Chili dog dinner night

I have been watching Heath throw up for 25 years. He threw up so much it was no big deal for us. We'd be eating at the dinner table and some bread would get stuck in the roof of his mouth and he'd just throw up right in his plate of Chili Dogs. It was so routine that me and Daddy didn't even move- we just turned our head and kept on eating. Mom would fix him another plate and after he went and washed his face we would just go about our dinner conversation. Everything made him throw up : roast, bread, the smell of McDonalds, or riding in a car. I have seen my mother, while driving, catch puke in her hands and manage to keep it between the ditches. She's talented. She has cleaned up more throw up than any school room janitor with cedar chips. Gagging was a regular occurrence. I have seen the boy think about something nasty and then throw up just from the mere thought. At the height of the throw up years, Heath would "claim" that a shirt touching the back of his neck was the cause of on embarrassing throw up episode. It was just adikalus! (Adikalus- a "Paigism" and another word for ridiculous.)

Something being forced down anyone's throat is awful, but for Heath it was his worst nightmare coming true. He was intubated for 13 horrifying days. The vent tube was a life line. It helped him breathe and kept an airway open for any disasters that might happen. Most of the time you are unconscious when you tubed. General surgery is what you think of whenever you are tubed- short periods of time. Not 13 days! Whenever you already have a gagging problem and then you wake up with something down your throat - terror and confusion sets in. The tube is forced from your mouth all the way down to your bifurcation of your lungs. It passes by the vocal cords and has a bulb inflated so that it can't be pulled out easily. Heath fought the tube. The nurses had to finally restrain his hands. His every motion, thought and lipped word was a attempt to get that tube out. Every breath was always his own. The Evil Machine was there just in case. Pushing the wonderful life sustaining oxygen deep into his lungs. Each passing day he was increasingly aware if his situation. The panic that was on his face is burned into my mind forever. Finally after some of the swelling had decreased he was finally able to communicate with more than a head nod. His eyes were open and his lips moved furiously. What was he saying? What does he want? I could read every word. Help me. Those were the first words I could read. Help me. Help me. Help me. He was begging and pleading for help. I think I actually felt my heart shatter. I know what was going through his mind. Then he said it and I read his lips - "I'm choking." I couldn't do anything. I couldn't help him at all. All I could do was tell him that it will be OK . It was going to be fine. I kept telling him that it would be out soon. It had to be. Watching his hands go as far as they would go towards his face, was agony. We knew he was motioning for us to pull that tube out. He kept mouthing he needed to get up. In his mind he would be OK if he could just get up and get the tube out. Every visit, every hour, every conversation for 13 solid days was about how soon we would get that tube out. Sometimes he would ask- when. Sometimes he would ask- why were they doing this to me. After a few days he was mad, upset and just plain pissed off. Big Daddy and his fellow nurses earned their money that week. They had to continually had to put his legs back on the bed and tell him to stop kicking or beating on the side of the bed. Then there would be times of shear exhaustion and frustration - and then you could see him sobbing. My mother leaned to his ear and said "I know baby, I wouldn't let them keep that tube in your throat any longer than it has to. Keep fighting. Please don't give up now, we've come to far". Any mother that has to watch her child in shear agony experiences it for herself also. Those were the 13 longest days of her life. Those were the 13 longest days of Heath's life.

Every time we talked to a doctor we asked when, when, when. They would always say soon, maybe tomorrow. Finally on day 13, tomorrow finally came. When the nurse came through the door and casually said "Hey yall wanna see him? Its out" , I thought Dad and I would trip each other getting back there. It was better than Christmas morning. His voice was raspy and his voice was low, but it was his voice. He knew who we were and even asked how we were.

Fortunately Heath doesn't remember those 13 days on the vent. They are forever in my mind, and forever in my memory.

Til Tomorrow!