I thought I knew what to expect, but I'm not ready for what I find. Or what I don't. Later, in a better mood, I call it the "Where's Waldo?" bed, but when I walk in, it's more like a space tube covered with luggage. It's indescribable, it's big, and Tim's disappeared somewhere in it.
Tim cozy in the RotoProne
Even the nurses are taken aback by it, and like me, wonder how you care for someone you can't see. Or, because he can't talk, hear. We've got a clicking language that works fairly well. Ask yes/no questions, and Tim will tongue-click a response: two for yes, one for no, and many clicks for "Let's talk."
He rotates from one side at 60 degrees from the floor to the other. He says, when he's finally lying supine (or flat on his back--now the college Latin's coming in handy) that he is not uncomfortable in the bed. He's also pleased that they're suctioning more secretions this way. So it seems the bed is doing its job, and gravity is helping his lungs "give it up."
Our best moment is when he's out of the bed and sitting in his wheelchair for an hour, between 8:15 and 9:15. I wash his hair, brush his teeth, and we can be close and almost normal for a little bit. "Normal," of course, is a loaded word for people with disabilities, but OUR normal would be very nice right now. I try not to get too wistful about it.
Thirty years of honing the skills of patience is paying off for Tim. His own mood is up, resolute. He'll do what he has to to get these lungs working again.
I leave at 10:15, when he's packed back in the bed for four hours of rotating and liquid dinner. His nurse, Theresa, is wonderful, and is especially meticulous about asking Tim what he needs and wants. She's also being very attentive to our concerns about skin breakdown.
More tomorrow!
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