Recovery

This post is #14 in a year-long series ... Through this series of posts I plan to share our family's experiences during our 17-year-old daughter's year-long battle with brain cancer, which began in February of 2008. My desire is to process through the events of that year from the perspective that a decade of time has brought ... for myself, really. But if you'd like to follow along, you're welcome to join me.

February 27, 2008

My memories of this day are pretty foggy due to fatigue.  Not long after we were given the MRI results the evening before, we received word that Hannah was being moved from the PICU into a regular room. We were so happy to be leaving the hustle and bustle of that overflow ward and looking forward to a little privacy. Finally, Hannah (and I) would be able to get some rest. At this point, she had not had any sleep since before her surgery other than the fitful 1 1/2 hour nap she had taken that morning.

Brad and I had decided we would take shifts that night. I was reaching the point of desperation for some real rest. The plan was for him to go stay with a friend in Little Rock, sleep that evening, then come and relieve me at the hospital at 1:00 am. He headed out to get some sleep and prepare for his shift.

Hannah was moved out of the PICU, and put into a room with a 4-year-old child and her family. It was a tiny room ... small for one family ... itty bitty for two. They were a sweet family, but had a lot of visitors, and they all had to walk back and forth through our part of the room to get to their side. They also used the room phone for all their communication, and it rang loudly and incessantly. So much for peace and quiet and privacy ... and sleep!

Hannah ended up needing a lot of assistance that night, and was very dependent upon me. I called Brad about midnight and told him not to come. There were things she needed her mom for, and dad -- as wonderful as he was - just would not do. I spent another night sitting on the arm of the chair beside her bed ... another interminably long night. Finally, close to dawn, the nurse brought Hannah a Valium, the first sedative of any kind she'd had since her surgery, which allowed her to finally rest. I curled up in the fold-out chair (still wearing the same clothes I'd put on the morning of the surgery), and tried to grab a few minutes of sleep before the day began in earnest.

Brad arrived early that morning and we spent the day just helping Hannah recover.  The muscles in the upper part of her neck had been cut during the surgery, making it difficult for her to turn her head at all.  She was unable to roll over in bed, sit up, walk, or lie down without assistance.  But thankfully, even with all the activity in that tiny room, she was finally able to rest.  In fact, she spent quite a bit of that day sleeping.

Even though Hannah required a lot of assistance at that point, it was clear that she had suffered no long-term disabilities from the surgery.  In fact, our surgeon told us he believed the only permanent side effect was that she would no longer be able to look up with her eyes ... if she wanted to look at something higher than her head, she would have to lift her chin to see it.  That was certainly something she could live with!

About 7:30 that evening, we were moved to a private room.  It was much bigger than our shared room, and it had two fold-out chair beds in it, so Brad and I would both be able to stay with her.  Hallelujah!!  This was an answer to prayer and felt like nothing less than a miracle.  I couldn't wait to take a shower, put on some clean clothes, and actually stretch out to sleep, knowing that Brad would be there to help meet Hannah's needs.