftovers in their styrofoam boxes and put them in the back of the SUV.
That's where it all went wrong.
With both of us facing away, with Joseph buckled in and staring directly at his grandpa, we heard what our son was seeing. And we knew. Before we even turned to look, somehow, we knew.
When we did look back, we saw my father-in-law, broken and bloody on the ground. The windshield of the car that hit him was crushed like a glass spiderweb. He had bounced up the hood, into the glass, and when the car stopped, rolled down again and came to rest about ten feet in front of the vehicle. His glasses were broken. One shoe was off. The other was just gone. I'll never look at an odd, lone shoe on the side of the road the same way again.
That was the day that my husband, my mother and I went to a breafast with Santa with my almost four-year-old son, Joseph. We ate pancakes and bacon and took pictures of a happy little boy sitting on Santa's lap. We have pictures of him smiling as he snuggled with his Nanny and gave her hugs and kisses.
Later, we met my sister at our beautiful old town theatre to watch Disney's A Christmas Carol with her kids. Christmas was everywhere. So was the popcorn.
When we were done, we drove home. "What would you like for dinner?" "I don't know, what do you want to do?"
We felt bad that we had spent the day with my family, and left my father-in-law at home. We should go out to dinner, we decided, and take him someplace. The new restaurant! The one in the old hotel downtown!
We told him when we got home. He was excited and happy. He got dressed to go, found his hat, made sure he brought his cane.
Joseph ordered his own grilled cheese. Matthew and I ordered salads. My father-in-law, as usual, got cheese ravioli. We had a great meal. Lingered. We thought about dessert, but talked my father-in-law out of his pie so we could go home and get Joseph to bed. It was almost 8 p.m.
We should have had the pie.
I took Joseph outside and crossed the street to the car to buckle him in. Matthew brought the leftovers in their styrofoam boxes and put them in the back of the SUV.
That's where it all went wrong.
With both of us facing away, with Joseph buckled in and staring directly at his grandpa, we heard what our son was seeing. And we knew. Before we even turned to look, somehow, we knew.
When we did look back, we saw my father-in-law, broken and bloody on the ground. The windshield of the car that hit him was crushed like a glass spiderweb. He had bounced up the hood, into the glass, and when the car stopped, rolled down again and came to rest about ten feet in front of the vehicle. His glasses were broken. One shoe was off. The other was just gone. I'll never look at an odd, lone shoe on the side of the road the same way again.