When Time Stands Still

Since I believe that there is no such thing as time, how is it possible for it to stand still? But that is what it felt like recently when I spent 6 weeks by the bedside of my 32 year old son in ICU - a place where time takes on a whole new meaning and you begin to learn to really live one moment at a time. So I thought I might share some of the things I wrote after the fact!

Day 39 - March 2, 2005
I am sitting by Jesse's bed. He asked me to hold his hand as he went to sleep -- do you understand the significance of what I just wrote? He asked! He is off the ventilator and talking! They are going to remove the trac in the morning. He is alive. ALIVE - getting stronger, yet so very weak. I dare to think of the future. I wanted so much to journal this whole event - every day - but I couldn't. It was like I was frozen in time. My eyes couldn't leave the monitor for weeks. It was my proof that he was still here. I couldn't read. I couldn't write. I couldn't breathe -- just watch the monitor. I would like to say I had a great divine revelation, but it was like I was just an observer watching the faith of his friends as they wept over his beside. I listened in awe at the beautiful prayers uttered to God asking for his healing, yet I was unable to form words of my own. Just watching continually watching. Asking questions that kept me sane. What is his blood count - white - red count- does he have a temperature - how much -- inane little questions continually keeping me informed because for the first time I began to understand how powerless we really are. That we really - really have no control. So, I don't have a day by day journal, but I can tell you I have only allowed myself to breathe in the last 3 or 4 days. Sort of like the roller coaster coming back into the station. The scream that seemed to go on forever is over and one is so glad to be safe and alive. You see other people standing in line to take the ride and you wonder why, but for them it is a choice. For me I wasn't give a choice. What is that all about? No, maybe it was a choice long before we came here. I can see us standing in line on the other side waiting of the thrill of a "lifetime." Were we nuts or what? No, I understand that it was all a part of a grander plan, and it if means that Jesse needed this experience, then so be it. I would take the ride again, if it meant he would be healed.

I wonder why I felt so removed from my guide, the Ancient One, during all of this? It certainly wasn't because he moved. I know he is always with me, but again it was like I was the one who was paralyzed instead of Jesse -- frozen in time -- moving only in accordance with the monitor -- not knowing how to pray, what to ask for. It was like I was waiting for Jesse to decide what was best for him, and I dared not move or speak until that decision was made. I couldn't seem to perform Reiki on him or anything. I was simply immobile - frozen in the moment. Waiting outside the ICU unit until the magic hour of 8:30 am until the doors opened - questioning the nurse about the morning report - checking the monitor - always checking the monitor - checking the ventilator for changes - asking the respiratory technicians what they heard in his chest - how much stuff could they suction - what color was it - what was the doctor's plans for the day - standing by the bed for hours watching the machine move his chest up and down - wondering whether he was still in his body or traveling to another plane until 2:00 p.m. Then rushing to lunch - not too far away - returning phone calls - waiting outside the door at 4:30 p.m. for it to swing open so I could watch the monitor for 2 more hours. Telling friends who came to visit the news of the day - temperature up or down - watching for any little change. Out the door at 6:30 p.m. - crying over dinner because he is so sick - impatiently waiting outside the door until it opens at 8:30 p.m. - sitting or standing by the bed - watching the monitor - always watching the monitor until 10:00 p.m. Reminding the nurses - constantly reminding them to call me if there are any changes - sleeping an hour and back at 12:30 a.m. - watching the monitor and again reminding the nurses at 1:30 a.m. to call me if there is a change. Set the alarm for 6:30 a.m. - call the unit - are there any changes - what is his temperature - have the doctor call me. Shower, a quick breakfast and back at the door outside the unit at 8:30 a.m.. Life hung in the balance. I was on a roller coaster that never stopped - scared to death on the ride up and terrifed on the ride down - one long endless day - no day - no night - time frozen into one long scream.

I still can't get my mind wrapped around why I couldn't pray. I did I guess at moments in the early morning, but it sounded so futile, like I was repeating words over and over, trying to listen, but not hearing -- yet marveling at the beautiful prayers of others. Where were my words? The great wordsmith had no words - just waiting to see what he decided.

I tried to see him -- see where he was -- it was like a black void and I couldn't find him. I remember standing by his bed - the Monday when Dr. Cook said he was getting worse and he was losing hope for his recovery. I stood by the bed all day and just watched his face. He was so beautiful - so handsome. We often remarked about how anyone so sick could look so good. Sobs jerked silently out of my chest that day - rivers of tears silently streamed down my face -- silently so he wouldn't hear just in case he could hear. And I looked into that black void once more for him and I told God, I would never ask him to stay unless he could have peace. I wanted him so desperately for my own selfish reasons, but I wanted him to be where he had the most peace and if that meant giving him back to God, I was willing. He had been the most precious gift I had ever been given, but it was his choice and I just wanted him to have peace. He was so tired of his struggle -- then I saw him and he was free in the meadow with Streak (his childhood dog) dancing and so happy -- so happy just like he was when he was a little boy -- so free -- running and jumping - dancing - always dancing -- Streak right there with him and then he said "Mama, it is so glorious." I felt such peace. I didn't know then if he would be back, but I knew he had found true joy and peace and it was OK.

As a few days passed he began to slowly improve - "smidgens" Dr Cook called it. Dr. Preuss always more upbeat said, "I don't know about you, but I've decided to be encouraged." Then I began to understand that perhaps he has remembered that there was peace and joy on this plane also -- he could know that peace in this life and I began to believe he had chosen to stay. I waited to see -- just waited and watched the monitor and waited for him -- just in case he would come back -- I would be there holding his hand -- right there waiting -- just in case -- just in case...

Time in ICU is timeless time. Days mean nothing - anything outside the unit is meaningless. It is an experience I am still trying to comprehend and hope to write much more about later.