This blog was started my first day here in Orlando. I have re-written it three times, with each rise and fall of the roller coaster. Please excuse the choppiness of the tenses. We knew you would want to know more…and this is my first attempt. I will be writing more as I process, but for now…this is what I have.

The clicking and beeping of machines fills my ears. The whoosh whoosh of the ventilator makes Dad’s chest rise and fall. The heart monitor flashes all colors in jagged lines that move across the screen. There are 5 bags going into IVs that litter his arms. Special booties squeeze his legs to prevent blood clots. The ICU is the last place I expected to be on this day. But accidents happen and life changes on a dime.

I don’t particularly like ICUs. Over the course of my life, I have spent too many hours in ICU waiting rooms anticipating my time to enter. I have slept (or tried to) amongst the machines, keeping watch. Now I look out the window to the blue Florida sky and a view of Orlando, palm trees and all. This is a modern hospital. Clean. Organized. A teaching hospital. Very professional. It is the best place to be for this kind of injury.

Since Mom passed, Dad has been talking about doing some travel again; trying to figure out what that looks like now. He decided to dip his toe in the water, so to speak, with a short trip to Orlando to visit his grandson, David. On Friday, his granddaughter, Kara, was his travel buddy and they flew in together. They stopped for lunch and he tripped on the curb and took a tumble. It’s the little things that turn unexpected in old age.

In the ER, they found a bleed in his kidney. He had a procedure to stop the bleed, which was successful, but there were other complications with his lungs during the procedure, due to the fact he is 88 years old. That is how I came to find myself in a trauma ICU…again. Melinda, Kara, David, and I are rotating back and forth between the waiting room and Dad’s room. Taking turns keeping watch.

I find familiarity with the survival mode of acute hospital critical care. How time crawls by slowly…second by second…that feels more like month by month. Has it really only been 4 days? Our world is gray tile floors, gold faux leather chairs, and an uncomfortable bench-bed. We are surrounded by other families in crisis as well. All of us here for different reasons, but the same cloud hangs over us. Life or death.  

In an ICU unit, there are no guarantees. Life hangs in the balance. Every room has its own story, but the ending is yet to be written. We are the characters, waiting for what happens next. On hold. Standing by. The physical bodies are the ones that determine the outcome. Medical staff supports those bodies with all the medical science that can be offered.

We are the watchmen. Standing guard over Dad so he can get the rest his body needs. Time is the healer in our situation, but if you know Dad at all, you know he isn’t the most patient patient. He wants to be better, yesterday. He is communicating his frustrations with rolls of his eyes and notes on a legal pad, “What’s the hold up?” In typical Mike Hunter fashion, he is ready to get this tube out and start his time with his grandkids. But, what we thought was going to be a relatively quick hospital stay (maybe a few days) and turned into a stay with an unknown timeframe when the temporary breathing tube could not be safely be removed. And so, we watch, wait, and pray.

Our grief from Mom’s death is close at hand. I keep thinking, how did we get back to this medical place so quickly. Is this even real? Tears fall for more reasons than we even know and for no reason at all. We tell the medical staff that if we are melting down it is because this is compounded grief on top of being in crisis mode.

We were seeing some tiny improvements with Dad. Physical therapy even got him sitting up. That was a big step towards getting him moving again and getting him off the ventilator. A high. Then the removal of the ventilator to an immediate and stunning low. The realization hit that he will not be getting better. The call to palliative care and comfort measures. The pendulum swing has knocked the breath out of us. Tears have turned to sobs. Sorrow is oozing out of our pores. We weren’t ready for this outcome. Wasn’t even on our radar…yet here we sit…on death watch again.

We explained to him we were going to make him comfortable, and he nodded his head aggressively yes. All the grandkids called in from all over the country and expressed their love to him. His eyes were open and animated. Without words, he used his very expressive facial expressions under his mask, to show them his love. It was beautiful. It was what he wanted.

Wednesday after he was comfortable and off all the machines, his numbers were low but steady. It appeared he might linger a bit longer. We decided to go to dinner and turn in early to prepare ourselves for the waiting; refresh ourselves after long days and nights. Before we left his room, we told him “We know how you like to be in control, and now you are, Dad. It’s all you. Go whenever you want to. We love you and we will be back in the morning because we know you would want us to get some rest for this.”

By the time we got to the hotel 10 minutes later, they called us and said he was gone. He waited for us to all leave because he didn’t want us to see him go. We are torn up and reeling from the suddenness of this. Yet, when we can breathe, we know this is what he wanted. Maybe not in this exact way…but he always said he wanted to go quick. He didn’t want machines keeping him alive. He was peacefully sleeping when he got his wish.

We haven’t even had the time to process anything. We do not know anything about anything. Details have not even begun to be talked about. We focused on remaining present with him as he prepared to have a glorious reunion with Mom…the silver lining. We have walked them both to the door and it is the hardest privilege of our lives.

There is not a word for how we are feeling. Relieved his is not suffering and he is with Mom. Devastated he is gone so unexpectedly. A band aid ripped off. I will find the word…or make one up at some point, but that is not today. Please keep us in your prayers. This is going to be rough for a long while. We thank you for your love and concern. Please know we are not answering phones, texts, or emails at the moment but we will certainly be reading them.

Melinda wanted to add her words to mine.

So many are wondering what in the world happened. It’s all been very surreal. The most important piece of information I can share is that his mind was clear until the end.

Dad has been doing well while still grieving his loss of mom. He traveled to Orlando with his granddaughter, Kara, to visit his grandson, David, for a long weekend. He stepped up on a curb, lost his balance and fall at a restaurant. I talked with him on the phone 5 minutes after it happened. He thought he broke a rib on his left side. He said his breathing was fine. He had no other symptoms that he shared with me.

He decided he would go to urgent care for an xray after they ate lunch. However, things changed in that next 20 minutes. He started feeling dizzy and weak in the car on the way. So, David and Kara rushed him to the ER rather than urgent care. Initial scans and X-rays were ok, but he continued to have escalating pain and decreasing blood pressure. The ER staff looked harder with additional scans. My nephew sent me the CT abdomen report. Seeing the results, I quickly boarded a flight for Orlando. He had internal bleeding from a lacerated kidney artery.

Before I arrived, he had a procedure to stop the bleeding. It worked but there were several complications. I arrived to him being awake, alert, and communication by writing on a clip board, but on a ventilator. I stayed overnight in his trauma ICU room. There were several attempts to wean the ventilator but his lungs were not ready.

I called my sister to join me as it still looked hopefully that things would improve, but set backs were continuing to occur. In an 88 year old, no matter how strong, set backs are difficult. Once able to wean the ventilator while maintaining oxygen levels, the medical staff removed the breathing tube. Immediately, his breathing struggled and he could not clear his airway well.

He was growing weak so quickly. An attempt was made with BiPap over night which sometimes improves breath. During that time we had several hours of alertness where he used his expressive eye and hand gestures to communicate with us. Those who were not here, all called and talked with him by phone. He smiled under the mask with each conversation.

However, the next morning still no improvement in respiratory status. I have known my Dad’s wishes regarding end of life and was his POA. He had been clear that he does not want a prolonged period on a ventilator. But he trusted me to know when and if things were reversible given my medical knowledge. My last question to Dad was “are you ready to be comfortable and get red of this mask?”… he emphatically shook his head YES. He wanted to be with his sweet Martha.
I know in my heart he wanted to be in both worlds… here with all of us, his family… but also with the Lord and his soulmate. We are heartbroken at our loss but joyful for Mom and Dad’s reunion.