On Tuesday, August 13, we will gather to celebrate the best of times and the worst of times. I thought the worst of times was Wes' collapse on our couch at 10:00 PM and the 6 minutes of chest compressions that I performed on him while various family members watched in horror and disbelief. Watching the paramedics defibrillate him the first time was awful. I turned away every time I heard the word "clear" because I can't describe to you the horror of watching that.
But I think the absolute worst for me was when the doctor explained to me that they wanted to cool his body for 24 hours to give his major organs (the brain specifically) time to rest and heal. At that point I realized that although he was alive, I had no idea what other damage might have been done with him "down" for so long. That was hard.
Those 24 to 36 hours of not knowing if Wes would even survive were both the hardest and the best times of my life. People coming and going all day, dropping off pizza, coffee, snacks, gum; taking over the family room at the ICU; holding Wes' cold hand; visiting with individual people in the hospital room; Eric, Joey and Micah maintaining a nighttime vigil; delicious food in the fridge and the counter when we got home; pride in my children and their significant others; support of sisters; the best olive oil money can buy; laughter mingled with sorrow; people who provided childcare in the middle of the night so family could be at the hospital with me.
All the time not knowing if we'd have Wes back at the end of it. Or if we'd have to make a decision to "pull the plug." Or if we'd have to build a wheelchair ramp in our house. Or if his personality would change...
And then, that morning when he woke up.
"Wes, do you know who I am?"
A look from him that told me, "Are you nuts? Of course I know you."
"Squeeze my hand." And that's what he did. Three times. Hard.
It didn't take long for him to fall asleep again but at that point I knew I had him back.
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