and the good news is...

. . and the good news just keeps coming. Between yesterday when the vent was removed and almost noon today, we’ve been getting Dan back. Pretty quickly, actually. Once he was free of the sedative for even a short while – and even though his throat was extremely sore, making speaking difficult – he started making requests, answering questions (correctly), giving directions, and ribbing people – starting with me. He was tired of the CPAP (which made talking more difficult) after a short while and wanted it off. His nurse, Harry, got a nasal cannula for him to hook over his ears and feed oxygen into his nose as a replacement. I told Dan he was going to get one of those “old people oxygen tubes” (my alternate term for “nasal canuala”), and then I said, “But, that’s appropriate – you ARE 60.” He inhaled deeply and exhaled what sounded like an attempt at words. I asked him to repeat it so Harry could hear and interpret for me. He did: “Dan says, ‘You’re older.’” True. Cruel, but true.

But, seriously, folks . . . it’s gone on like that up to the present. In the middle of the night, he told me to be sure each officer who took a shift outside his door came in to introduce himself or herself. “I’ve got my days and nights mixed up anyway,” he said, “and I’ve been sleeping for a thousand years. So, just wake me up; I want to thank each and every one of them and shake their hand.”

Then, later on, after we’d talked about several folks who’d come to visit, called, or emailed, tears welled up in his eyes, and he said, “I don’t know how anyone can have so many friends.” And finally, “I want to see Curtis and Negrete. I want to thank them for saving my life.” Save it, they did. When Dr. Kassiotis, (cardiologist who’d seen him last week) came in and explained to him what had happened, he described it this way: “Your heart is weak and doesn’t pump strongly as it needs to. Last Wednesday morning, you experienced what we call ‘sudden death.’ You died. Your colleagues saved your life. Had they not arrived so quickly and acted as they did, we would not be having this conversation.”

So much to report, but I’ll cut to the chase: Orders have been written for Dan to be moved to a room on the floor today. Which floor, I don’t know; we’re waiting to see if and where a bed is available. His he’s now free of all IVs and catheters, and food has been ordered for him, starting with the ever-popular soft diet. He will be evaluated by a Physical Medicine Specialist, who will prescribe a regimen of physical and occupational therapy to restore his physical and mental functioning. (I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right: I couldn’t resist commenting with astonishment on that last part!) He’s had one physical therapy treatment, sitting up on the side of the bed and raising both hands. He could be here a couple of weeks, but Dr. Hicklin promised he’d go home able to climb the stairs to his second floor bedroom. He wanted to know if he could swim, which he does regularly, and was told by his cardiologist he will not be allowed to swim OR DRIVE for 6 months, due to the nature of his heart condition and the need to be certain it’s controlled and contained by the medication and the implanted defibrillator.

All of your prayers and support mean so much to him. He just can’t get over it all, and is moved to tears of gratitude and wonder over and over again. I’ll let you know when he’s moved to a room and which one it is and will continue to keep you all posted. As always, many thanks from Dan and all of us. Tomorrow, I’ll ask him to dictate a message to you in his own words.

Addendum : Quick update: Dan's been moved to a room, just above the Emergency Room at Iowa Methodist. He had orange jello and lemon Italian ice for lunch and is resting, now, after the big trip upstairs. Blessings to all, Victoria