Finding My Voice. Nita Whitaker LaFontaine
I approached the fifth room I could see Don, but I couldn’t believe what my eyes were showing me. It looked like he was surrounded by octopi, there were so many IV lines going into his body.
He was on a ventilator, and from his terrible stillness it was clear he was heavily sedated, in a deep, deep sleep. There was a tube in his mouth, his limbs were at odd angles that reminded me eerily of a yoga position—the suvasuna—legs at forty-five degrees, arms at thirty. Around him were doctors and nurses, a flurry of activity. I stepped into the room and Dr. Heather Jones, longhaired and blonde who looked like she could be one of my girlfriends, was at the head of the bed getting ready to perform some kind of procedure. White sterile paper covered Don’s neck and shoulder. She looked up and gave me a smile and gently said, “Do you mind waiting outside. We’re still working on him.” I felt like all the wind had been sucked out of me. My legs went weak, but I did what I was asked. They were trying to save Don’s life.
This is not happening. This is not real, I thought. It must be some mistake. I left the room, stood a few minutes then found myself walking back down the hall past the nurses’ station through the electronic doors. In the waiting area I saw my friend Adam coming toward me and I fell into his arms. Deep, gut-wrenching cries came through me from a place inside myself I did not know. I felt as though my voice was caught in this guttural sound. A primal, animal instinct to make some noise in mourning even when no words were possible in me. In this moment I saw my voice starting to fail.
CHAPTER 4 - TIGHTROPE
“Whether you’re high or low you gotta tip on the tightrope/I can’t complain
about it, I gotta keep my balance and just keep dancing on it.”
—Janelle Monet
Don’s condition remained critical. Having been on the other side of this unfolding drama as a nurse, what I saw with my professional eye looked quite ominous. After I gathered myself, I asked Adam to make some calls on my behalf and I phoned my sister Kathy, who had only just left the Wednesday before. When I tried to speak, only sobs came out. She simply said, “I’m on my way.”
I called our bonus daughter Christine who had been busy planning her wedding to Riley’s father; she was stunned by the news and began making her plans to come.
Each time I had to repeat to someone that Don was in critical condition and on a respirator, it became harder and harder to say. I couldn’t believe it myself. Might I awake from this fitful dream at any moment to find it to be nothing more than a terrible nightmare? I wondered.
Only when I was finally able to walk into his room, after they placed a large needle near the base of his neck called a CVP line, and saw the constant care needed did I realize we had not only opened, but we were inside, Pandora’s box. Once allowed back into his room, I was able to fully assess the gravity of the situation though there was still a shock factor. Many things were going on and there was a lot to take in as I looked at my gravely sick husband fighting for his life. It was more than overwhelming.
No less than eight IVs hung, each with a different bag or bottle of some sort of clean solution medicines hoping to slow down or undo the ripple effect now going on. He looked like a medical experiment in a lab; his naked body lay beneath stark lights with people in scrub suits quietly scurrying about. Doctors spoke in hushed tones. He was sedated and appeared unconscious, but I know from my time in nursing that the patient can always hear you. Having already cried, I was aware Don would sense if I spoke with dread in my voice. We knew each other so well and our voices were so often the first indicator for each of us that something was amiss.
I leaned in over the beige handrail of the sterile bed and the starched white sheets and placed my cheek upon his and said, “I’m here honey. You got really sick and they’re trying to figure out why. I know you can hear me and I won’t leave you. I’m here.” He tried to talk to me and he began to buck the ventilator and move one of his arms.
Because his lungs were so taxed from the adult respiratory distress and he had been a long time asthma patient, trying to respond to my presence caused him more stress; his oxygen levels dramatically dropped, or he de-saturated (in medical terminology) and he certainly did not need that. Doctors increased the sedative. I comforted him and tried to calm him with my touch, with light singing, and reassuring him with my voice.
I cannot recall who came into the room next but there was a constant flurry of doctors and nurses. He had to be placed on dialysis because the meds that helped increase his blood pressure also temporarily shut down his kidneys. I could not leave his side; there was so much going on and I needed to know everything. The nurses and doctors were very understanding and efficient but it was all too much—a sensory overload of the heart. I felt like I was in somebody else’s nightmare.
I occasionally would have to step out for this or that procedure, or when they tried to do a CAT scan. At those times I’d leave the ICU and go around the corner to a waiting room that filled up with loved ones coming to support us over the course of the day. Adam and Paul had already arrived, and my family arrived late on August 23—my two sisters (my brother couldn’t be there), my father, and my sweet Aunt Lillian (my mother’s best friend and sister). Don loved her very much and she had been a surrogate grandmother to our girls, often staying with them when we traveled. Each time I saw someone new, I wept at the kindness of their presence.
Our girls were sleeping in on that Saturday morning and I eventually had to call them. I sent a friend over to our home to be with them. I told them what I could over the phone; that Daddy had become very, very sick and that I needed to be with him at the hospital. My sweet Liisi was so afraid and Skye grew quiet. Later that evening a college girlfriend picked them up and brought them to me. I met them in the parking lot. My youngest watched me walk toward her, reading my body language. My older daughter trusted me to tell her the truth. That was as much as they could handle.
Our angels continued to arrive; people were spilling over with outrageous acts of kindness. People showed up with flowers, food, blankets and snacks, or they simply sat and held my hand, prayed, picked up my children . . . things I didn’t ask for that they just did. Just seeing them gave me the strength and fortitude that I needed. Their eyes, hugs, and sad hearts were my shot in the arm and short adrenaline trip back to the boxing ring to fight alongside my daughters’ sweet father.
Never in my life have I experienced such a symphony of love from so many. My sisters slept in chairs in the waiting room that night. I stayed in Don’s room with the pings, the whoosh and low rumble of the air mattress beneath him, the swish-gasp of the respirator, and chirping of IV machines. I had to be with him. I kept saying throughout the night, “I’m here, Donnie,” and I’d rub his feet, or kiss his face and hands.
The doctors repeatedly said they were trying to balance everything; to get the meds just right without giving him too much. The ventilator was set to its maximum capacity to ensure his body had the proper oxygenation. His heart rate was strong and steady and his blood pressure was being shored up by various medications. Myriad other meds—antibiotics, blood thinners, insulin, antiviral meds—all danced together on a delicate tightrope of hope in an effort to balance his body in the fight for his life. Hope was all we had in the chaos of it all.
Aunt Lillian went home that evening to stay with the girls. I could see how sick Don was but I also knew how much he wanted to be here for us and with me; I could feel him fighting. The image of him lying there stayed in my head when I tried to go to sleep, and conjured up the time when my mother became gravely ill.
***
My earliest memory of her was the smell that I’ve come to know as Estee Lauder Youth Dew. It was an oil-based perfume that stayed with her always even when I went to her bed at night with a sick stomach or a scary dream. She would wake us on cold wet Louisiana winter mornings by turning on the lights, then pulling back the end covers and putting socks on our feet. She’d always say that breakfast was the most important meal and we could not leave without having one prepared by her loving hands. I remember being in the fifth grade in the beige-tiled school bathroom with a friend discussing how I couldn’t wait to wear a garter and stockings