During a central line change a couple days ago, one of Travis’s nurses
predicted to me that he wasn’t going to make it, and I’m a bit mortified
today to admit that he resembles one of those drowning victims that
washed up days after going missing.
Yesterday, Travis’s parents asked for permission to bring his loyal Irish
setter, Honey, to the SICU. They claim it will be good for Travis. Normally
a dog lover, I have serious reservations about bringing a family pet into
this hallowed place. Where infections are such a preoccupation, why risk
it? Initially rebuffed, the family petitions for the right to bring Honey, and
winning their case, have arranged to bring Travis’s best friend to his
bedside. I haven’t slept in a couple days, and I’ve come to realize that
midday following an all-nighter is the greatest challenge, burdened with a
supreme heaviness of fatigue and anhedonia. To be honest: I don’t give a
rip if Honey comes here or not; I don’t have the energy to care.
Travis lies in his ICU bed, breathing tube in his mouth, secured with
pink electrical tape around the tube and splayed onto his cheeks, IVs
connected to electronic pumps that hum with activity while providing him
with fluids and medicines, his body supported on an inflatable cushion to
help prevent bed sores, and his surgical wounds on his chest, abdomen,
arms, and legs covered with gauze dressings. He is bloated and lifeless,
and although his chest expands and relaxes, it is the work of the machine
that provides this isolated motion. Since the moment he was life-flighted to
our trauma hospital he has not moved a muscle, and I don’t think he ever
will. I am getting more impatient by the moment.
With some pomp and circumstance, Honey makes his way into the SICU
#2, accompanied by Travis’s parents and sister. I wonder if the dog will
even recognize Travis. I stand at the sliding glass door entrance to the
room, readying myself to keep the dog from accidentally stepping on
medical tubing or electrical cords. Honey paces into the room, and with an
alert snap of his head, fixes his gaze upon Travis. He deliberately takes
another few steps closer to the bed, his head approaching the bed rail.
Something very intentional is happening, and with my curiosity piqued,
Honey sits down, observing. I glance at his family, and his mother’s hands
are to her mouth, his father a study of concentration. Honey rises, and
manages to probe his snout through an opening in the bed rail, and
touches his nose to Travis’s hand, cajoling a response. There are now
about ten residents and nurses jockeying for position, trying to witness
marcin
(Marcin)
#1