I hate the lights in here. And the machines, beeping so loudly. Ohmigoodness. So loudly. Each beep pierces my eardrums like a knife. And it’s all because he won’t breathe. Oh thank God, he’s breathing right for a second.
A short-lived second. We were up to 93% and now we’re down to 76%. Oh Lord. Okay, a nurse just came in to turn the God-forsaken beeping off. And she couldn’t figure it out so she’ll be back. Currently it’s not beeping.
I just laughed out loud a little bit because it’s so hellishly annoying. Why can’t he breathe right?! Such a simple function that I take for granted I guess. Or perhaps the doctors are asking too much of him. Why does his level of O2 have to remain about 88% anyway? Not everybody fits into a cookie cutter mold of staying at 100% oxygen. Not everybody needs to.
Ahhhh. I breathe in a sigh of relief. The sweet aroma of the nurse pressing the button to turn off the beeping fills the room. Inhaaaaaaale. Thank God for small favors. I am NOT being sarcastic when I say that. It’s just that I’ve been here since 12:30, and it’s now 3:35. And it could be hours before he is moved from the ER to the ICU.
Currently the nurse is hooking him up to another machine to help him breathe better than the concentrator. It’s called a super-powered nasal canula. The hose is at least twice as thick as a regular concentrator. Hey, I’m all about that life as long as he doesn’t have to work so hard to breathe.
Lord. Everything takes so long in the ER.
Ohhhh gorgeous! It’s on his face. It sounds like a jet plane. Praise God, I think it’s working. The machine is not beeping. His O2 level is sitting at 95%. Make that 96%. Can he hold it. Can he keep it? 98%! Amazing. What a concept! Rejoice over the little things in life. Count your blessings. I’m counting this as a blessing.
I’m going to be here all day. 3:42 now. I will probably leave here around 6 and drink some wine and eat some macaroni and cheese. Or meatloaf. Or macaroni and cheese with meatloaf. #yes
And then I’ll come back here… And stay til 10 or so. And then someone else will be here.
I have been pretending to be a family member all day today so I could get in here. And have access to information. Little do the medical professionals know that it’s my job to take care of this man. I know most things about him. I know most things about his current physical, mental and emotional state. I won’t say I know everything because Father God alone knows everything there is to know about this man but I know a lot. So I surprise the professionals when I start answering questions about his recent medication list and using terms that they wouldn’t necessarily expect a “granddaughter’ to use. Hehe
Though it is exhausting. It is tiring. I hate the lights. The florescent lights were a bad idea. I get that the rooms need to be a certain level of bright in order for the doctors to see what they’re doing. But they are giving me a headache. The air is stale in here. It’s cold. I am wearing enough layers so I’m doing okay. But it’s cold. And hard. And unfriendly.
But God is friendly. And warm. And here with me.
Oh Lord, I pray your comfort and peace over this room in Jesus’ name. Let not the hospital keep him here for too long. Not more than three days. Oh Lord, not four. Please heal him divinely, supernaturally in the name of Jesus. You alone are able to do this. You are more than able. Thank you for taking care of us. For caring for him. For teaching me; through all of the shennanigans. Amen.