Bryan has gone from “the frying pan into the fire”.

In my last blog, I was happy he was feeling good enough to make meals for the homeless.

Little did I know that all hell would break loose the following day. At 4:30 a.m. he awoke crying and screaming in pain from his slumber. His roommate once again rushed him to the same ER. He had another cat scan.

The infectious disease doctor, with a sense of humor and a strong faith (we were to later learn), explained the situation: Bryan had pneumonia with an abscess in his right lung. He was being admitted.

Twelve hours later a room became available. It was worth the wait. He got a private room with a wonderful window view (not that he could even see it from his bed.) He was prescribed two different antibiotics and we settled into our hospital routine for the next four days.

The next day, during a visit from some of his friends, I noticed Bryan laboring to breath – agonal breathing. I ran to get the nurses. The “Rapid” team jumped into action, sternly forcing us out of the room and out of the hallway. Realizing the seriousness of the situation, I lost it in the waiting room. Fifteen long minutes passed when one of the nurses on the team found me. Bryan was struggling to breathe and needed to be put on oxygen. My guess is that the breathing had been shallow because it hurt so much to take a deep breath. He is still on oxygen today.

When Monday and another cat scan arrived, we got the unwelcome news that the fluid had expanded to outside the lung into the chest cavity. Bryan was wheeled down to the O.R., scared out of his mind. (see above photo). On the way down to the first floor I noticed his hands clapping together underneath the warm white flannel blanket. “What the heck?” I thought. When I asked him what that was all about he said “I want them to clap for me”. I tried to reason with him to say that doctors and nursed don’t clap when they are doing the serious business at hand. When the attending staff heard this, they complied with a wink. As we awaited the procedure of a chest tube, he whimpered and cried. His heartrate doubled. I begged for a little anti-anxiety med to ease the agita. And then off he went into the operating room crying “Mom, don’t leave me!” I have to think that the kind professionals – doctors and nurses alike – who DID clap before the surgery, incidentally, helped ease his distress.

An hour later he was back in his room, woozy and sore. The fluid was pouring into the collection unit. Two coke cans-worth of fluid were extracted in the O.R.

For the next three days medication was injected into the chest tube, causing painful pressure – a necessary evil. This usually was before our morning hall walk. During those walks he would begin to stop short, groaning with his mouth closed, as the painful pressure built up. The reason for the meds? To break up the thick fluid which was draining too slowly. Once the pain hit, I would request the Toradol. In an hour, the suppressed moans went away – mostly. On Friday, the drainage from the tube stopped. The pulmonologist ordered another cat scan to see why. (Bryan will be positively GLOWING from all of the cat scans and x-ray radiation – not from good health!) The cat scan revealed that 75%of the fluid had drained from around the lung. A pesky 25% remained in another area out of reach of the chest tube.

To Bryan’s dismay, another procedure was ordered for the afternoon. He would need the old tube removed and a new one put in – in a different location.

After hearing this, Bryan had a meltdown and I with him. It was too much. He cried: “I want to be on my feet. I want to be in my own bed. I need time to think things over. I only want to know what He is saying to me.” (with this, Bryan points heavenward) “Only then can I move on with my life,” he continued between sobs. We shared toilet paper tissues to soak up our tears.

Then as if to self-soothe, he began to recount his daily routine of cleaning chores, T.V. and movie watching and journaling. He so wants be back in his routine and “out of here”.

He was wheeled down to the O.R. at 1:30. When the anesthesiologist found that he had eaten at 9:30, the surgery was postponed until 4:00. Bryan was wheeled back up to his room to wait it out. His sister and dad joined me and a family game of Yahtzee offered a distraction. So did a visit from his former roommate. After our game, I asked Bryan who he would like to go with him to the O.R. He carefully looked at us. “Our feelings will not be hurt if you don’t choose us”. With a hand flourish he pointed to me. “The chosen one is you, Mom” he announced. Lucky me! I dreaded the task again. Shades of Monday.

Once inserted, the new tube began draining nicely. Today it is slowing down. The meaning of this will become clearer with yet another Xray tomorrow morning. He keeps asking every nurse and doctor who comes to see him “When can I go home?” One patiently answered “Well, Bryan, we just have to take this one day at a time.” Not what Bryan wanted to hear. He sighed deeply. “But you’re getting better each day”, the doc reassured.

It’s the simple pleasures now that comfort Bryan – warm wipes for his face, fresh sheets and hospital gown, brushed teeth, dry shampoos for his hair, a shave and lotion for his legs. He mentions one of his favorite scripture verses which also helps to sustain him: “When I am afraid I will trust in You.” Psalm 56:3.

And that’s all we can do, Bry. Trust in God that the healing will continue and that you will be whole again very soon.

Before it all began, praying in the E.R.