My BIG. part 7.

After that hellish last surgery, "the closer," my doctors gave my poor body about a week to recover without being moved much.  Physical therapy came once a day to move my arms a little and stretch my other leg, but other than that, it was pretty much a regular schedule of tube feedings (I wasn't eating and dropping weight fast), pain meds, antibiotics and bed baths.

Bed baths were pretty interesting.  On the Burn ICU, they give you a bath DAILY.  And when you're missing half the skin from one leg and your other leg and abdomen are pretty much completely chopped off, bed baths freakin' hurt.  And I would FREEZE every single time.  Depending on which doctor was on call that day, the nurses would either give me a bath in the morning around 9 or they'd wake me up at 2 or 3 a.m. in the middle of the night to give me my bath.  They were nice and medicated me first, however, nothing compares to the pain of soap and water and scrubbing open wounds.  It was horrible.  As soon as they'd start, I'd start shivering uncontrollably, teeth-chattering and all.  Every bath resulted in tears of pain, and although the nurses felt horrible, I knew it was their mission to keep my wounds clean and infection free.  At that point, any infection could've killed me easily.  As a result, my family had to gown-up and wear a mask every time they came to see me.  My favorite part of the bed bath was the warm blankets they'd wrap me in when it was finally over.  However, getting woke up at 2 a.m. for a freezing bath usually kept me up for the rest of the night.  My brilliant dad decided it would be a good idea to get me an iPad for Christmas, so I'd usually download a movie on netflix and watch it on my iPad until I could finally fall asleep again.

If I was able to fall asleep, it never lasted long.  Around 4:30 a.m., it was time for blood draws.  I had to be stuck daily and because of my thrombocytopenia and 6 IVs, it got harder and harder for the nurses to find veins.  It was normal to get stuck 6, 7 or 8 times.  One night, and I'm not exaggerating, I got stuck 15 times.  FOR AN IV!  The doctor wanted another line because I needed a few units of blood that night, and no one could get an IV.  They stuck all over my arms, several times in my feet (damn it that HURT!) and finally found a tiny vein in my upper arm.  Halfway through the blood transfusion, the IV infiltrated, and for the next 6 weeks, my entire upper right arm was purple and blue.  Literally, from my elbow to my shoulder.  It looked like someone took a hammer to my arm.  And it hurt like hell.  My dad, who is so fiercely protective of me, was not happy when I showed it to my parents the next morning. I still have quite a bit of nerve damage in my forearm, wrist and hand from the IVs.  My right thumb is completely numb and I don't know if I'll ever get the feeling back.

My dad and Jon teamed up and became tight with each other and the doctors.  They constantly watched my monitors and chased down nurses if anything was beeping.  They developed quite the relationship with my docs.  One morning, my dad had some questions for one of my docs so he tracked him down for answers.  The doctor started walking away and said that he had to get to a meeting.... instead of letting him go, my dad said "Oh that's fine, I'll walk with you."  It makes me laugh every time I hear stories about Dad and Jon and those doctors.  They wanted to make sure that I was being taken care of in the absolute best possible way.  When they felt like the ball was being dropped in any way, they weren't afraid to speak up.  Jon was almost asked to leave once when he got on a nurse for letting the monitors go for too long... a nurse told him "Sir, if you continue to get in the way of patient care, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."  It wasn't funny then, I'm sure, but picturing it now, it always makes me laugh.

After a week, PT decided it was time to try to get me up on my feet.  I was ready.... my back and butt were killing me after being stuck in that bed.  The first time they stood me up with the walker, I could literally only walk (with help on both sides and the walker) over to the chair.  Those 6 steps felt like running a marathon.  I sat down in the chair, but that was worse than walking.  Bending my leg at 90 degrees to sit in a chair was impossible.  For the next week, my PT basically consisted of me taking a few steps, sitting in the chair until I couldn't handle it (usually about 15 minutes) and then walking with the walker back to bed.  It was all very surreal.  It was becoming clear to me that I had lost most of the muscle from my right leg and I was terrified that I'd never be able to walk myself.  How could I?  I couldn't bare any weight on that leg.  I couldn't move it or lift it myself.  If I wanted to readjust myself in the bed, I had to pick up my leg with my arms and move it.  It was terrifying.

On my second day with the walker, the PT took me out into the hallway in a wheelchair and my mom followed behind us pushing the walker.  When we got to the hallway, she got me out of the chair and I walked about 10 steps or so with the walker and then sat down again.  Then, she brought out a stationary bike and put me on it.  "Go ahead and pedal," she told me.  Thinking it would be easy, I turned my legs and started to try to pedal.  I pushed and pushed but I couldn't push the pedal all the way around.  I'd get to about halfway and then could go no further.  The PT left to go get another piece of equipment, and I looked at my mom and just started sobbing.  For the first time, I realized just how broken I really was.  I'd been pretty stoic up to that point.  In fact, my mom and dad had asked me many times how I was feeling.  I felt fine, I told them.  And I did.  I guess I hadn't really realized the severity of what I'd gone through, where I was, and what it would take to recover.  I realized when trying to ride that bike that I might never run again.  I realized that I would wear scars all over my body for life.  I realized that although God spared my life, I had no idea where my life was headed.  And I sobbed.  My mom and I both did.  "I'm scared," I cried to her..  "I know, baby, I know," she said.  We held each other in that hallway and cried for a long, long time.  As far as we'd come, we were only at the beginning.